Today, due to a competition called Iron Man (the last Iron
Man I heard of was Bismarck:
times change) I took the old way to the city not the freeway. I hadn’t taken
that route in a generation. I’ve reached a place in my life where everything
reminds me of something else; my trip was a revival of whole sheets of my
former life.
Witnessing
the industrialisation of suburbs I’d known, where I’d stayed, lost events enacted,
shops, hospitals, schools, communities overwritten, signage in new languages,
blocks of boxlike factory outlets over gardens and homes. At least the sad
dusty pony rides by the highway now gone.
Parts of
life have enchantment such that living them blocks out time: passionate love,
ambition, joys of parenthood. Time seems not to move while within them: yet
finite. The Stabat Mater we sang
today tells of a Mother facing such an end: Lenten sorrows.
It’s of
this mutability of human space that Paul writes, saying how we must be changed,
the places of our lives like sets to be struck and rolled away, the dramas and
traumas like joys and delights concluded, leaving us on the bare structure and
stage of God’s Reality.
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