The Blood On The Door

I went to one Passover dinner, the year I converted to Catholicism. I don't remember much about it except that it was held at the home of the deeply kind woman who served as Deacon John's assistant for RCIA classes and her husband kept looking down at his feet and thinking they were puppies. In fact, he'd bark for them and then call them names of the dogs of his youth. The food, such as it was, was uniformly terrible, bitter herbs not being a metaphor in this case. And I don't like wine, not good or bad, but this was my first go around with Manischewitz. And my last.

What I did like was sitting at an old-fashioned dinner table with all my new found friends and reading quotes from the Bible. It contrasted with my other life, the one where I drank snazzy mixed drinks and quoted from The Sopranos. I thought about how strange things could get and deliverance, which is what we were celebrating. Being spared. The blood on the door. There's a room where I take yoga sometimes and there's a big red ribbon on a door leading to nowhere. I always station myself by that door for some reason. Nobody has ever said anything about the ribbon, the only bright thing in the room and sometimes I look at it when I'm in a painful pose, hoping to be spared from whatever might come next.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Tell me who admires and loves you, and I will tell you who you are." Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Cocktail Hour
Drinking music suggestion: A Day In Paris Miles Davis

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Wednesday!