Kolam is a new word for me. It means the visible prayers found on the ground outside many Indian homes. Each one is unique, and is created with the rice flour that seeps through a woman's fingers. Kolams are beautiful, symmetrical, and ephemeral.  A few square feet of curlicues, and swirls, that create a pattern of peace. In a few hours they will be lost to the traffic, and footsteps that trample across them. But for a wink of time, they are beautiful. Believers say that their fleeting presence brings God's blessing. 

 

Before the pandemic I was part of a team that would create meals to share. One time I walked into a kitchen brimming with cooks who had crafted a hundred meals. Each person was focused on their own repetitive motions, be it chopping tomatoes, or mincing garlic, stirring pots, or washing pans. Together the rhythm was lovely, and I watched while they curled around the counters, cutting boards, and sinks. My task was to put containers in a few bags, and drive them to families whose life is ragged around the edges. A hospital stay, a recent move, or other difficulties had brought them to mind as the members of Pay It Forward were crafting a list of recipients. I offered up prayers on the way, for healing, and a sense of community. One woman is nearly blind. I explained to her who I was, and what I had brought. Her smile was instantaneous. Her elderly husband, resting on the couch, seemed relieved.

 

It is a small thing, really. One meal in a stream of twenty in a week, eighty in a month. Gone in minutes, with only smeared dishes left behind. But then again, maybe the fleeting presence of warm food brings God's blessing.