Terrified, she was.
excruciating pain like she’d never known
Emanating from her center
reverberating through bones weary and muscles tense
rising to her skin, prickly hot.
She struggled against it.
Be calm, he said.
Your fighting will prolong
your agony, extended.
Might just kill
you and the life you carry.
No color
save the polished white
of walls and floors
and grey chrome finish
of his tray and tools.
She closed her eyes
and conjured the face of a lover.
Make this end, she pleaded.
His worried face signaled his impotence.
He could do nothing more
than hold her hand.
Focusing on his hand in hers
she wondered.
What sin had they committed
that warranted these spasms of agony
spanned by relieved moments of exhaustion.
Or was this sin her own?
Had she been lifted to some scaffold
her breath stolen by a noose.
Was the taste of love sweet turning
to a poison that would seize her gut.
Were the cords they’d tied now being cut
a guillotine tearing her from within?
Drawing herself deeper into dreaming
lifting her spirit into adrenaline-induced imagination
she found herself at the feet of God.
She pleaded for mercy.
Not wanting to seem selfish,
she begged that He ease suffering everywhere
“There is such pain on earth! Surely,
Your loving kindness would wish
would order
the messengers of pain
to run, scatter, disappear.
Not just for me,
but for all your creatures
and for the baby born this hour
my child, Lord, and Yours.”
Lifting her eyes in a prayer for healing
she caught his glance
and was fixed on it
on the surprise of it
on the ridiculous, horrifying surprise of it.
No furrowed forehead,
no hint of mercy
no gesture of concern.
God laughed.
Panicked, she dove from heaven down
through imagination and deep
she dug through her dream to the surface
where her lover still stood next to her.
“We must tell them all!” she whispered, fearing
God might still be watching.
A gentle squeeze of his hand
signaled that her lover heard, yet didn’t
feel compelled to relay her message.
I told Him of the pain here!
I pleaded for relief!
And He,
the Healer, and
Deliverer of peace,
laughed so loudly that it deafened me.
There was no worry in His eyes,
no promise to deliver us.
Instead, God laughed!
Her panic, dread
spilled out past her words – she saw it touch the nurse’s cheek.
The doctor’s eyes announced his smile behind his mask.
Nurse, doctor,
and lover, too,
all smiled, some chuckled.
No one comprehended
the significance of her revelation.
They were focused on the little girl
Whose fragile frame
arrived with one last push.
Anguish and defeat
fled the scene.
She held her baby
and God’s laughter was forgotten.
With the wisdom of a loving heart,
she taught her daughter
compassion.
With the gentleness a giving spirit,
her instructions for tolerance
were delicately engraved.
She set aside her memory
of a callous and uncaring lord
attending the birth of her baby girl.
Instead, she directed her baby’s attention
to a merciful shepherd
who loves his baby lambs.
As she grew, the child learned from others
Knit together language and meaning
Built sandcastles of cause and effect
And assembled jigsaw puzzles
of choice and consequence.
Her most difficult lesson
was in understanding her place
within the universe.
She was not at its center.
She struggled with this knowledge
as does every other being with
compassion, tolerance, acceptance
of her orbital place.
She sought the center
the origin
the light
With each cycle through the seasons
sunrises revealed bright hopes
and painful truths.
Sunsets put to rest dusty fears
and unrealistic ambitions.
Each time she rounded the ellipse
of her life
to return and revisit
and reexamine her purpose
she enjoyed a more focused view
of the source of answers
the creator of truths.
Until today
she finds a dream-like vision
that bothers and perplexes her.
Pulled from the center of life
taking her right place in orbit around it
having relinquished control of her path
And releasing her grip on responsibility for others
Her reward – a truth revealed to her
that the light around which she has travelled
for two score and seven years
had been laughing
all along.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Handsful
Every way around it was blocked off or a dead end.
Well traveled, to be sure,
but narrowing to one lane eventually and ending, every one.
If I was to ever make my way from the southern shore of up ‘til now
to the unexplored promise of beginning now
I would have to trust one shaky, ancient foot bridge,
not without a rope handrail to keep me upright and right heading.
Thin wooden planks weren’t a problem - they’d hold me.
Bending, turning, twisting rope frames didn’t deter me
they’d keep me steady.
There was no absence of a handhold to direct me from past side to future side
to guide me through today.
Rope rested ready for a firm grip or a gentle tug.
I’d avoided this sole path leading out of yesterday
through today and into the best tomorrow I could all but see
simply because I did not dare
could not imagine
wrapping fingers and thumb around the guide ready.
My hands were full of packages
and my grip was so habitual
I didn’t
couldn’t
unfasten knuckles white
to release the box of fears
the suitcase of regrets and guilt
the knapsack of shame
and the precious goblet wrapped in velvet
that held everything I was and wished I wasn’t.
And so for days and months and years
of counting moons and pacing seasons
and tracing foot paths along the edge of yesterday
I’d look for another way
down,
around
but never through
(the current swift would surely carry me away,
taking control and drowning me in memories boxed securely.)
As a friend can lift burdens when given the chance,
so, too, the knapsack of shame was gently taken from my shoulder
softly placed on the counter-top of revelation
and piece by piece each broken mirror was dusted, polished, to reveal
a reflection distorted, but not by shame
instead by time worn child formed memory.
Where shame has no reason, shame has no rest.
One less package to carry and just a bit more energy to tackle guilt and regret.
Moons rise and fall over the river of today
cliffs of up ‘til now erode with just a whisper
How could I have not noticed how soft and simple
the edges that portrayed themselves as diamond hard and razor sharp
collapsed like talc with a cautious touch.
Kneeling to draw a smiling face in the silky dust with one timid finger
I uncovered a tarnished key
Revealed and beckoning to be lifted from its burial place
I turned the brass relic in my hand
memorizing its every facet and cut
marveling at its weight remaining cool in my warm grip
but not thinking to wonder about asking why
Taking inventory and about to hang the chorded key around my neck
I noticed brass of identical tarnish
adorning corners, handle, clasp of the heavy suitcase in my clenching grasp
A key so large, so old
so seemingly worth a castle gate or a prison door
yet, as I brought the two together
as brass key slid perfectly into brass lock
The heavy suitcase opened on its hinge with such ease
I wondered if its contents might have been regularly rearranged.
Hadn’t life been packing and carrying
guilt for trapped father,
regret for abused mother
who set aside dreams and carried burden with both guilt and regret?
Wasn’t it my burden now?
To be anchored to this suitcase packed with the waste of a life spent captive?
Yet as the bricks and mortar emptied from the opened case
and landed on the finest sand soft and were quickly lost to wind,
the memory attaching guilt to any grain
was lost in precisely the same moment as the breeze named Freedom blew by.
Who should carry an empty suitcase?
Who should bear the burden of confining nothing but regret and guilt
into the space that should hold wonder?
Who should burden themselves with a package
that no one wants to send
or to deliver,
or to receive?
