Lectio Terrestria: Reading in the Cathedral of the Earth.

The stream trickles and flows, pours and swirls;

God wears the shimmering wet like a diva between banks.

The lily wears white, the yellow of a lemon, the red of a woodpecker;

God wears her clothes, even with a red hat, yellow chiffon, white gloves.

The black rose and purple bearded iris are erect in their courage;

God demurs, mourns, covers heaven’s mirrors in black satin on sad days.

The moon in silver light casts sharp shadows;

God dresses for dinner and dancing, in platinum sequins.

The sea undulates in grey, then blue, then jade; changing its colors as does sky-light;

            God lets Leviathan swim her loop-de-loops in her womb and it tickles.

The mountain sits so grounded, so heavily serene with even also a smirk, stifling laughter;

            God pushes up new lava-land, glaciers carve it like a potter’s knife in clay.

The desert sighs in sunsets of lavender, ochre rose and peach;

            God twirls in the dust-devil as it moves like a belly-dancer around an amber scorpion.

The jungle steams – a spaghetti bowl of green – the planet’s stay of execution;

            God inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales – a chest of green hair rising and falling.

The fields yield from oceans of tan, wheat, rice, corn, oats.

            God feeds, nourishes, piles plates full like an Italian Nana – “Mange, mange!”

The sun circles, warming, departing, warming, departing like some great fickle lamp;

            God broods over the cosmos like house-mother, quilts of light over cold children.

The Bible is black and white.  Sometimes red. Covered in cow. Lectio Divina.

The earth is, well, look outside and tell me what you see. Lectio Terrestria.

God is the Celebrant in the Cathedral of the Earth.

Indeed God IS the Cathedral of the Earth.


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