The Ramblings of Weesatch Joe

With respect to Anne Dilliard, whom I never cared for as a teenager when forced to read her observations of Tinker Creek, and with a nod to Karen Werkenthin, who (although she was said imposer of Ms. Dilliard upon me and my peers) remains one of my favorite and most influential teachers of my incredibly average yet somewhat lengthy academic and writing career, I find myself in a Dillardian mood this morning. If this is worth reading, thank Karen and Anne - influencers before "influencing" was a thing. If it was a waste of your time, then the fault is with me and me alone. I would apologize in advance, but as we all know, a pre-apology is no apology at all. Ergo, caveat lector - let the reader beware.  If you are not familiar with her work - Anne's, not Karen's - or simply not much of a reader, may I offer an alternate idea for you. Do this now, while mornings are cool, with just a nip in the air, enough that your ears will tingle and your fingers feel the chill, but n...

   Today is Ash Wednesday. In many churches, the pastor will have ground up the dried palm leaves from the previous Palm Sunday, milling them into a fine, talc-like powder. Then, with his thumb dipped into the grey  schmutz,  he will place an ashen cross onto the forehead of his parishioner, one-by-one, with the solemn intonation, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It’s an incredibly somber reminder of the curse placed upon Adam and Eve after their fateful fall. “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust and to dust you shall return,” (Genesis 3:19). It’s a bit of a linguistic pun for Adam’s name: Adam, the man, will return to a damah,  the dirt and dust, from which God created him.  That brief sentence is a prelude to the sentence spoken at the graveside: “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” Every year, I wrestle with Ash Wednesday. The struggle is because ...