Why fill fingers, hands, or arms with so much emptiness
that no space remains
for grasping grace,
for holding the warmth of merciful love
for embracing with every thread
of desire, of thirst, of desperate hope
the touch of another soul?
As my choice becomes clearer
I see the path I’ve been pacing
is littered with tattered, busted, broken cases
spilling only sand.
I release my grasp on the handle and set this ancient relic down
without regret or guilt remaining
I swiftly kick it off the cliff
watching it vanish long before it would otherwise have exploded
Isn’t it curious how the gripping hand complains just a little
before it opens with relief?
Fingers flex and fold, invigorated by their new found freedom.
Arms that had been stretched and bent around so many burdens,
now happily readjust my load.
Only two parcels remain:
One cardboard box
and one goblet wrapped
in velvet, this surely was a treasure
I could trust my hunch even though I’d never unwrapped it
This unique shape of stem and cup revealed enough
I wedge the stem between my arm and belly
so that the velvet draped container opens just below my heart
Leaving two hands free
to rummage and explore the contents of my cardboard box
Having weathered bumps and bruises
having been subject to icy wetness and the most wicked of radiant sun
having been torn and taped on every side
such that top was indistinguishable from bottom,
This cardboard box seems resilient to time’s tumbling and season’s wear
If anything had made this box less square
it was the way I forced it closed on top
and squeezed it tightly so that edges bent and buckled
Was this container strong enough, safe enough
to hold fears secure?
If it was full of anxiety, where could I take the box
to safely inspect it’s contents?
I look over my shoulder and I discover a world of others
each carrying a box of fears much like mine
each weary from grasping, tightly holding - each beyond desperate
Some lie curled up like infants enveloping their box,
terrorized into stillness
Some run without reason, their fear box at fingertips
they intend to hurl their time bomb into an unsuspecting crowd
But most, like me, hug their fears tightly
Why do they do this, I cry out.
Silence answers with another question.
“What are they doing?”
I pull my cardboard box of fears from under my arm
and I hold it out.
Why do they carry this? I yell
The reply, again a question
“What are they carrying?”
They carry all their fears, and mine.
I carry all my fears, and theirs. Why? I grow impatient.
“Did you force them to carry your fears?”
Of course not, I reply.
“Did they force you to carry their fears?”
Heavens no, I answer.
“Then why do they do this? And why do you?
Exasperated, I shout. That was my question!
Equally exasperated, heaven shouts
“That is your answer”
Too puzzled to be afraid, I open the box.
Sure enough, it’s full of things I once feared
but not anymore.
Of things I’ve used to cover up my fears, now too small or too smothering.
Digging deeply through to the bottom, I find nothing new
Only forgotten fears
not one single thing that could cause me harm today.
It’s clear now
There is nothing in this dilapidated shell that’s worth my time
my energy
my fear.
I pour the contents out onto the sand, where they dissolve.
I label the box
DEPOSITS ONLY
and I tack it to a nearby tree.
Before I use my ready hands to cross the bridge to beginning now
I realize that the only thing I carry Is a goblet, wrapped in velvet
Although its shape
vessel-on-stem-on-feet
gives its identity away
I know next to nothing else
No other package is as mysterious,
nor has any other been dressed so luxuriously
canvas, cardboard, tarnished brass
The supple, soft velvet that wraps itself gently is evidence enough
that the goblet’s surface requires a gentle touch
I expect a precious metal polished to a mirror finish
lustrous gold or silver etched with my name
I hold my breath and tighten my grip
as I carefully remove the velvet veil
There is no brilliant reflection
no gold, no silver, no words
Instead an inconsistent and unexpected shimmer
like the sun’s reflection on lake waters rippled by a breeze
that pushes and pulls clouds
I feel the sparkle, glisten, twinkle
fly from my eyebrow to my chin so quickly that I can’t be certain
where the light comes from or where it will land next
My face moves up, down, and over as my eyes attempt to trace the path
of this elusive, bouncing, dancing light
With each cycle of this search my gaze begins and ends on the rim of this curious goblet
or is this sparkling sculpture something else entirely?
I study it
I fix my eyes, furrow my brow, and focus my attention on this body,
standing naked with velvet at its feet.
Almost instantaneously
the dancing light it emanates finds my eyes with the power of an eclipsed sun
forcing me to avert my gaze and bow my head
It is Holy, this goblet.
But not the Holy vessel offered as a sacrificial gift
to a group of friends and enemies in an attempt to build community
to be offered and then shared
but only to some, exclusively
and then battled over and murdered for
and then almost lost each Sunday
This piece of art fashioned of glass fragments
some newly broken and sharp, some polished round
is held together somehow by the glue of my own story
And it is these fragments that from time to time, one at a time
catch sunlight and toss it, ray by ray to me
like daily lessons, weekly sermons, and season’s parables
“Here’s one… did you catch it?”
It’s the voice again.
Ouch. Yes I did. Where shall I keep it?
“You learn slowly, don’t you?
These lessons aren’t meant for you to hold or bind or save or obsess over.”
“Catch the lesson. Sift through it. Taste and listen. Then let go.
Extend your arms so that you can enjoy the fullness, richness, beauty of this goblet.
Holding it tightly to your self has only the advantage
of allowing your heart to bleed into it.
But who, save you, is helped by that.”
I only thought, I start
“Don’t think so much”
to finish, I continue that goblets are for holding close and drinking.
“and passing” the voice adds.
“This goblet doesn’t contain an elixir or a potion.
It’s vessel, propped on slender stem can’t keep a treasure
to be later poured or sipped.
There is no blood of life within - everlasting, or brief
transubstantiated by holy men, or blessed mystically by wise women
Symbolically or literally
this created, fashioned, shimmering glasswork cannot contain anything”
What, then, why?
Should I give up this, too, to cliff walls and sand?
If this goblet isn’t meant to carry a thirst-quenching drink,
then why carry it along?
Why not let it go the way of empty knapsacks, suitcases, and boxes?
Of what use is a beautiful goblet for carrying my heart, extraordinary
if it cannot even hold soil, ordinary?
To add emphasis and dramatic metaphor
I scoop a handful of the sand derived of bricks and stones
and I pour it from my hand into the vessel
watching fine grains filter through the many cracks and fall back to the ground.
“Do you feel as foolish as you look?”
She giggles as if my buttons are mismatched or a tag is showing
or a toothpaste trail remains on my chin.
Why would you bestow on me, overflowing with quirks
absent-minded and empty
a cup, empty, though potentially heart-full, and overflowing with sparks?
Her warm, strong arms wrap themselves around me while she giggles again
Her soft hands somehow enfold mine with gentle confidence
and I feel the calm
the peace of knowing
in a mysterious, magical, mystic way
the depth and breadth and infinite possibility
of now
Nothing of a moment ago is visible
nothing of the moment to come either
There is no cliff of up til now
or distant shore of beginning now
I’m enveloped in the immediate
but without margins or edges or boundaries
Oh, my God! I sing
her wisdom answers,“and other’s God, too!”
Oh, our God! I sing still louder.
