A myth and a symbol trade places on the pages of history. The absolute moves to the margin to create more space for the relative. Interpretation surprised everyone not familiar with how the words became written. The dance between simple and complex astounded all onlookers as one bowed to the other right before the music started. There was one who sat in a corner looking in at the grasping play exasperated with the showiness of it all. Most left early determined to get a good night's rest before attempting to take what was learned and form the light for the upcoming day.
"Serene is what happens to ourselves." - Rilke But only after the visit of sorrows that wander from one soul to the next. To cry and get through to the place and time of not crying is the yearning of all who are full of sorrow. The moss in the garden accepts every falling tear sorrowing the rock upon which it and every absolute eternity rests in serenity.
Both conforming and transforming begin with a form. Let the tears dropping down your cheek show the urges of your heart and may the form you take reveal how you discern the will of the gods.
There are many people with stories yet only a few who can tell them. Not all nuts that fall to the ground become old trees. I have walked the middle of city sidewalks on the edge of the holy. Others quote passages from ancient texts to be acceptable and perfect.
A daughter's note begins a journal from long ago taped to the first page saying I love you. Time and seasons allow such words to guide us into mystery in a meaningful way.
How many hours have I spent reading the final page of books? The moments I absorbed the last words written while the baby napped felt almost stolen. From where, I do not know.
The plum bonsai sits in the window not asking for the sunlight to wrap it in any treasured way nor to be special like the sailboat in the bay requiring wind to move across the water. To be on the fringe of things is not about being accepted or not accepted but requires a certain type of movement like the boat riding through waves. There is nothing forced about the prow separating the path it must follow through the water. The water parts to make the way.
How many heartbeats pass before something resonates deep within? Why does reading about God leave me with long lists of forgettable quotes? Does the origin of the urge for perfection come from some prior perfect place? What difference does change or reform make to the moss quietly growing beside the rock?
The vanishing disquiet of my heart reminds me of the sacraments I missed long ago; replaced with sacred moments different from the last. Others may look upon how I search for the symbolic and say, "It just didn't work well," but we never came to any agreement on anything where protecting our own wishes, desires and dreams mattered. How can you tell if people are not interested? How many bad looks does it take before the fascination of slowly coming together becomes, and even overcomes, anything folded into two parts laying next to one another?
What gospel will you preach? The good news of common ancestry or the fault line of difference? The beauty of the sunlight through the trees or of the setting sun sending light through countless limbs waiting for spring's leaves? And where does this "or" come from and how does it insert itself into the most simplest of questions? People move from one building to the next avoiding the embarrassment of discipline. Sharing lists with one another along the way we are amazed at what can and should be done. Certain combinations of humans continue to take care of their own as if a collective birth mother had never died. The pleasing shape of conceits generated by the particular grows with each new encounter knowing that outside where the gospel is preached the pieces still try to bring themselves together.