Meditation in Orange:

I’m the last to arrive. A drizzle falls, enveloping the morning in drab grays as I don the orange jumpsuit. The magnolia tree over head is in full bloom, its soft pink/white peddles heralding a new spring, a new beginning. I place a black hood over my head. Everything is muted; a veil over what is real. Quietly, Carmen says, “It’s time.” Our small group of “detainees” forms a circle. Pedestrians with umbrellas and their collars turned up hurry by as we bow our heads and grasp each other’s hands in silence. I wonder if our tableau reminds those who rush past of prisoners, broken and defeated, or priests huddled in prayer, I wonder if our circle evokes anything at all.