On Sundays, in the small city in which I live, church bells echo through the streets. The deepest sweetest tones called across the cold air this morning.
I can stand on my front steps, drinking down much needed caffeine,
and remember a time when I still believed.
Once those bells that sing, calling worshippers to attend the morning service, would have summoned me.
In the apex of the nave during the elevation of the elements the intonation resonated something inside me.
Question and answer.
Call and response.
I remember Sunday school as a child when I knew nothing of other religions, or schools of thought. We all lived so much more simply, and innocently.
The bells that sounded before I learned of: Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Santeria, Maoism, Taoism... Oh the superstition, the beautiful mythology. The bells that sounded before I overanalyzed everything. The bells that sounded before magnets were no longer miracles. The bells that sounded when magic existed, and the world held wonder. A time before mass communication.
Bells ring for so many different reasons. Now they are ringing, as I write, calling the Worshippers to attend, to kneel, to be forgiven, and to forgive.
Never mind what I believe. Every time I hear these bells I still feel younger.