All these pants. Hung on racks by hopeful merchandisers without a thought beyond sales. Worn on bodies of people without a thought beyond comfort. Pants that are pants. Made by many hands, they have an existence of their own. They exist for an unseen purpose beyond their utility. To be worn, ripped and stained. Grass stains, mustard stains, sex stains, work stains. To be a useful part of life itself. Dirt, sweat and…..what I’m saying is that things have an intention. To be. By being. By being worn. They aren’t just things. They are real. The many hands….they are that BIG thing. The intentions that rise from the innocent parts of us. The parts that want to mean something beyond self. Something giving and pure. Utility, beyond utility…..a part of love. They just want to be worn…(I just want to be worn)…by the life of another. You can’t tell by the picture, but the pants are smiling and hopeful…pants


We were walking at night down a sidewalk on a residential street and we came upon a streetlight pole. You could hear the buzzing of the bulb in the gray light it gave off. A few insects were flying around. The light shone down like a solid cone to the ground. The light felt liquid. You could touch it and it flowed around your fingers. At my feet was the grass. Big wide thick blades of grass. Not the thin little kind. They seemed to glow in the dim gray light. A luminescent green that shone in the darkness. Little drops of dew began to form on them. I could make out each and every blade of grass in the hundreds of grass that grew in this little spot. It was kind of creepy, like the legs of a spider clawing at my brain. I could see every pebble and rock in the concrete around it. I stood in awe of all the detail and bright color. It was a green so intense I could taste it in my mouth. I could feel the texture of the grass without even touching it. I stood there staring at it for what seemed like several hours. Then my friend grabbed me by the collar and said “C’mon! Don’t stop! We gotta keep moving!”


It’s amazing to me how many ways a person can be hurt and how few ways there are to heal…and how precious little time there is for healing to happen. Lately I’ve seen too many people I care about in pain from wounds old and new. It reminds me of my own demons, and as much as we hope old pain will just go away, it never does. How do we know when we’re done with it? When can we have “dealt with it” and just move on? Why do things from years ago have the power to affect us so deeply and poison so many areas of our lives? How can a little thought or reminder trigger so much chaos in our brains? …How come it never stops hurting?