There’s a motorcycle store right of the interstate. They claim to be “of Asheville” but their address is Swannanoa. I understand the marketing appeal, but it kind of chaps my hide when an organization doesn’t own their locality. Still, it’s nice to have such a source of economic activity in the neighborhood, especially on the days when the lady riding on back sports a pink mohawk on her helmet. I’ve seen blue mohawks on kids’ bike helmets. This was my first pink motorcycle helmet one.
It must be hard to establish one’s credibility when sporting a pink mohawk. Perhaps one lets the Harley Davidson do the talking. Perhaps one could give a damn about credibility when riding on the back of a motorcycle through one of the prettiest days in the mountains to date. Whatever path to prominence, to fame and fortune, a helmet without a mohawk represents, that path is not the one to which this passenger was called. It would be neat to say that this path is destined to work out, that it’s all in God’s hands.
And I do think it’s all in God’s hands. There is too much evidence in my life to support the thesis of divine providence for me to mount a credible objection. The beatitudes appointed to this morning’s prayers gave way to research about the Beatitude Society which was followed by a Google search on Invisible Children which was interrupted by a visit with the Executive Director of FATE.
If the interconnections there are not obvious, let me know. They’re apparent to me prima facie, but there is also a resonance between them all. Call it string theory or call it the music of the spheres, I call it the Holy Ghost. (Sometimes the Holy Goat.) In any case, there is, I believe, a force which drives us toward interconnectedness, to harmony, and to resonance. If people aren’t getting it, sometimes we have to resort to a pink mohawk. That doesn’t mean that we have diverted from the plan. Maybe it means that there wasn’t a plan to begin with.