Out of Good Ideas

I am exasperated this morning. All my good ideas are like tiny flames in soggy wood. They sputter to life for awhile, create a lot of smoke, then sputter out again. I'd leave this metaphorical camp site for a metaphorical hotel room with a hot shower and big screen TV if I had any metaphorical money. Unfortunately I have staked my wad on this wilderness experience.

Something more is needed. I am morphing into a different creature. On the other hand perhaps those are some grand illusions, psychological slights of hand. If I were one of my kids I'd be telling myself, "get a job."

Raven croaks at me from the gloomy abyss. His eye is black as obsidian today. He shows me Odin, hanging from the Tree of Life: nine days and nine nights, body green with decay.

What ever happened to Lazarus after he was raised from the dead? We never hear of him again. Did he just return to life as usual, out there in Bethany? Did he follow Jesus? If so did he cower in fright with the rest of the disciples at Jesus' torture and crucifixion?

Or was he a kind of prophet to our doomed Lord? Did he take Jesus aside on that same occasion when Jesus visited Mary and Martha and had his feet anointed with oil? Did he tell Jesus, "Now this is what happens after you die. Here's the road you will be traveling, and here's how it ends."?

I picture a man comfortable looking at long shadows. What is there left to do after you have been the poster boy for resurrection?

But Odin climbed down from the Tree and invented a gift for humanity: the first form of writing. And Jesus climbed down from the Tree and gave us everything: citizenship in the Kingdom of Heaven and the Holy Spirit's cleansing wind.

I am out of good ideas. My "to do" list has only one thing on it: ART SHOW DEADLINE JUNE 1. I think I'll go paint something.

Raven settles down on my window ledge to watch.