I opened up my honeymoon photo album and, after counting 14 pictures from the page to which I randomly opened (...the second time), landed on a picture from the large historic district of Savannah. It's a picture of an Irish cross (did you know Savannah has the second-largest St. Patrick's Day parade in America?) in one of Savannah's many squares, with the bend of a black fence in the foreground (wrought iron, I think!) and the imposing presence of live oak drooping with Spanish moss (did you know Savannah has the second-largest Cinco de Mayo parade in America?) (I made that one up, silly) in the background. It's a moody picture, but so is every picture taken in Savannah. The mossy oaks cast shadows on everything, and they as well as the things upon which they cast shadows are just so old.
That is the feeling the Celtic cross usually gives me: ancientness, history.
Hmm... this prompt instructs me to not to censor myself, but I just deleted about five different vague generalities about Christianity while trying to expand the previous paragraph. There is a web of thoughts about this picture that connects things like Ireland, Celts, Savannah, explorers, Americans, Christians, Christianity, gates, and trees with descriptions like ancient, new, young, old, dark, light, secure, free, and so much more! (Sorry, too many commercials.) But the connections are too much--not for this small space on this blog, for the small space in my head open for big thoughts like this. It's like trying to fit cake batter in a pan too small: I'm too easily distracted from the portion that bakes well by the blackened goo all over the sides of the pan, the oven rack, the bottom of the oven...
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