“We hear and see you in the now”
He, she, all love and beauty sings with me
in three part, four part, infinite harmony
“Tell me what your goblet holds,” is the song’s refrain.
Doubt and confusion stop me from singing.
Didn’t you see? I ask
all the cracks in this goblet?
It’s beautifully made but it cannot hold anything.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful.
Let’s go back to our song again.
“Look inside,” the Voice insists.
I bring my hands in closer and look deep into the well.
There, at the bottom are dregs, stones, nuggets
too large or misshaped to have escaped.
Oh, this?
It’s nothing much, I say as I reach into the cup and lift out one of the remains.
As soon as I can look closely at the composition
of this seemingly insignificant pebble
I discover that this is the heartache I stumble through
each and every time I consider the injustice of illness and pain
“This is a lesson you must eventually learn if you are to discover wholeness.
Every time you drink of life this pebble will show up
until you accept its lesson and decide to let it go.”
“You are given a life full of potential
but if your life, like your goblet is walled off
solid and unbending,
able only to be filled but never emptied
then each new day will potentially overfill you,
overwhelm you
or just escape you.”
“Love and bless each crack in your story,
in your heart,
in you.
Pay close attention to the stones that aren’t easily filtered.
Some carry frustration
black and burned, like igneous rock
taking up space, but consisting of mostly of holes and emptiness.
Some carry joy
speckled and striped, like layers of sandstone,
telling a story that took ages to write.
Just as surely as each gem on your goblet has been intentionally placed,
the spaces between those gems have a purpose.
If you allow life’s lessons to accumulate without your attention
your goblet, like your life
will be less effective at negotiating a path and knowing the way forward.”
God, the Father, Mother, Grandparent, Lover, Friend
gently lifts my hand and takes the goblet-stone,
kisses it,
thanks it,
blesses it
and then drops it.
In the same instant that it hits the ground,
light bounces just a bit more
from facet to facet, surface to surface,
imperfection to imperfection
in and out
of the goblet
draped in velvet
that is me.
Well traveled, to be sure,
but narrowing to one lane eventually and ending, every one.
If I was to ever make my way from the southern shore of up ‘til now
to the unexplored promise of beginning now
I would have to trust one shaky, ancient foot bridge,
not without a rope handrail to keep me upright and right heading.
Thin wooden planks weren’t a problem - they’d hold me.
Bending, turning, twisting rope frames didn’t deter me
they’d keep me steady.
There was no absence of a handhold to direct me from past side to future side
to guide me through today.
Rope rested ready for a firm grip or a gentle tug.
I’d avoided this sole path leading out of yesterday
through today and into the best tomorrow I could all but see
simply because I did not dare
could not imagine
wrapping fingers and thumb around the guide ready.
My hands were full of packages
and my grip was so habitual
I didn’t
couldn’t
unfasten knuckles white
to release the box of fears
the suitcase of regrets and guilt
the knapsack of shame
and the precious goblet wrapped in velvet
that held everything I was and wished I wasn’t.
And so for days and months and years
of counting moons and pacing seasons
and tracing foot paths along the edge of yesterday
I’d look for another way
down,
around
but never through
(the current swift would surely carry me away,
taking control and drowning me in memories boxed securely.)
As a friend can lift burdens when given the chance,
so, too, the knapsack of shame was gently taken from my shoulder
softly placed on the counter-top of revelation
and piece by piece each broken mirror was dusted, polished, to reveal
a reflection distorted, but not by shame
instead by time worn child formed memory.
Where shame has no reason, shame has no rest.
One less package to carry and just a bit more energy to tackle guilt and regret.
Moons rise and fall over the river of today
cliffs of up ‘til now erode with just a whisper
How could I have not noticed how soft and simple
the edges that portrayed themselves as diamond hard and razor sharp
collapsed like talc with a cautious touch.
Kneeling to draw a smiling face in the silky dust with one timid finger
I uncovered a tarnished key
Revealed and beckoning to be lifted from its burial place
I turned the brass relic in my hand
memorizing its every facet and cut
marveling at its weight remaining cool in my warm grip
but not thinking to wonder about asking why
Taking inventory and about to hang the chorded key around my neck
I noticed brass of identical tarnish
adorning corners, handle, clasp of the heavy suitcase in my clenching grasp
A key so large, so old
so seemingly worth a castle gate or a prison door
yet, as I brought the two together
as brass key slid perfectly into brass lock
The heavy suitcase opened on its hinge with such ease
I wondered if its contents might have been regularly rearranged.
Hadn’t life been packing and carrying
guilt for trapped father,
regret for abused mother
who set aside dreams and carried burden with both guilt and regret?
Wasn’t it my burden now?
To be anchored to this suitcase packed with the waste of a life spent captive?
Yet as the bricks and mortar emptied from the opened case
and landed on the finest sand soft and were quickly lost to wind,
the memory attaching guilt to any grain
was lost in precisely the same moment as the breeze named Freedom blew by.
Who should carry an empty suitcase?
Who should bear the burden of confining nothing but regret and guilt
into the space that should hold wonder?
Who should burden themselves with a package
that no one wants to send
or to deliver,
or to receive?
Why fill fingers, hands, or arms with so much emptiness
that no space remains
for grasping grace,
for holding the warmth of merciful love
for embracing with every thread
of desire, of thirst, of desperate hope
the touch of another soul?
As my choice becomes clearer
I see the path I’ve been pacing
is littered with tattered, busted, broken cases
spilling only sand.
I release my grasp on the handle and set this ancient relic down
without regret or guilt remaining
I swiftly kick it off the cliff
watching it vanish long before it would otherwise have exploded
Isn’t it curious how the gripping hand complains just a little
before it opens with relief?
Fingers flex and fold, invigorated by their new found freedom.
Arms that had been stretched and bent around so many burdens,
now happily readjust my load.
Only two parcels remain:
One cardboard box
and one goblet wrapped
in velvet, this surely was a treasure
I could trust my hunch even though I’d never unwrapped it
This unique shape of stem and cup revealed enough
I wedge the stem between my arm and belly
so that the velvet draped container opens just below my heart
Leaving two hands free
to rummage and explore the contents of my cardboard box
Having weathered bumps and bruises
having been subject to icy wetness and the most wicked of radiant sun
having been torn and taped on every side
such that top was indistinguishable from bottom,
This cardboard box seems resilient to time’s tumbling and season’s wear
If anything had made this box less square
it was the way I forced it closed on top
and squeezed it tightly so that edges bent and buckled
Was this container strong enough, safe enough
to hold fears secure?
If it was full of anxiety, where could I take the box
to safely inspect it’s contents?
I look over my shoulder and I discover a world of others
each carrying a box of fears much like mine
each weary from grasping, tightly holding - each beyond desperate
Some lie curled up like infants enveloping their box,
terrorized into stillness
Some run without reason, their fear box at fingertips
they intend to hurl their time bomb into an unsuspecting crowd
But most, like me, hug their fears tightly
Why do they do this, I cry out.
