There is a fine line between prophetic initiation and righteous indignation. The first brings about a flowering of possibility while the latter begins with the assumption that what is right for one is right for all. That path leads only to regret. I once sat down upon a log to think of the moments when I shared my thoughts and to feel the times when I shared my feelings. There was something there. So often I have held a pen that is too short to write upon the page before me. Then, complaining that life has somehow shorted the three of us, me, myself and I, I have simply not said what needed to be said for fear of appearing somehow inadequate. Having more than one thing creates stress around which one to use in one particular moment. Call it, a complication. An anniversary passed not too long ago, with all those fourteen-year old memories still ripening in the present. How I long to take a quiet stroll around the neighborhood pushing a stroller holding my sleeping child; to create a space for the possible in between what I long for and what calls for my attention, hoping, common grace appears again.
I said, "I have decided to defend myself against the many charges of me being a pessimist." She asked, "And is that possible with reality the way it is; with the crushing expectations of life?" I replied, "Are you suggesting that labels, once applied, are unable to be removed?" She answered, "There are times when the overgrown bushes need to be pulled out." I said, "Perhaps in our drive to be inhuman we need to curb our natural impulses." She said, "Or raise the level of preaching filling the pews with unwanted desires to achieve ordinariness."
"...the bourgeois individual perishes ingloriously..." - Reinhold Niebuhr Nothing like going down in flames to warm the soul. Or, perhaps a slow decay should draw more attention as atom after atom zip off into the realm of the ether. One eternity becomes another in each moment in time; one particularity an opportunity for the next. We study some moments as if they were more eternal than others; points in time where death visited with fanfare and fingers pointed, astonished, like death had never happened before. The last act of God in history may very well be a fizzle but that does not mean that nothing in the here and now should not make some sort of sense to the ones perishing.
Wanting memories to appear with strange juxtapositions that flow to the woods, I study the hawk circling then landing on a winter branch watching it view the ground for only movement that it sees. I dance with my amazement at how the certainties of yesterday continue to appear as idols in my life. I wonder, are there necessary idolatries that God does not mind? How does one know how to resolve the paradox that all will be revealed in time? Will another dimension be needed? Once again my poems become questions. Perhaps questions make memories.
The poet writes of a secret subtle awareness as if there is a pairing of a quietly playing child with some about to be revealed divine and human connection dancing between the carefully stacked blocks of time and space. At some point the distance between finitude and the infinite became small. Onlookers watched in amazement as a single bird appeared in the morning alighting on a branch against the blue sky singing a simple song welcoming the sun.
I am a desert stranger filling the rooms of my house with my wandering presence. Standing naked under the stars once held an attraction for my eyes but too often starlight blinded me. I have been held in the arms of nightmares of old where the winds shook the branches of my life. No longer do I cede such power to the elements created by chance at the very beginning of time. The feeling of being complete fills me as I write these words from my past down on burnt paper.
Why are there no banana seeds in jars of baby banana food? Have you been asked by your daughter: Are you having a nice day? Is it lack of water that makes the plum tree drop leaves to the ground? Why do some people gather together and ask the difficult questions?
grandfathers tell us to wait for the spirit to descend upon our hearts not like in sanctuaries where the order of worship must be followed but in the cawing of crows gathering in the limbs above our heads on a winter day
I survived my last spontaneous love affair in what used to be called the insane asylum by demanding at all times for God to be removed from the heavens and given into the hands of the people. New students of the divine were more than pleased to see the moment of promised serenity and deep peace when grace lifted itself off of the pages of studied texts and crept into the pockets of all who walked by the window. There will come a time when driven nails will actually remove themselves from all bleeding hands and lean bodies will fall gently down from the trees upon which they were to have spent eternity.
Surely the desire to create evil comes from some crooked past untouched by the divine. Or, does this line join all the other buried texts that make us uncomfortable when standing before the burning bush and with each other? One does not mention the nature of the whims of God in polite company seeking to drink tea in peace. Is it any wonder that redemption then waits for us on the other side of how we spend our time passing each other over with our judgments that come from some tiny space inside our hearts?