If you’re new around here, these polaroids are a place where I journal through small windows. They’re more personal than my longer form essays and (usually) more regular. Out of all the places you could be, thanks for being right here.
My husband and I left the gate half-open exchanging fiery words on a searing summer’s day. We were late for church and hurrying. Sand filled my sandals as I clipped our toddler into his car seat, then again as I climbed into the car. I muttered something about the heat turning the driveway into a desert at this time of year.
When we arrived, my son and husband peeled off to the children’s area. Alone, I eyed the chair nearest the door on the edge of the congregation and was motioned to sit down by Ron, his white hair a little shorter since I last saw him, trimmed behind his hearing aids. His hands echoed silent words as he motioned me to sit down.
Out of his shirt chest pocket, he pulled a palm-sized tattered notebook. DIRECT THE BUS TO STOP was scrawled over one page. He flicked over a page, CLICK THE LID. POUR THE JUG. WATER WILL FLOW. He flicked another page. His sentences were simple. His lettering clumsy and child-like. His notes were urgent and spectacular — far from the confusing and conflicting messages contained and shared on the devices we carry in our palms.
THEY SLEPT WHEN HE NEEDED THEM, he wrote of the disciples in Gethsemane, as the preacher reminded us of how utterly human we all are. I felt my fists open. Each message was like a feather landing in the centre of my tight palm. On Ron’s pages, capital letters and lowercase letters mixed. Ruled lines weren’t followed. Some pages held two or three messages squeezed onto the page. Some notes trailed off, between pages and between lines.
Then, our preacher talked of the woman caught in adultery and thrown by a mob before the feet of Jesus, THE SINLESS AMONG YOU: THROW THE FIRST STONE. Each note was an arrow piercing my pride. Then, in our preacher’s story, the ancient preacher stooped to the ground and scrawled his own urgent and spectacular message into the sand filling the sandals of the people with fiery hearts.
Symbols. Letters. Signs. Fists turned to feathers. Dropped arrows. What was written that caused the woman’s accusers to drop their rocks from the centre of their palms and walk away? What was scrawled in the sand that day?
There was nothing mysterious about Ron’s notes – quite the opposite. They were unquestionable and stark. I wonder if Jesus’s words were the same that day.
Apparently, it doesn’t take many words to give a drink to the thirsty, to save a life, or to stop a bus.
As always, I love hearing from you. Feel free to leave feedback, comments or reflections.
A few things I’ve enjoyed listening to or reading lately:
Why is Gen Z having an identity crisis? -
and”I think that young people view themselves like products to be sold, to be analyzed and optimized, and put on display. And I mean, they’ve grown up managing their personal brand... I think that gives a lot of feeling of anxiety, of not knowing who you are.” [Also on Spotify]
On “The Man in the Water” and the value of writers -
“Why bother? Why bother doing any of this anymore—writing, publishing, storytelling, advocating, thinking? Trying?In an age when despair seems geologic in its immutability, on a planet that no longer seems remotely interested in what we have to offer, why?”
Time Forager’s Weekly Visual Journals -
Helen’s visual journals have inspired me to start painting again. I love her colour palettes, style and encouragement that what we paint doesn’t need to be perfect, but there is joy to be found in the process.
Thank you, Ella Grace, for this soulful piece. It did me good.