Silence answers with another question.
“What are they doing?”
I pull my cardboard box of fears from under my arm
and I hold it out.
Why do they carry this? I yell
The reply, again a question
“What are they carrying?”
They carry all their fears, and mine.
I carry all my fears, and theirs. Why? I grow impatient.
“Did you force them to carry your fears?”
Of course not, I reply.
“Did they force you to carry their fears?”
Heavens no, I answer.
“Then why do they do this? And why do you?
Exasperated, I shout. That was my question!
Equally exasperated, heaven shouts
“That is your answer”
Too puzzled to be afraid, I open the box.
Sure enough, it’s full of things I once feared
but not anymore.
Of things I’ve used to cover up my fears, now too small or too smothering.
Digging deeply through to the bottom, I find nothing new
Only forgotten fears
not one single thing that could cause me harm today.
It’s clear now
There is nothing in this dilapidated shell that’s worth my time
my energy
my fear.
I pour the contents out onto the sand, where they dissolve.
I label the box
DEPOSITS ONLY
and I tack it to a nearby tree.
Before I use my ready hands to cross the bridge to beginning now
I realize that the only thing I carry Is a goblet, wrapped in velvet
Although its shape
vessel-on-stem-on-feet
gives its identity away
I know next to nothing else
No other package is as mysterious,
nor has any other been dressed so luxuriously
canvas, cardboard, tarnished brass
The supple, soft velvet that wraps itself gently is evidence enough
that the goblet’s surface requires a gentle touch
I expect a precious metal polished to a mirror finish
lustrous gold or silver etched with my name
I hold my breath and tighten my grip
as I carefully remove the velvet veil
There is no brilliant reflection
no gold, no silver, no words
Instead an inconsistent and unexpected shimmer
like the sun’s reflection on lake waters rippled by a breeze
that pushes and pulls clouds
I feel the sparkle, glisten, twinkle
fly from my eyebrow to my chin so quickly that I can’t be certain
where the light comes from or where it will land next
My face moves up, down, and over as my eyes attempt to trace the path
of this elusive, bouncing, dancing light
With each cycle of this search my gaze begins and ends on the rim of this curious goblet
or is this sparkling sculpture something else entirely?
I study it
I fix my eyes, furrow my brow, and focus my attention on this body,
standing naked with velvet at its feet.
Almost instantaneously
the dancing light it emanates finds my eyes with the power of an eclipsed sun
forcing me to avert my gaze and bow my head
It is Holy, this goblet.
But not the Holy vessel offered as a sacrificial gift
to a group of friends and enemies in an attempt to build community
to be offered and then shared
but only to some, exclusively
and then battled over and murdered for
and then almost lost each Sunday
This piece of art fashioned of glass fragments
some newly broken and sharp, some polished round
is held together somehow by the glue of my own story
And it is these fragments that from time to time, one at a time
catch sunlight and toss it, ray by ray to me
like daily lessons, weekly sermons, and season’s parables
“Here’s one… did you catch it?”
It’s the voice again.
Ouch. Yes I did. Where shall I keep it?
“You learn slowly, don’t you?
These lessons aren’t meant for you to hold or bind or save or obsess over.”
“Catch the lesson. Sift through it. Taste and listen. Then let go.
Extend your arms so that you can enjoy the fullness, richness, beauty of this goblet.
Holding it tightly to your self has only the advantage
of allowing your heart to bleed into it.
But who, save you, is helped by that.”
I only thought, I start
“Don’t think so much”
to finish, I continue that goblets are for holding close and drinking.
“and passing” the voice adds.
“This goblet doesn’t contain an elixir or a potion.
It’s vessel, propped on slender stem can’t keep a treasure
to be later poured or sipped.
There is no blood of life within - everlasting, or brief
transubstantiated by holy men, or blessed mystically by wise women
Symbolically or literally
this created, fashioned, shimmering glasswork cannot contain anything”
What, then, why?
Should I give up this, too, to cliff walls and sand?
If this goblet isn’t meant to carry a thirst-quenching drink,
then why carry it along?
Why not let it go the way of empty knapsacks, suitcases, and boxes?
Of what use is a beautiful goblet for carrying my heart, extraordinary
if it cannot even hold soil, ordinary?
To add emphasis and dramatic metaphor
I scoop a handful of the sand derived of bricks and stones
and I pour it from my hand into the vessel
watching fine grains filter through the many cracks and fall back to the ground.
“Do you feel as foolish as you look?”
She giggles as if my buttons are mismatched or a tag is showing
or a toothpaste trail remains on my chin.
Why would you bestow on me, overflowing with quirks
absent-minded and empty
a cup, empty, though potentially heart-full, and overflowing with sparks?
Her warm, strong arms wrap themselves around me while she giggles again
Her soft hands somehow enfold mine with gentle confidence
and I feel the calm
the peace of knowing
in a mysterious, magical, mystic way
the depth and breadth and infinite possibility
of now
Nothing of a moment ago is visible
nothing of the moment to come either
There is no cliff of up til now
or distant shore of beginning now
I’m enveloped in the immediate
but without margins or edges or boundaries
Oh, my God! I sing
her wisdom answers,“and other’s God, too!”
Oh, our God! I sing still louder.
“We hear and see you in the now”
He, she, all love and beauty sings with me
in three part, four part, infinite harmony
“Tell me what your goblet holds,” is the song’s refrain.
Doubt and confusion stop me from singing.
Didn’t you see? I ask
all the cracks in this goblet?
It’s beautifully made but it cannot hold anything.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful.
Let’s go back to our song again.
“Look inside,” the Voice insists.
I bring my hands in closer and look deep into the well.
There, at the bottom are dregs, stones, nuggets
too large or misshaped to have escaped.
Oh, this?
It’s nothing much, I say as I reach into the cup and lift out one of the remains.
As soon as I can look closely at the composition
of this seemingly insignificant pebble
I discover that this is the heartache I stumble through
each and every time I consider the injustice of illness and pain
“This is a lesson you must eventually learn if you are to discover wholeness.
Every time you drink of life this pebble will show up
until you accept its lesson and decide to let it go.”
“You are given a life full of potential
but if your life, like your goblet is walled off
solid and unbending,
able only to be filled but never emptied
then each new day will potentially overfill you,
overwhelm you
or just escape you.”
“Love and bless each crack in your story,
in your heart,
in you.
Pay close attention to the stones that aren’t easily filtered.
Some carry frustration
black and burned, like igneous rock
taking up space, but consisting of mostly of holes and emptiness.
Some carry joy
speckled and striped, like layers of sandstone,
telling a story that took ages to write.
Just as surely as each gem on your goblet has been intentionally placed,
the spaces between those gems have a purpose.
If you allow life’s lessons to accumulate without your attention
your goblet, like your life
will be less effective at negotiating a path and knowing the way forward.”
God, the Father, Mother, Grandparent, Lover, Friend
gently lifts my hand and takes the goblet-stone,
kisses it,
thanks it,
blesses it
and then drops it.
