maura margaret

The first time I ever tried to tell another person out loud what I was trying to figure out about God, I conjured up an image of the north woods. Okay here’s the image: The height of summer. You’ve spent the day out in the woods and in the lake and driving down that long open road. You’re sunkissed from a day spent outside and when you breathe in that beautiful northern air, its sweet like coffee cake at your grandma’s house. Cool, and crisp unlike the hot air down south, like you’re breathing in someone else’s warm breath Maybe God’s. Anyway, the sun has set and the gold that just moments before penetrated through the trees and off the water and painted the sky pink and orange and purple, well that light’s giving way to the deep blue. The first evening stars are appearing in the sky, poking out through that great big blue one by one, like poking fingers breaking through something soft, like tissue paper. You’ve spent the entire day with your family, and you’re all...

Anyway, like The Great Poet and friend of my soul Richard Siken, I wanted to wait to write these words until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones . And yes, my days are filled with light streaming through the windows when I wake up alone between white sheets; and yes, and there is green grass growing below my steps; and yes I drive my car fast down the highway and turn off the air conditioning and roll the windows all the way down and feel the sweat on my back and the hot wind in my face and think I can just about feel God. But sometimes I am still sad and angry. And sometimes I still want more out of this life. And sometimes still I find myself in the dark and the dark seems to be the only thing there is. And I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.   And I think about Dante, that great old pal of mine, and how he once told me that there was no greater sorrow than to remember in present sorrow, past joy. I'm not sure if that's q...