Once a year
we bring a single bloom
from our yards, or our markets
or the roadside
and we place this offering
on the altar, in one of
many waiting vases.
And this day each year
we take turns
queuing up
to walk past the altar
and absorb the perfume air
of a field of flowers,
each one distinct,
each one beautiful,
each one needed.
And as we gaze down
upon this abundance
this gathering of glory
of colors
of shapes and textures
heights and dimensions
we can select
from the masses
the one stalk that calls to us.
Will it be a jaunty sun flower?
Or smily Gerbera daisy?
Perhaps a black magic rose
or a dahlia
or some acid green pompoms
or an English rose
or impatiens
or maybe a calla lily.
We each have the moment
to feel what moves us,
and then respond by
raising our selection
from the vase.
And so we do, and I do.
I walk back to my seat.
I evaluate my communion:
a bright white, lime-veined
oakleaf hydrangea
cut fresh from
someone else's garden
now in my hand,
heavy with morning dew
and promise.
And in this moment,
the act of communion
of taking, of giving, of believing
is more concrete, more perfect
than any prior ritual.
Out of many, one.
Community
Communion
Common threads
Common flora
made majestic
made powerful
made holy
by the act of
gathering
giving,
and gracing
the lives of another.
I make a silent blessing
I carry my strand of blossoms
and tight green broccoli-like buds
to the car
through my garage
to the dining table
and place it in a vase
full of someone else's bouquet.
And I have given,
and taken,
and given again,
And this is as it should be.
And this is how
we find belonging
and connection,
in the small ways
that lead to big change.