In the same instant that it hits the ground,
light bounces just a bit more
from facet to facet, surface to surface,
imperfection to imperfection
in and out
of the goblet
draped in velvet
that is me.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Serenity Prayer
God grant me the serenity to accept...
... that the sun will set tonight and come up in the morning
... that January will be cold and July will be hot
... that the wind will blow in March
... that there will be people who don't like me - for no reason
... that there will be terrorists
... that planes will crash
... that people will die
... and that people will live
... that planes will deliver them to visit their loved ones
... that there will be peace makers
... that there will be people who love me dearly - for no reason
... that kites will fly in March
... that January will bring icicles July will bring fireworks
... that the sun will set tonight and come up in the morning
God grant me the strength...
... to bring hope to children in Mexico and mothers in Africa
... to bring healing to a child in Memphis, Tennessee
... to bring love to my friends at home
... to bring acceptance to the gasoline station attendant from Afghanistan
... to offer a smile to the bank teller
... to offer a day to help build someone a home
... to offer a pint of my blood
... to light a candle
... to shake a hand
... to say a prayer
God grant me the wisdom...
... to not dwell on the things I can't do.
This will only leave me feeling helpless,
steal away my time and energy,
and rob me of the chance to do the things I can.
God help me search earnestly for the things that I can do,
with strength and confidence and optimism,
so that I might know where to light candles and say prayers,
so that I might open doors to which I have keys,
and not grieve doors that I can't enter.
... that the sun will set tonight and come up in the morning
... that January will be cold and July will be hot
... that the wind will blow in March
... that there will be people who don't like me - for no reason
... that there will be terrorists
... that planes will crash
... that people will die
... and that people will live
... that planes will deliver them to visit their loved ones
... that there will be peace makers
... that there will be people who love me dearly - for no reason
... that kites will fly in March
... that January will bring icicles July will bring fireworks
... that the sun will set tonight and come up in the morning
God grant me the strength...
... to bring hope to children in Mexico and mothers in Africa
... to bring healing to a child in Memphis, Tennessee
... to bring love to my friends at home
... to bring acceptance to the gasoline station attendant from Afghanistan
... to offer a smile to the bank teller
... to offer a day to help build someone a home
... to offer a pint of my blood
... to light a candle
... to shake a hand
... to say a prayer
God grant me the wisdom...
... to not dwell on the things I can't do.
This will only leave me feeling helpless,
steal away my time and energy,
and rob me of the chance to do the things I can.
God help me search earnestly for the things that I can do,
with strength and confidence and optimism,
so that I might know where to light candles and say prayers,
so that I might open doors to which I have keys,
and not grieve doors that I can't enter.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
I Know a Jordan New
I know a Jordan new
logically tracing a path
around rock and boulder
in accordance with laws
of fluid dynamics
and gravity
step by step
year by year
steadily marching
from the abundance
of a Galilean Sea
I know a Jordan new
unbiased intermediary
between cross, ark, and crescent
playing softly while Jacob sleeps
powerfully yielding to Joshua
dancing wildly
around faces submerged by John
I know a Jordan new
composer of promise
with bands of angels
comin' after thee
flowing strongly on both banks
equally to all sons of Abraham
Through days of war
and milliseconds of peace
Jordan moves
in disciplined sync
rhythm intent
steady beat
from mountaintop to sea
I know a Jordan new
dutifully obeying logic
of gravity's pull
seeking unreasonable answers
to predict
the soul's current
I know a Jordan new
hungrily yearning
for a map of more
than traditional landmarks
for the soul's direction
I know a Jordan new
meandering gently
balancing mind and heart
with one singular goal
to serve life-giving water
to the least of these
logically tracing a path
around rock and boulder
in accordance with laws
of fluid dynamics
and gravity
step by step
year by year
steadily marching
from the abundance
of a Galilean Sea
I know a Jordan new
unbiased intermediary
between cross, ark, and crescent
playing softly while Jacob sleeps
powerfully yielding to Joshua
dancing wildly
around faces submerged by John
I know a Jordan new
composer of promise
with bands of angels
comin' after thee
flowing strongly on both banks
equally to all sons of Abraham
Through days of war
and milliseconds of peace
Jordan moves
in disciplined sync
rhythm intent
steady beat
from mountaintop to sea
I know a Jordan new
dutifully obeying logic
of gravity's pull
seeking unreasonable answers
to predict
the soul's current
I know a Jordan new
hungrily yearning
for a map of more
than traditional landmarks
for the soul's direction
I know a Jordan new
meandering gently
balancing mind and heart
with one singular goal
to serve life-giving water
to the least of these
Monday, December 22, 2008
Pilgrimage 101. Seeking Saint Francis
Let's say I had my own notion of how, when, and where I would do God's work.
Let's say that, along with this idea, I knew the grade I'd be getting for my hard work.
Let's, for the time being, say that I knew - or would know - when my work would be celebrated.
Let's say I was dead wrong.
And just when success was close enough to smell, I realized that my definition of success - perhaps my understanding of the ENTIRE ASSIGNMENT - was completely off base...
I had neglected to listen to the simplest of instructions.
I should have held fast to the simplicity of the demands that the Light makes of me.
Instead, I constructed a much more complicated assignment (albeit one that took little real sacrifice.) I'd fashioned a tailor-made assignment, so exlusive that no one but me could complete it.
I had written an assignment that defined "arriving" by a road map that I could travel. And I'd mapped that road so specifically, that no one else could travel it.
The demands that the One makes of me and of everyone are far simpler than any I could have written:
- Empty yourself
- Love me more than everyone
- Let go of all your attachments
- Pray without ceasing
SO SIMPLE!
I am not asked to empty myself
of everything EXCEPT
old stuff
or organic stuff
or purple stuff.
I am asked, "Empty yourself [of ALL stuff]"
I am not commamded
to love God more than people across the street or across the globe.
I am created
to love God more than ANYONE or ANYTHING
to let go of everything
and to pray ALL of the time.
I love the simplicity of this.
I shudder, because I fail to come close to meeting this simple request.
But I am also unimpressed by theologies
and catecheses
and rule books
and rituals
that attempt to define (and make simpler) the HUGE demands that God places on creation.
"Instead of emptying oneself, one must:
(a) tithe
(b) fast
(c) give alms
and here is the magical formula for knowing how much is expected:
blah, blah, blah..."
NO!
There is no simple solution
for finishing this massive assignment...
"Did I put the sun
and the moon
and the stars in the sky?" God asks.
"How is it that you should believe that you know ME so well that you could define, for everyone, who I am or why I love you, or what I created you to be. All I ask for is your acceptance of my simple, unfenced, and unmetered request."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
I
(Laura)
came before God's throne.
No, that's not quite it.
I
(Laura)
was.
and then I realized that God was there with me.
I didn't make a first move,
I just happened to look up.
The brilliance of God's word,
The beauty of God's voice,
The breathtaking elegance of God's amile,
All presented to me
in one glorious second
as,
by chance,
my eyes happened to look up
and find God there.
