Slowing Down

On the Hernandez front porch I rock in silence, cradling a mug of Nicaraguan coffee. Latino music comes from the kitchen where Leyda is making oatmeal. Doves and rooster greet the day. A short-legged, hairless dog trots past. My sinuses tingle with an emerging cold. Palm fronds wave in dappled shade.

I read, question, argue with, and find my place in Psalm 86.

I am sill and know that he is God.

I am still and know.

I am still.

I am….

Two days remain before the return flight, and momentarily I want only to rock, sit, listen, and be until take-off.

I remember an anecdote from Africa:

North Americanas were trekking strenuously thorugh a jungle, when they arrived at a clearing. Their African guides found a log and sat. And sat. The North Americans, chafing to get to their destination, asked about the reason for this long stop. Whatever were the guides doing?

“We are waiting for our souls to catch up with us,” they said.

This morning I am waiting for my soul.

In my triumphant, change-the-world-now student days, I would have pointed an accusing finger at this image and labeled it a  forbidden sacred-secular, nature-grace dichotomy.

Four decades later, I’m not so sure.

In this moment, the story works.

It is enough.