The Dust is Singing

A poem to start off Lent

Photo by Austin Ban on Unsplash

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Ah geez, she’s getting religious on us again. Well, yeah, some; it comes with the life, and it’s how I get on with the whole being-human part. Love and gratitude if you stay and look around; love and understanding if you need to step out.

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ASH WEDNESDAY                                                         2002


Almighty and Everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made….
Remember, mortal, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
             -- From the Ash Wednesday liturgy, Book of Common Prayer


Dust of fire now spent, of green wood charred,
it smears my forehead with myself.
Remember you are dust. Remember wishes,
blazing in their moment, then blown out 
like candles; remember friendship bright as steel, 
now tarnished into habit. Vows erode, 
hope sifts away, in tiny ways,
day by day, grain by grain. To dust
you shall return. Return to where, God,  
in your restless world? You hate nothing 
you have made; then will I one day turn and see 
atoms of my old faiths and passions dancing 
like dust-motes in the heavens to declare
your glory, fused into stones that cry out your
hosannas when men are silent? All the songs
your children sing or never sang, the love we gave 
or were afraid to give — dust now on the breath 
of your Spirit and singing still, 
loving still. The heavens, God, 
declare your glory, the stones cry out:
you hate nothing you have made,
and we are dust, returning to dust,
and the dust is singing.

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Today marks the entry into Lent, a season of Christian practice that scrapes up against the glorious riot of springtime with a reminder that every thing and every body in this world is mortal, changeable, temporary. And precious. And loveable. And worth changing our lives however we need to, so that we can pay closer attention to our changing, mortal selves and the changing, mortal world that surrounds us.

Christianity adds layers to it, of course, a whole narrative layer about how death is most definitely inescapable and real and … somehow not as final as it looks. The starting point, though — the way our awareness of change and mortality can impel us to live more fully and love more deeply — that’s something we can talk about in the language of dozens of religions and philosophies, or simply in the language of human experience. It’s something poets talk about a lot, especially when they’re talking about dandelions and snowflakes and kisses and watching their grandmother mend her apron. And sometimes even when they’re talking about religion.