"Don't move," I thought.
Don"t blink or breathe.
Just hold God's gaze forever.
For there, in that millisecond
existed every hope fulfilled
and every dream made true.
And yet,
so unfamiliar with the fire of love,
I hid my gaze
for fear of burning.
I withheld my faith
and wore instead:
a mask of self-loathing, calling it humility
a mask of self-destruction, calling it sacrifice
a mask of self-pity, calling it servanthood
The Light saw through it. Of course it did.
How could I fool myself into believing that
the One who painted the orange-pink-purple of sunset
the One who composed the flute-trumpet-tympani of a summer storm
and who created me
would fail to see my sadness
or hear my dispair.
What gifts would God give me to bring me comfort?
Peace, Joy, Love
to calm fears, to raise me out of sadness and to shower unconditional love on others.
What would God expect in return?
Everything.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
If the church
(any church, not just the one you're frustrated with today)
sets forth innumerable and ridiculous
(and unachievable)
rules to lead us to God,
it is only because
the church desires to make our approach
a manageable, methodical process.
It isn't designed to exclude.
I have too much faith in the human heart to believe that.
But because this process is authored by a few
who share common hopes, dreams, sins, and failures,
the map drawn by the few in only useful to the few.
And the volume of voices shouting out directions
drowns out the simple instructions that God provides to everyone.
Man-made laws and rules,
man-defined sins and temptations,
man-created roads, paths, and walkways.
All of these contribute to NARROWING the gate to heaven.
These rules filter anyone different
from our version of faith.
By focusing only on the steps, the words, the icons,
the liturgy created by man,
we find ourselves taking our eyes away from God.
How could we every think God would want that?
If there ever was a crisis of my faith,
it was when I felt controlled
- shut out or fenced in -
by rules.
It would have been when the face of God on someone different
or on me
was hastened away for the greater good.
How could we have imagined this as Light?
YOU!
Priests!
Bishops!
You mighty leaders!
YOU faithful people!
How is it that you exclude
someone with just as many heartbeats and breaths
because they have not read the same scriptures,
or prayed the same prayers?
You frighten me when you do that.
You remind me of the times I felt excluded.
And you sactify my own judgement of others.
You reflect me and my exclusivity.
By banishing the brother who I don't approve of,
you allow me to do the same.
By banishing the sister I love so dearly,
you banish LOVE.
You make us
ALL of us
incomplete.
If we,
as people of God,
are to ever feel the warmth of God's hand in ours,
we must find courage to calmly hold the hand
of our most frightening brother.
If we, as people of God,
are to ever see the wisdom in God's face,
we must find the tolerance
to quietly listen to the most dischordant of words
spoken by our most unusual and hostile speakers.
If,
as people of the Light,
we are to ever taste the fullness of God's love for us,
we must raise our chalice
to the most dusty and dirty of souls.
We must bring our silver cup to their lips,
pour freely of the wine that God provides,
AND be unafraid
to drink
from the very same cup.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Pilgrimage: (noun)
(1) a physical journey that mirrors and energizes my inner spiritual journey.
(2) a trip to the Canadian Rockies, a trip to find God, to question God, and to either join or say farewell to God.
(as in)
Where are You?
My friend suggests we need to talk,
but I've been
talking-crying-pleading
for a while now
and I don't hear Your reply.
Is the problem that my ears
(as well as my eyes and my heart)
are closed?
Should I look for You first?
Here, in the grandeur of these mountains
I can surely see You.
But, hearing only silence,
I ache even more.
Feeling only darkness and emptiness
I am even more lonely for You.
This pilgrimage, I come to realize,
is not to places AWAY from,
but instead to places TOWARD and WITHIN me.
It is not about moving
and searching
and plowing
through fields for a mustard seed of God.
This first pilgrimage is about waiting at the shore
for the tide that will inevitably come.
This pilgrimage is about opening my ears
for longer than the time it takes
for a honeybee to collect pollen from a flower.
My ears must remain open
to hear the seedling burst through the soil,
to hear the sprout throw off its heavy shell,
to hear the leaves unwrap themselves,
and unfold to the sunlight,
to hear the stem rise and thicken,
bracing itself for the weight of its own beauty,
to hear the bud grow and ripen and erupt
in anticipation of the honeybee.
And my heart must remain open even longer.
This pilgrimage is about stillness
and anticipation
in a time of seeming darkness.
(3) a visit to a hostel of peace among the Sisters of St. Joseph, to seek direction and purpose.
(as in)
I feel YOU present in these women of Peace!
How determined they are to speak,
sing,
dance,
work,
and SOAR on winds of peace
that You whistle, rustle, and blow their way.
I want to stay here!
I want to wrap this soft warm blanket of safety
around my shoulders, elbows, knees, and ankles,
closing my eyes and my mind to the grief
and sadness
and anger that threatens to push me so hard
that I fall over a cliff of rage.
Oh please Lord, give me rest here forever!
My feet are worn,
my back is crooked,
my arms are weary,
my hands tremble.
Give me my salary for the work
I have at least started,
and pass my burden on to someone else.
Allow me the space
and the peace
and the quiet
and the solitude
and the loneliness...
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
There is a new pilgrimage awaiting me.
This time, I will need walking shoes.
The time of quiet self-reflection has revealed
important corners, cracks, and crevices in my faith
and to know where these are is critical to my preparation.
The wind no longer blows cold
through these gaps and holes.
In some cases,
where cracks are really just spaces
between who I am and who I want to be,
I have fashioned brightly colored flags.
When the wind weasles its way through
and would seek to knock my over,
the flags signal me to hold steady
and they trap the bone-chilling
gusts and blows.
In other cases,
where the crevices span gaps
between what others
(mentors and followers, enemies and friends)
would want me to be
and what I would try to accomodate,
I have planted gardens.
In so doing,
I not only acknowledge the spaces,
I celebrate them.
And so...
with the fruit of celebration in my pack,
and the anthem of waving flags,
I am ready to embark on a new pilgrimage,
perhaps under the watchful eye
of Saint Francis.
By my design,
cradled in my prayers,
this pilgrimage would be gentle on my body,
melodic to my heart,
and shared with a companion
whose soul is laced with mine.
If I were only a tourist on this journey,
a spiritual tourist, rather than a spiritual pilgrim,
I would pack EVERYTHING I might need
(just in case my destination couldn't offer me
everything I would want or need).
This would include food and water
both for my body and for my spirit.
This would include a pillow to help me rest,
and a blanket to keep me warm.
There wouldn't be ANYTHING in my pack.
But I don't desire to be just a tourist.
I YEARN to be a spiritual pilgrim.
This means that what I pack for my journey
is meant for those I meet.
Not for me.
I prepare to serve others,
rather than to be served by others.
I become an instrument of God's peace.
Chasing Francis.
I may end up with food, water, a pillow,
and a blanket in my pack.
Just as before.
But I embark on this adventure
looking for the hungry, thirsty, weary,
or cold one in need.
