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I live out on a hill covered with oak trees and I have two goats – Daisy and Cassandra. Cassandra’s face is cockeyed and her eyes are very strange. One night I dreamed she was a Mexican Gypsy telling fortunes. My life is a crystal tear-drop. There are snow flakes in the tear drop and little figures trudging around in slow motion. If I were to look into the tear-drop and little figures trudging around in slow motion. If I were to look into the tear-drop for the next million years, I might never figure out who the people are, and what they are doing. Sometimes I get lonesome for a storm. A full blown storm where everything changes. The sky goes through four days in an hour, the trees wail, little animals skitter in the mud and everything gets dark and goes completely wild. But it is really God – playing music in his favourite cathedral in heaven – shattering stained glass – playing a gigantic organ – thundering on the keys – perfect harmony – perfect joy. Lord Buckley – the beautiful moon-man comedian – said to a cocktail audience, “M’Lords and M’Ladies. . .Beloveds . . . Would it embarrass you very much if I were to tell you . . . that I love you?” A friend of mine told me it would be risky to write about Jesus. I’ll risk it. I wonder if Jesus knows what’s happening on earth these days. Don’t bother coming around, Jesus. Jesus, gold and silver – standing naked in a roomful of modern men. What nerve, Jesus, gold and silver – you have no boots on, and you have no helmet or gun – no briefcase. Powerful Jesus gold and silver with young, thousand year old eyes. You look around and you know you must have failed somewhere. Because here we are, waiting on the eve of destruction with all the odds against any of us living to see the sun rise one day soon. You, Dear Reader -You are Amazing Grace. Only you and I can help the sun rise each coming morning. If we don’t, it may drench itself out in sorrow. You – special, miraculous, unrepeatable, fragile, fearful, tender, lost, sparkling ruby emerald jewel, rainbow splendor person. It’s up to you. Would it embarrass you very much if I were to tell you . . . that I love you? - Joan Baez, liner notes to “Farewell, Angelina”
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