Monk playing “Blue Monk“, a triple sweet-cream undertow, and a corner table, writing about it all . . .
To say, like Eyob does, that God is good; or to call it cloudy and sunny with music in the clouds and redemption in the light; or to shout with Karl, “Sanctus!”; all of everything I have is still not touching the hem or achieving enough status, even to untie a strap on a sandal.
Stunning grace, a portion of peace, and a presence that is within and beyond.
So, I’m here, already jazzed with three shots, dead center in the corner pocket, and I have placed another bet on a trick shot with eyes closed. I ask around, any other bets? Do you trust me? Sure, some did, and they may have misplaced a wager, but I know not where. Everyone was into the action as they had watched: one straight, one fast, another banking and ooh oh so slowly it is . . . . . . . in! Three shots–looks easy–but they know that it’s not.
So yeah, lots of bets from everyone in the place, as I said. Except that mystery across the room.
No hesitation: I don’t trust any man; I trust God. Make the shot or don’t, and I will stay back and watch. Then, maybe we can talk about it.
I walked away . . . and came back.
Beautiful. Perfect. So, so right.
All bets are off, and I trust him too. Such a sure thing. And there can be no losers, there must not be, no matter how messy the floor in this place will get after last call. I am all in.
I announced it to the crowd and refunded all of their money and left all my cash as a tip for the manager. And soon I will take the shot. All alone, with no one watching.
So, I sit here, and Monk is older, playing “Caravan“. The undertow is gone, and I am still at the same corner table, writing about it all.