It is difficult to write these poems while I continue to live outside myself walking avenues covered by the steps of my ancestors.
God of Now and God of Then and God of Will Be, who endlessly appears in the corners of our eyes, burning, in a bush, in a smile, in a picture and in the alighting of a falcon in a tree; we imagine your name in our imaginings and find our thoughts far too narrow and small for pure being to settle into us in these dizzy days; send us into the realm of corners where we dare to believe nothing is true and sacred and, burning, we may be seen rising in our finest moment of freedom. Amen.
Life is a lesson in loosening absolutes; separate from a connection to any particulars; like the pit inside a peach letting go of the fruit. Take a walk around the block holding the hand of your favorite belief and see how many steps it takes before collapsing on to the concrete. Some people like to slice time up as if it were a pie, hoping to eat a piece of the morning before the sun rises above the straight roof line at the treetops. How many first stones not thrown lie one on top of another, creating a pile next to us which we can then use to build a walkway to our next love?
I said, "My fear is that organizational formality will swallow all of us whole." She asked, "Does that fear arise from the dangerous memories that haunt you or from some gracious hint from the divine?" I said, "A life's pilgrimage lives in the steps taken closer to my heart than out beyond the land that rises in the West." She said, "Imagine big smiley faces written lovingly across the pages of your notebook." I said, "I am keenly aware of how, unburdened from affliction, we reach a state of grace." She said, "Then let us broaden our experience of time's moments differently than yesterday."
Life plays complex tunes Many of which end on the seventh Creating states of discord With an expectation of
I look down and there are my cheekbones right where they are supposed to be. Soon I will glance out the window and see the first snow of the season and say, "It's snowing." Joseph taught Jesus more than we know while hammering and sawing together behind the house. The light shimmers differently for all those who can see and for all those who cannot see.
Was that the correct choice? Did I make the right decision? Was I thinking correctly? Is there a path and am I on it? Though these questions nag and bubble up inside to rattle my brain from time-to-time they are better than the spirit-withering clawing of the negative voice that condemns the small steps which I have made to survive.
birth, a forced exile into the land of asking, why?
I have yet to attend a funeral where the officiant declares, The deceased has gone to hell. Does that absence, or avoidance, create some strange disservice to those who survive? Perhaps a detriment to the deceased? It is our enormous error to view the present state of nature as a punishment for divinely-prohibited, fruit- nibbling. While there are those who still feel that the sun is the center of their universe, I choose to bring the newborn baby home with the expectation that tradition will give her all that has been created and fall away to something terribly and wonderfully new.
I keep "Minute" perpetually on my shopping list, hoping to find one on the grocery shelf tucked between the dried blueberries and granola. And then to find another and another and another. A strange way to seek immortality - no less bizarre than traipsing off through a jungle in search of some mythical fountain of life where a sip of bubbling water promises an additional breath for each breath drawn. To live another day - to experience one more hurricane, more casualties of war, a sunrise and another summer of the buzz of cicadas - with permission from life to get out of bed and to be a beginner again. Is one experience of body-surfing a wave into the beach not enough? The taste of banana taffy again? To hold the hand of my beloved? Or do I search for more time afraid that, like birth, death will only happen once?