I heard Anne Lamott at a writer’s showcase a while ago, and she said that if we writerly types do not write down right away our ideas, the ones that strike at inopportune moments, then God gives them to her, “that nice Annie.”
Last night, I dreamt up a poem while I was falling asleep. It was about leaving the church where I was ordained a priest; I will be with them for one last funeral this Friday and one last Sunday celebration this Sunday. Of course, I was too sleepy and lazy to write it all down, and when I woke up, it was nowhere to be found, except for the first line, which ended up changing anyway.
So Anne Lamott got lucky, as though she needed to. And this, no longer about leaving, is what rose from the ashes:
The wide, white cloth defies perspective,
draws the eye toward infinity and
into the finest detail of its weft and warp,
the spaces in between.
Faces pale in its reflected light,
like angels fierce and tender,
praising God and singing holy,
holy people summoned to the altar.