morning prayer

March 21st, 2013 Comments Off

I am somewhere
between the black and the bright.
Dewy earth between my toes,
I face ahead.

May this morning wind
carry me to you,
released, and releasing still.
And may my amen be
the only prayer on my tongue.

in review

October 15th, 2011 Comments Off

You, the artist, must have heard the same story on your way in tonight – the one about turning death to life, blood to wine.  There we were, standing lifeless and limp, and you had the fearsome courage to ask for our hearts.  Of course we gave them to you, not knowing our choices.  Into the (blood)flow we plunged and you gave us the beats…beating, beating, beating, until there was only one heart for all of us there.  With the same heart pumping blood through each of us we stood, turned our ecstatic faces heavenward, and opened our mouths to catch the stars on our tongues.

to bear witness

October 9th, 2011 Comments Off

Already the time is here to make public the story of who you are and what you have done.  It may only matter to me, since you do not exist outside the boundaries of my mind.  But you, my precious girl (although only recently have I felt you were precious), have been more influential than many others, and so I am seeing fit to put your story down.  You first came to visit me a little less than six years ago, even though we have known one another since before time was marked – we were conceived and grew together in the misty belly of God.  We were inseparable, one and the same, for seven years.  And then, as you know too well, we were torn apart.  In terror and faced with an unbeatable enemy, I locked you away with Violence and neglected you for years.

Which is why, I suppose, you were so filthy and damaged when you first visited six years ago.  Of course you broke free (thank God) and attempted to reunite.  When you first came, I did not recognize you, and in fact only realized it was you today.  But there you were, still only seven years old, so young while I had aged with each year.  I was terrified of you, could not look at your face.  Your oily black hair was matted, your face was filthy and bruised, your white dress stained and tattered.  I could see you had struggled for years – your fingernails were caked with blood and dirt.  And of course I could not look you in the eye, not only because of my own guilt but because your eyes were not human.  They terrified me and I panicked each time I saw you.  You, persistent as ever, continued to visit me.  Always stopping at the foot of my bed, you came in the night.  In those days, you were furious and your anger made the air thick to breathe.  One day I asked you why you were so angry and you said, “I’ve been locked away.”  At that time, I didn’t have a clue who you were or what you meant.  But still you came and came, and gradually I grew accustomed to you.

A few months ago, I remembered you again and you began to visit with more presence and urgency.  You were again angry, and I realized what had happened.  So long ago, I had locked you up so that a bargain could be made to spare my life.  And when the time came to make good on my end of the agreement, you came to visit so that we could be inseparable again.  After this realization, I was shocked to see that you began to age.  Occasionally, you appeared to be 12 or 13, sometimes 17.  You seemed angry less often, I began to see that fear was the root of your anger.  You came to me at night, still, and asked to lay next to my bed.  Of course I allowed this, not wanting you to feel alone again.

This morning you came to me appearing to be 13, and the fury had taken hold of you again.  You were aflame with anger and I fought the urge to flee, speaking with you instead.  I asked you why you were so angry, and you said, “You left me.”  I spoke to you gently, I held your anger, and I began to wash you.  With a cloth I cleaned your face, and then realized you were much too filthy for just a cloth.  I carried you to the tub, still softly speaking kindness and love to you.  I told you how brave you had been while locked away, and how proud I was.  I bathed you slowly, washing each bit of your dirty body and meticulously cleaning your hair.  As I washed, you began to age.  Your naked body grew into adulthood and took on a strange familiarity.  Suddenly, I realized you were me.  I was washing myself, broken and bruised, until clean and whole again.  We stood up, you and I, and faced one another.  For just a moment, you stepped into me and we were united again.

on knot tying

July 30th, 2011 Comments Off

Six years ago today I tied my shoelaces to yours mostly because I love walking next to you.  At the time I didn’t realize your stride was so much longer than mine, nor could I imagine we’d get tangled in this mess of laces and limbs.  But here we are, limbs and laces tangled together, and I have to say there’s no place I’d rather be.  Excepting, perhaps, if we were to walk this tangled mess to the moon.  And when we got there, I hope it would become apparent that on my worst days do I love you (only) to the moon.

departure/expansion

July 6th, 2011 Comments Off

My Sister, my Love,
dug from the same earth as I.
So that when we first met
it was as if the lost pieces
of our soul were finally reunited
and I was meeting myself in you.

And now, at your departure,
we may be tempted to grieve.
Today I forbid mourning
(though we both should hate
to forbid it).

In the space between us
lies the Spirit of us,
and as you walk away,
that space grows, expands,
and so does this love
that holds me to you.

wake up

July 5th, 2011 Comments Off

Let’s imagine, you and I,
what life might be like
if one day we awoke,
really woke up,
and looked.

The things we dreamed
were real were false;
those real things
we could not
see alone.

At first
the freedom
of sight might
be so blinding that
we believed we could
still be imprisoned instead.

But

slowly,

slowly now,

and even more

slowly we’d see that what is real does not have to be painful.  What is good for the spirit is good for the body, and if our eyes can bear the blinding light our lips and belly will thank them.

my daily bread

June 26th, 2011 Comments Off

Every morning
while under cover,
I prepare myself
for this daily torture.

A glutton for punishment,
I tempt my eyes, my nose, my ears
with a cacophony of comfort
before whisking it away untouched.

How I could miss something
I have never tasted
is a mystery.

in review

June 25th, 2011 Comments Off

In blindness we trust you, the artist, to carry us.  Though we fear the worst and are tempted to look away when you take us to the edge, we hold our hands to our sides to prevent covering of eyes and ears.  And what blessing comes from this restraint.  At the climax of our fear, the possibility of pain dissolves and we with it.  Into a thousand particles we float and suddenly I am aware that we are all breathing the same air.  The air that flows from you, into me, into him, into her, into you.  We are held suspended, breathing together in this deafening silence.  The silence gives meaning to the sound, and the sound gives meaning to the silence.  The silence and sound are as light emanating from your fingers, your toes, your nose.  With reverence for the real, from the being that brings the bites we savor on our tongues and in our ears, we allow ourselves to connect to the thread that holds us together and binds us to one another.

the what ifs

June 14th, 2011 Comments Off

On a day like today, I might find myself wondering on the drive home from work.  Wondering what would happen should I close my eyes and keep them closed.  Would the lights go out like an overloaded breaker, an explosion in the dark?  Or would they fade almost imperceptibly, like a long decrescendo until I suddenly realized the bow is no longer on the string?  And during this wondering, I might reach up to catch the grief that sits on my cheeks, to save for later.  ”These things should not be wasted,” I might think.  When I get home, the wondering may take me to the roof, where I might hurl my rock and snarl at the moon like a jealous lover.  But then, out of habit I suppose, I might come back inside.  I might have a good idea about what to fix for dinner, which may remind me that sometimes I have good ideas and that days like tomorrow are not usually like today.

this place

June 11th, 2011 Comments Off

Turn the corner, here disorientation.
Nothing familiar, panic in breaths.
Stop stop stop, skin to the ground.

Mind to matter, eyes closed now.
Hands to hips, one foot then two.
Fly fly fly, face to the sun.

Fill the lungs, sip it in.
Count the cracks, glory seeping.
Here here here, home to the heart.