It is funny how the peace sneaks up on you like an ermine on a vole. Often fast, bloody, small, and struggling. (For future readers - I believe in the liberal use of incomplete sentences. Our thoughts are very often incomplete.) We are outraged. This can't be what our concord looks like. No. It is the lip of Hell Roaring Canyon accented by K2 Phat Loves, the bubbles above our head in the Willson River, an abandoned watch tower roof at dusk in North Cal., the mottling of crimson and mandarin in an Alaskan alpine valley. Maybe it is the spray from a humpback breach hitting you in the face, the perfect dinner with the cheap bottle of wine, or the feel of two day old stubble under fingertips.
I've seen my weasel. He wandered into my bedroom two weeks ago and bit me. I'm waking up free - happy in SW Portland. God is stretching the confines of my life. Helping me let go. Something I've never been good at. It took being bitten to make me unlock my jaw and speak. Now my weasel, Christ and I are making plans amidst the strewn, mauled bits of stubborn pride laying about in chunks on the floor.