Pater Noster

July 22 2017

How often

have I heard of an author

who revisits a favourite book?

A yearly ritual, perhaps

returning to Poe, Chekhov, Woolf?

Re-acquainting herself

with an old and valued friend.

As if there weren't enough

new books

coming into the world.

As if it even mattered

knowing the end.

As if touching base

with what made her fall in love

with reading, in the first place.

And yet, overwhelmed by newness

I never do.

The burden

of too much choice.

The oppressive feeling

of falling behind,

being drowned

in a tsunami of words.

Even though the book

your younger version read

is no longer the same;

the subtle depths

revealed by age,

the nuance, and mastery

the plot obscured.

And how carving out this time

for yourself

is like a cleansing pause;

a heady rebuke

to the relentlessly grinding wheel of change,

the illusion of progress

we so naturally embrace.

Rituals ground us,

familiar landmarks

in a stormy sea.

Like when every day at school began

with all of us standing

for the announcements, the anthem

the shuffling of chairs,

the recitation

of the Lord's Prayer.

When it was presumed, by the powers that be

we were all good

and meek

and Christian.

And which I still know

by heart.

... As we forgive those

who trespass against us. ...

Whatever it was

that might have wronged a 10 year old.

And now, the countless offences

of adult life,

the steady accretion

of hurt, and grievance

to which we cling

like our daily bread.

...Forever and ever

Amen ... .