Zölibat in der frühen Kirche. Die Anfänge einer by Stefan Heid

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By Stefan Heid

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Sample text

On Santa Ana days, when desert winds move the moist air out to sea, the horizon expands and the sea dwarfs the sky. I know what the ocean is like down there. I know how the waves break against the sand. I have seen gray whales off that beach and dolphins. I’ve watched shorebirds scoop in the wet sand for a meal. I have walked that beach in summer and winter, on bright fall days and cool days in spring. It is a common stretch of beach but enough to satisfy what I’m looking for, enough to remind me that my body is mostly the same salt water that crashes at my feet, and that I share the sloshing and pulling that keeps me breathing with the creatures I see before me and those who live in the waves.

Despite the empty road and the silence, despite the thud-thud-thud of the helicopters overhead, I am aware that in some part of my mind I am calculating whether I can make the appointment I’ve scheduled to get my hair cut in downtown Malibu. Only after I see sheriff’s deputies stationed where the road I’m on dead-ends into Pacific Coast Highway and hear radio reports that all of downtown is under siege do I decide I should change my plans. Abandoning the excuse I’ve prepared for the sheriffs, who are now turning away even residents whose homes are in the path of the flames, I take a polite right turn away from the roadblock.

I have distant but solid memories of the fires my father set in the log lean-to on the shore of our Adirondack lake. I remember Girl Scout campfires I built myself, and fires in mountain cabins or on a beach. I have been warmed by these fires and cheered by their light and lulled asleep to their crackle. I know the hiss of a pine log added to a roaring bonfire, the snap of pitch exploding, the camaraderie of a campfire on a moonless night. The spring after the  Kanan fire, I climbed from the beach up the mountains’ western flank to where I knew there was a pond on top, ascending through lupine and poppies and fresh new growth on the manzanita bushes, the wildflowers so thick and bright against soil still dark with ash that it was like a Sunday stroll through a park.

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