In quietness and rest this home is a vessel.
A vessel which carries life and being, but does not limit its function, malfunction or growth.
As I rest here on the couch I hear the gentle whirring of the dishwasher, lulling the quietness of the warm air in this house, as it makes clean the lesser vessels which held the well prepared dinner just enjoyed.
I can hear the gentle rumble of the stove, with its slow creaking as its metal expands; this vessel of fire which keeps the air warm, which can take a chill out of a cold room, a cold body, sometimes even out of a cold heart.
Above this, but gently, I hear the voices of two generations, though time and experience divide them; they are cooing to each other. I can hear grandmother gently holding, and grand-daughter reaching out to time and experience. For a moment the two seem as one, both intertwined with the other, grandmother drawn to be child-like and grand-daughter grasping for grandmother's experience. How we grow with and into each other in mysterious ways.
We are vessels of life, of hope and love, of growth and brokenness, of quietness and strength, vessels that carry light and warmth, in this furnace made of skin, of tender enduring material, which stretches and creaks with experience and time, that gives light and warmth for those nearby to enjoy, to stand close to and heal, to find nourishment in the feast of company and love, to cleanse and wash each other through water and tears and sometimes fire, to hold and to shelter and to bring together. How we grow with and into each other in mysterious ways.
Yet though we are the vessels of light and life, we are not the light itself. We are the vessels. Yet, we are more than vessels.