In the process,
I am ministered to
by those I serve.
I am filled in body and in spirit.
for anyone else.
Let's say that, along with this idea, I knew the grade I'd be getting for my hard work.
Let's, for the time being, say that I knew - or would know - when my work would be celebrated.
Let's say I was dead wrong.
And just when success was close enough to smell, I realized that my definition of success - perhaps my understanding of the ENTIRE ASSIGNMENT - was completely off base...
I had neglected to listen to the simplest of instructions.
I should have held fast to the simplicity of the demands that the Light makes of me.
Instead, I constructed a much more complicated assignment (albeit one that took little real sacrifice.) I'd fashioned a tailor-made assignment, so exlusive that no one but me could complete it.
I had written an assignment that defined "arriving" by a road map that I could travel. And I'd mapped that road so specifically, that no one else could travel it.
The demands that the One makes of me and of everyone are far simpler than any I could have written:
- Empty yourself
- Love me more than everyone
- Let go of all your attachments
- Pray without ceasing
SO SIMPLE!
I am not asked to empty myself
of everything EXCEPT
old stuff
or organic stuff
or purple stuff.
I am asked, "Empty yourself [of ALL stuff]"
I am not commamded
to love God more than people across the street or across the globe.
I am created
to love God more than ANYONE or ANYTHING
to let go of everything
and to pray ALL of the time.
I love the simplicity of this.
I shudder, because I fail to come close to meeting this simple request.
But I am also unimpressed by theologies
and catecheses
and rule books
and rituals
that attempt to define (and make simpler) the HUGE demands that God places on creation.
"Instead of emptying oneself, one must:
(a) tithe
(b) fast
(c) give alms
and here is the magical formula for knowing how much is expected:
blah, blah, blah..."
NO!
There is no simple solution
for finishing this massive assignment...
"Did I put the sun
and the moon
and the stars in the sky?" God asks.
"How is it that you should believe that you know ME so well that you could define, for everyone, who I am or why I love you, or what I created you to be. All I ask for is your acceptance of my simple, unfenced, and unmetered request."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
I
(Laura)
came before God's throne.
No, that's not quite it.
I
(Laura)
was.
and then I realized that God was there with me.
I didn't make a first move,
I just happened to look up.
The brilliance of God's word,
The beauty of God's voice,
The breathtaking elegance of God's amile,
All presented to me
in one glorious second
as,
by chance,
my eyes happened to look up
and find God there.
"Don't move," I thought.
Don"t blink or breathe.
Just hold God's gaze forever.
For there, in that millisecond
existed every hope fulfilled
and every dream made true.
And yet,
so unfamiliar with the fire of love,
I hid my gaze
for fear of burning.
I withheld my faith
and wore instead:
a mask of self-loathing, calling it humility
a mask of self-destruction, calling it sacrifice
a mask of self-pity, calling it servanthood
The Light saw through it. Of course it did.
How could I fool myself into believing that
the One who painted the orange-pink-purple of sunset
the One who composed the flute-trumpet-tympani of a summer storm
and who created me
would fail to see my sadness
or hear my dispair.
What gifts would God give me to bring me comfort?
Peace, Joy, Love
to calm fears, to raise me out of sadness and to shower unconditional love on others.
What would God expect in return?
Everything.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
If the church
(any church, not just the one you're frustrated with today)
sets forth innumerable and ridiculous
(and unachievable)
rules to lead us to God,
it is only because
the church desires to make our approach
a manageable, methodical process.
It isn't designed to exclude.
I have too much faith in the human heart to believe that.
But because this process is authored by a few
who share common hopes, dreams, sins, and failures,
the map drawn by the few in only useful to the few.
And the volume of voices shouting out directions
drowns out the simple instructions that God provides to everyone.
Man-made laws and rules,
man-defined sins and temptations,
man-created roads, paths, and walkways.
All of these contribute to NARROWING the gate to heaven.
These rules filter anyone different
from our version of faith.
By focusing only on the steps, the words, the icons,
the liturgy created by man,
we find ourselves taking our eyes away from God.
How could we every think God would want that?
If there ever was a crisis of my faith,
it was when I felt controlled
- shut out or fenced in -
by rules.
It would have been when the face of God on someone different
or on me
was hastened away for the greater good.
How could we have imagined this as Light?
YOU!
Priests!
Bishops!
You mighty leaders!
YOU faithful people!
How is it that you exclude
someone with just as many heartbeats and breaths
because they have not read the same scriptures,
or prayed the same prayers?
You frighten me when you do that.
You remind me of the times I felt excluded.
And you sactify my own judgement of others.
You reflect me and my exclusivity.
By banishing the brother who I don't approve of,
you allow me to do the same.
By banishing the sister I love so dearly,
you banish LOVE.
You make us
ALL of us
incomplete.
If we,
as people of God,
are to ever feel the warmth of God's hand in ours,
we must find courage to calmly hold the hand
of our most frightening brother.
If we, as people of God,
are to ever see the wisdom in God's face,
we must find the tolerance
to quietly listen to the most dischordant of words
spoken by our most unusual and hostile speakers.
If,
as people of the Light,
we are to ever taste the fullness of God's love for us,
we must raise our chalice
to the most dusty and dirty of souls.
We must bring our silver cup to their lips,
pour freely of the wine that God provides,
AND be unafraid
to drink
from the very same cup.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Pilgrimage: (noun)
(1) a physical journey that mirrors and energizes my inner spiritual journey.
(2) a trip to the Canadian Rockies, a trip to find God, to question God, and to either join or say farewell to God.
(as in)
Where are You?
My friend suggests we need to talk,
but I've been
talking-crying-pleading
for a while now
and I don't hear Your reply.
Is the problem that my ears
(as well as my eyes and my heart)
are closed?
Should I look for You first?
Here, in the grandeur of these mountains
I can surely see You.
But, hearing only silence,
I ache even more.
Feeling only darkness and emptiness
I am even more lonely for You.
This pilgrimage, I come to realize,
is not to places AWAY from,
but instead to places TOWARD and WITHIN me.
It is not about moving
and searching
and plowing
through fields for a mustard seed of God.
This first pilgrimage is about waiting at the shore
for the tide that will inevitably come.
This pilgrimage is about opening my ears
for longer than the time it takes
for a honeybee to collect pollen from a flower.
My ears must remain open
to hear the seedling burst through the soil,
to hear the sprout throw off its heavy shell,
to hear the leaves unwrap themselves,
and unfold to the sunlight,
to hear the stem rise and thicken,
bracing itself for the weight of its own beauty,
to hear the bud grow and ripen and erupt
in anticipation of the honeybee.
And my heart must remain open even longer.
This pilgrimage is about stillness
and anticipation
in a time of seeming darkness.
(3) a visit to a hostel of peace among the Sisters of St. Joseph, to seek direction and purpose.
(as in)
I feel YOU present in these women of Peace!
How determined they are to speak,
sing,
dance,
work,
and SOAR on winds of peace
that You whistle, rustle, and blow their way.
