God, who strolls in the garden and in the desert, who walks the sea and down from the mountaintop, who dares to become human out of curiosity and who dwells in our midst where we are gathered, sometimes your steps are so wide apart that our all-too-human strides stumble and trip trying to keep up with the latest demands of our own interpretation of your holy ways. Pick us up and dust us off once again and as many times as is needed so we may more than dream but yearn to walk with you. Amen.
I welcome and embrace my insanity which stepped out the door a minute ago to look for a more consolable ego and then, finding none, returned to dwell next to my own heart.
This morning I write when I do not feel like writing without thought of ought or should or striving to meet any standard of perfection. The words are all there in the air and, whether I pull them down through my typing fingers or leave them for another day or for someone else to use for me, they patiently do not call for attention. This morning the busyness of the world can go ahead and compete against itself believing one side or another can and will prevail. I choose not to be in the press of such effort but in the rhythm of small places where people once stood thinking there was something more to all of this.
We move slowly through the realms as anointed ones hoping to find purpose in any given spacious time. The inquiry unwinds with each pull of the errant string, Will we be brave enough to declare where the kingdom is? In knowing that this moment is the wonderful moment we will keep ourselves from asking any questions of the future. Which may be the brave thing to do in the great unraveling as the selfish need to impress gives way to mindfulness. We must hold tightly to our own treasure as we ask where our silly and precious questions come from.
Here is that purpose thing once again arriving from beyond the reach of what I ought to do as if somewhere in the future there will be a perfect version of me running and not moving. Hope and fear come from the same place arising not from any cherished sense of self but from the space of seeing the present disappear into an unknown future where all time ceases to exist. I have heard that it was possible on rainy days to be able to lift a thought on angel wings straight to the heavens beyond the storms stirring all from the complacent dreams which surround us from being holy.
God who hides, God in plain view, God who dwells with those who are hungry, with those who are thirsty, with the stranger, the naked and the sick, and with those in prison, we cannot ask you to give us anything when we have given nothing. So when we are brought to judgment with goats and sheep all around us wrap us gently in your wrath. Amen.
I said, "I realized this morning that my shadow of control feasts on Ought energy." She said, "That is the Way it ought to be." I said, "Even the most basic 'Be mindfuls' come from the place of Oughtness." She said, "We act surprised when we discover how closely Is and Ought dwell together." I asked, not expecting an answer, "Ought we not try to begin again so as to avoid the Imperative?" She answered, "Or perhaps we must ask the vegetables how we ought to grow."
I begin these poems from journal entries made in small, black books before I noticed time flowing by me faster than a rapid river. Now I return to learn the wisdom for the day by dipping fingers in the moving water of what went under the bridge so long ago. I dance with suffering servants who have come down from their cross. I laugh with laughing, fat monks carrying bags of gifts over their shoulders. I bring other divines together to see how close they lay upon one another. I do all of this to discover once again that there is nothing on the other side of wishing for what I should have done.
Little figures of Buddha and Christ dot the lawns and the landscapes of those seeking to find comfort in what they cannot explain. Born from the Side or from the Virgin we each stumble into being with no ideas of how our ancestors traversed the sorrows they encountered. Picking a spot in time and hoping to evolve into different behaviors not currently in fashion we dance jerking and moving fitfully while the figures of the divine remain still.
What is wrong with finding a reason or a pattern where none actually exists? How often must I become aware of my awareness before enlightenment rushes upon me and decides to stay? Is the next moment Time brings to me the result of a repetition or of a sequence? When will the next usual day happen where nothing unusual happens?