Fashion plate
Between the ages of 4 and 8, my daughter owned a truly funky fashion sense. Wearing a dress and pants together, with mismatched socks, a bandanna and miles of plastic jewelry, her internal joy was worn on her sleeves. When an outfit was finished, she had this habit of jumping one inch off the floor, keeping her legs straight when she landed, sending a mini jolt through her little body that indicated she’d completed her sculpture.
Grounded in truth, the jump was.
Carrying prayers
Having been raised in the Roman Catholic church, I had always been fascinated by the lighting of incense during special services. I called it the sugary fire. Never able to get close enough to the altar to see what was actually happening, except to see the thurible being filled with a spoonful of incense, I thought the practice was similar to sugar being added to tea. To this day, I’ve never been closer than 100 feet to the process, so my imagination plays a greater role than knowledge. The acrid aroma is unmistakable. It haunts and spirals and swirls.
When I, as an eight year-old, asked my father about the smell, he told me that the smoke helped carry our prayers toward heaven.
Sugary fire
When she was five years-old, my daughter smelled incense for the first time. Her nose wrinkle furiously, followed by the same instinctive and instructive fashion hop.
Every time I smell incense, a little jolt goes through my body, taught by the sweetest little mentor I’ve ever met.
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