Vertigo

A meditation on faith and chronic illness and pain.

Psalm 22:1-2:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.”

There in the dull darkof cathedral side aisleI step forth and embarkon a walk for awhile along the side altars,for years still unused.I carry a psalter,worn leather, deep grooves. One page is well worn:of Psalm 22,for the forsaken with thornswho called out unto You. Like him I cry out words,but stay stuck at verse two,where no answer is heardfrom what heavens I knew. For my body is broken,but no one may partakeof me as a tokenof what someone spake: Though my mind is still there,it lives in a bone cageof pains worse for wear,my bitter life’s wage. And then my step faltersat the cathedral’s high apse,behind the Gothic high altar.My hands are still clasped around the small bookwith the cracked leather spinethat shares my worn look:its presence is mine. Mine eyes are drawn highto the peak of the arch,to cold sandstone sky,to the roof of the church that seems held up by glass.A miracle of time.Like me, it bears its high massveined through with sacrificial wine. And there through high windowI see distant skies,a personal limboto which my soul flies.