A Store of Faith

I dreamt of rosaries. To say that the scene was set in a rosary store is a belittling summary. Money was not the only currency accepted. A barely heard sigh expressed in faith could “buy” more rosaries than any ridiculous amount of cash, gold, and/or jewels. While there were rosaries for people of prestige, their prestige meant nothing here.

Most of the rosaries were custom assembled. Somewhere nearby was a factory where precise machines made precise knots holding precise lengths of precisely shaped beads in place. But what combination of colors and textures and lengths and bead counts could be altered in the length of time it took for someone to describe what their perfect rosary looked like.

Also somewhere nearby were an assembly of people that handmade the rosaries starting from the spinning of flax (or cotton or wool or paper or silk or plastics) into thread and the making of beads from various materials and sources. Their rosaries ranged from a child’s first knots to fine threads of gold spun with silk that were stitched into tiny lace baskets that held the teeth of martyrs in lieu of beads.

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Dream Journal: 2016-12-03.01

Doing some light reading and coming across multiple references to St. Cyprian again. While I expect to find references with that book and that author, it has been a crescendo of unexpected references this past month to the point where I am about ready to defenestrate the next person, place, or thing, that makes another reference. “That shit is all fine and good”, I mutter, “but I’m fucking apostate. Doesn’t that disqualify me?” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2016-12-03.01”