A Liturgy for Chopping Garlic

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I propose
we pause to chop
our garlic slow
on wooden cutting boards
reminiscent of our abuelas’
I propose sticky fingertips
with scents that stick
from peeling paper-skin
off cloves—like the steady
undressing of our souls.
Hurrying has often led
to fingers that bleed
but when I gaze, I glean
I delight in that precise
aroma, meeting my nose
bringing soft mist
near eyelids
making house home
the kitchen the Garden.
Today, I chop slow
as butter sizzles on cast-iron skillet
I shirk time-management hacks
for deep breaths
and longer labors of love
because
the best times are when
we forget time exists
when we slow dance with
the simplicity of the moment
when we linger with the ones we love
when we pick up the pen
to write poems on paper
not just voice-to-text to-do lists
when we pray slow,
	“Holy Spirit, come.”
and actually listen
when we stay a little longer
in our prayer closets
savoring sacred yet safe space
where Love’s steady embrace must
hush the commands of rush
where revelation isn’t mere microwave
ready-to-consume content
but more sancocho or soup joumou—
slower, richer sustenance.
I propose
we “yes, Chef,” Your slow-
cooked answers as
transformation takes time. . .
not rush grief nor glee
fast nor feast
savor all we can, and
chop
our garlic
slowly.