The church steeple had never been visible from here before, but a terrific storm uprooted a third of the plaza trees some weeks back, so there it was revealed before me: the Home of the Goddess.
And I like that.
No matter where you see a church in this troubled world, it’s the Home of the Goddess. People give her different names, and they invent different stories about her and bind their stories in Holy Books, and they usually make her a man, a silly error.
But she cares neither about being mistaken for a man nor the Holy Books.
She is above all that.
You step into these Homes of the Goddess anywhere in the world, and you feel better about yourself because that’s what the Goddess does. Gives you hope. If you don’t feel better, you’re either deranged, bull-headed or both.
You don’t have to believe their Holy Books or the details of their old yarns which, as I said, almost invariably make the Goddess a guy, preferably with a beard.
Just sit there a spell, and let the Goddess do her work. She is beautiful.
It’s good that now I can see the Home of the Goddess from my hammock.