I want to stay here!
I want to wrap this soft warm blanket of safety
around my shoulders, elbows, knees, and ankles,
closing my eyes and my mind to the grief
and sadness
and anger that threatens to push me so hard
that I fall over a cliff of rage.
Oh please Lord, give me rest here forever!
My feet are worn,
my back is crooked,
my arms are weary,
my hands tremble.
Give me my salary for the work
I have at least started,
and pass my burden on to someone else.
Allow me the space
and the peace
and the quiet
and the solitude
and the loneliness...
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
There is a new pilgrimage awaiting me.
This time, I will need walking shoes.
The time of quiet self-reflection has revealed
important corners, cracks, and crevices in my faith
and to know where these are is critical to my preparation.
The wind no longer blows cold
through these gaps and holes.
In some cases,
where cracks are really just spaces
between who I am and who I want to be,
I have fashioned brightly colored flags.
When the wind weasles its way through
and would seek to knock my over,
the flags signal me to hold steady
and they trap the bone-chilling
gusts and blows.
In other cases,
where the crevices span gaps
between what others
(mentors and followers, enemies and friends)
would want me to be
and what I would try to accomodate,
I have planted gardens.
In so doing,
I not only acknowledge the spaces,
I celebrate them.
And so...
with the fruit of celebration in my pack,
and the anthem of waving flags,
I am ready to embark on a new pilgrimage,
perhaps under the watchful eye
of Saint Francis.
By my design,
cradled in my prayers,
this pilgrimage would be gentle on my body,
melodic to my heart,
and shared with a companion
whose soul is laced with mine.
If I were only a tourist on this journey,
a spiritual tourist, rather than a spiritual pilgrim,
I would pack EVERYTHING I might need
(just in case my destination couldn't offer me
everything I would want or need).
This would include food and water
both for my body and for my spirit.
This would include a pillow to help me rest,
and a blanket to keep me warm.
There wouldn't be ANYTHING in my pack.
But I don't desire to be just a tourist.
I YEARN to be a spiritual pilgrim.
This means that what I pack for my journey
is meant for those I meet.
Not for me.
I prepare to serve others,
rather than to be served by others.
I become an instrument of God's peace.
Chasing Francis.
I may end up with food, water, a pillow,
and a blanket in my pack.
Just as before.
But I embark on this adventure
looking for the hungry, thirsty, weary,
or cold one in need.
In the process,
I am ministered to
by those I serve.
I am filled in body and in spirit.
for anyone else.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Expect More
I expect
flesh and bones
and other earthly things
are restricted
to formality
and front doors.
Should someone knock
for directions
or delivery
I'd know no spirit there.
I'd have no expectations.
Spirits and souls
need not knock
I expect.
Their friendly arrival
whispers through keyholes
slips through the hinges
and turns
the deadest bolt.
I hadn't expected you.
The door was locked
and barricaded,
but you drifted into my field of view.
you took a seat by the fire,
inserting yourself deftly
willowy
ethereal
with spirited charm.
You cast your spell
and claimed yourself
a long-lost page of music
named yourself
a work of art
framed humble.
You called yourself
Soulmate.
Eager and entranced,
I could not resist
expecting.
Hoping
that you were the spirit you claimed to be
the soul sent to dance
to revel
in the miracle
of heavenly discourse.
My heart stirred
when you rested there,
and in the fireplace
the smoky flame burned brighter.
Just as surely as dawn follows dusk
I'd been waiting and expecting
wonders miracles hope and you.
Are you so accomplished at trickery
that you'd prefer to fool me
than to be the sister spirit
I'd been promised to expect?
I refuse to believe
I expected too much.
And yet you say you expected nothing from me.
As if it weren't bad enough
that in the midst of holy conversation
you'd refuse to allow me
to hold you in the high esteem
of a soulmate,
expected,
dreamed of
and prayed for.
You would not have me expect
that you could love me.
You would not have me expect
that our meeting was meant to heal us both.
And,
worst of all,
you expected nothing from me.
I thought you were an answer to a prayer,
and you expected nothing.
I hoped we'd lift one another up, but you expected nothing.
You got so much more than you'd expected
flesh and bones
and other earthly things
are restricted
to formality
and front doors.
Should someone knock
for directions
or delivery
I'd know no spirit there.
I'd have no expectations.
Spirits and souls
need not knock
I expect.
Their friendly arrival
whispers through keyholes
slips through the hinges
and turns
the deadest bolt.
I hadn't expected you.
The door was locked
and barricaded,
but you drifted into my field of view.
you took a seat by the fire,
inserting yourself deftly
willowy
ethereal
with spirited charm.
You cast your spell
and claimed yourself
a long-lost page of music
named yourself
a work of art
framed humble.
You called yourself
Soulmate.
Eager and entranced,
I could not resist
expecting.
Hoping
that you were the spirit you claimed to be
the soul sent to dance
to revel
in the miracle
of heavenly discourse.
My heart stirred
when you rested there,
and in the fireplace
the smoky flame burned brighter.
Just as surely as dawn follows dusk
I'd been waiting and expecting
wonders miracles hope and you.
Are you so accomplished at trickery
that you'd prefer to fool me
than to be the sister spirit
I'd been promised to expect?
I refuse to believe
I expected too much.
And yet you say you expected nothing from me.
As if it weren't bad enough
that in the midst of holy conversation
you'd refuse to allow me
to hold you in the high esteem
of a soulmate,
expected,
dreamed of
and prayed for.
You would not have me expect
that you could love me.
You would not have me expect
that our meeting was meant to heal us both.
And,
worst of all,
you expected nothing from me.
I thought you were an answer to a prayer,
and you expected nothing.
I hoped we'd lift one another up, but you expected nothing.
You got so much more than you'd expected
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Light
I raise you to the Light
A Light so strong
that He can bend His rays
around you
and illuminate you
A Light so clear
that She can penetrate
the layers heavily curtained
transforming burlap
into lace
I raise you to the Light
that spears your heart
burns your tongue
courses through
your blood
with such sun, moon, starlight
that shadows flee
from the path ahead
and lag behind
until they lose your trail
Be ye enlightened, friend
Raise your sapphire eyes
and allow each of their facets
to catch a piece of Holy
to basque in wretched wonder
to bathe in quiet peace
and to reflect
for all with strength to see.
Let your tearful beacon eyes
reveal the light of hope
burning white hot
within you.
A Light so strong
that He can bend His rays
around you
and illuminate you
A Light so clear
that She can penetrate
the layers heavily curtained
transforming burlap
into lace
I raise you to the Light
that spears your heart
burns your tongue
courses through
your blood
with such sun, moon, starlight
that shadows flee
from the path ahead
and lag behind
until they lose your trail
Be ye enlightened, friend
Raise your sapphire eyes
and allow each of their facets
to catch a piece of Holy
to basque in wretched wonder
to bathe in quiet peace
and to reflect
for all with strength to see.
Let your tearful beacon eyes
reveal the light of hope
burning white hot
within you.
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