For over half a year I've lapsed in my spirituality. I waited until I was far enough out of my winter funk before utilizing the spring equinox to clean the altar- removing offered flowers, dusting the deities, burning the candles. It helped unclutter my mind and give me an extra kick of happiness.
This morning I lit the candles again just to enjoy while eating breakfast at the table and doing morning QiGong with the radio in the background. During one stretch I knocked my special box of altar matches on the floor. Just as I swooped down to pick up the box a God is a DJ moment happened in the form of the Prairie Home Companion host coming on the radio to read the opening stanza of a splendidly hilarious poem, "The Country" by Billy Collins.I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice
might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.
Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe
behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,
the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time—
now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,
lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?