Anchorhold

Here I am, suburban anchorite: Chronic illness my cloister, My home my hermitage, Caregiving my enclosure. My bare voice sings praise alone in my cell With the absent-present congregants in my ears. The mockingbird leads the avian chorus; I pass the peace to the dragonfly on perched on the other side of the glass. I pass along the comfort I receive From the Father of mercies. A living stone, embedded in the temple of the Body, Walled in, communion mediated by windows In my wall, on my desk, in my hand, Attached yet excluded— Invisible illness hiding me invisibly away From the rest of the body—yet still part of it, Never parted from my Head, the Beloved. I am a suburban anchorite, But the burdens and bricks which anchor me here Anchor me to Christ. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit crumbsfromhistable.substack.com