Communion was made of magic, again. Even though everyone was sick and had been for weeks, even though I'd recently suffered a dramatic flesh wound, and even though a little yappy dog named Dooley had kept us up the night before Communion went off like a charmed fireworks.
Piles of firewood delivered themselves to our door (with a little help from our friend Dave and his truck), guests arrived bearing bottles of wine and boxes of chocolates, accordians, violins, guitars and harmonicas crowded into our living room, people I had never met before introduced themselves to me in the kitchen, little boys fell asleep on the couch, fathers suggested songs their sons might play on the banjo, Dooley (the little terror) settled into Stef's lap and never uttered a sound.
There were harmonies, covers, sailor songs, kazoo accompaniments, gospel solos, instrumentals, and breif strange acappella moments. I was watching the fire and listening to a song about Albuquerque when it hit me. I am someone who lives in Albuquerque and invites people to play music in her living room. I was shocked for a moment observing what my life had conspired to do with itself!
After everyone had swept themselves out of the house I lay for a while sleepily and wine(ely) on the couch, then tucked myself into bed. I woke up and in the same moment opened my eyes to see the moon peeking in my window. Then I stumbled into the kitchen to find some water and noticed with the same bright moon clarity that it was 4:44 in the morning. Before finally falling alseep again I mused on magic.
SEE THE MAGIC.
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