Tara Hinge

Just a few days after mid-September each year, the dawn light breaks directly east across our drive, Tara. That day was this Wednesday last. Sol blazed orange as I looked down the drive, and turning east, as I have done in years past, that same light is mirrored in the glass of Saint Theresa of the Child Jesus Catholic Church, named after the “little flower of God,” sigil Saint of my dear patroness, Brooke. 

I have often considered this clean east-west alignment a bit of a hinge-moment, a nature sign and cycle that heralds the summer season melding into early fall. It is a clean mark that big changes are coming, as they always do. This year, as the hydrogen orb rushed up to share its light, I stood in the center of Tara, a few minutes before leaving to make the morning journey back to my Momma’s hospice bedside. I seemed to feel the earth turn toward Brother Sun, a slight wobble in my feet, a bit of gravity pulling down. It hit me that my body was tired, and perhaps my mind was feeling frayed a little as well. Change was coming, was here, is always, and during the morning light of this Tara hinge, there was nowhere to hide from it, or pretend it wasn’t happening.

My Momma’s body will fail soon, any day now, and the hinge will bend, the brass pins holding the heavy gate will groan and creek. A door is closing one way, and opening another. She will breath out and step through, then I will breathe in and step through, and we will both change on this hinge.

Two days since Tara hinge—each day the Pointe Vierge gets brighter, and this intimate time with Momma feels sharp and crisp in the light through hospice room window. The hinge sings as it swings, the moments are counted by her weakening, deep, heavy breaths when she sleeps. The door lets in more and more radiance and love in with each remaining day.

I am thankful to have manifested as her son. Through my Momma’s suffering, and the gift of being allowed to serve as her companion and attendant in death, she is giving birth to me once again. Change is here, always is, always now.

Pray for me, brothers and sisters, that I may embrace this bitter and beautiful hinge.

-Brother Oran 
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(Please forgive any typos or errors at this time—this was written on a smartphone app that makes its own “corrections” in real time)