You once said that when you finally touched God,

there was nothing left to say.

I try to enter God’s room through the invisible door of silence but there is so much still to touch: fleece blankets and a bear’s nose, glacial water and a salmon’s tail, young moss, wet paint, tomorrow.

“I would not think to touch the sky with two arms,” sang Sappho. There are so many things I am not brave enough for. Each day the geese carve the sky’s silence into a brash geometry.

The robin, hopping over the cold cement floor, wants to consume a ball of fire in one gulp as if it were a wildly thrashing worm sliding into its hot belly. That was how I first met God. Or rather, the emptiness between myself and the savanna sun. I was five years old, and when I revived an abandoned fire with only my breath, I finally understood what holiness needs from us. •

‘Circling the sun’ by Maaike VanderMeer - acrylic on canvas paper. Dm me if you want the full piece!

This week’s writing prompt (in the chat) is one that has me itchy to start a new piece. I hope it does the same for you!

Tell me what you’re reading; I’m deep in an anthropological tome by Richard Vokes and it’s fascinating even if, as I complained to my brother last night, anthropologists are the slowest storytellers.

I shared a snippet of a quote from Emily Carr on notes yesterday — here’s that quote in full: “The secrets are out. The bracken tips have unfurled and baby birds are squawking and flapping among the dense foliage. The trees are fully dressed, brilliant and “spandy” in their new clothing put on with an imperceptible and silent push. There is nothing so strong as growing.”

I found my first daffodils of the year, yesterday, and a few spandy trees busy “with an imperceptible and silent push”. Where have you found Spring?