Where is my faith that turns over mountains? Where is the anger that would bid me to cease improper transactions in my heart, exchanging lesser pleasures for gracious heights unknown? Is it simply distraction that plagues me and turns me to impropriety, or is it not the season for growth and I am in turn withering? And yet, I feel that the tides could turn. Depression sets in as a sign of light to come, and a remembrance of brightness behind, so it is a shadow cast that I am walking into as it shortens. I strive for an end that is to not be forgotten, even if my only progeny consists of words and the music I with others create. I am more thankful for paradox than I have come to know. I am more resolute than I should be allowed to be in myself. For I recognize how quickly foundations cease to be foundations, cracking up, in need of repair. I see that I need the Word to speak any true words. I know that I need to pray if I ever want to know anything, even my own heart. And so now, that good anger is sparked, and it is to be turned to a softness found only on the tops of trees and in the soil that supports the roots of produce.
(Sirach 44:1, 9-13, Psalm 149, Mark 11:11-26)
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