. . . person-hood

091218 06:53
This date and a bit before this hour, I awoke conscious of a woman who loved me when I loved myself not. And I loved myself less while in training to defend our nation, this blest place. To me did she send a box filled with post cards from all the cultures of person-hood and then I did not understand the height width breadth of her consciousness the glory of all Art. I would upon barrack cot sit paging though them one-by-one with slowly dawning realization that the greatest Art is life itself.

I’ve left behind the box in one of many leave takings, dysfunctional relationships abandoned and trashed, as I’d been from beginning until now, the birthday of my father who watched in silence my training to be who and what I am this moment. The first and last day in infinity the eternal NOW. It is no mean trick to forgive such silence, yet now I do love him more than at any other time of our lives together or apart. Courage does not always wear a uniform of dedication, badge, rank or intention clear.

Yet the same applies to the mother who with fist, bludgeoning spoken rage screamed my stupidity and failure to be what she so confidently presumed would save me in the maelstrom of our time from Depression she had survived as my father did. Then War with the World embroiled--yet I loved them then, I love them still, with passion I adore their tutelage more now nearly equally to that of our mutual Creator whose love is both terrible and gentle as a Dove’s under feathers floating in a still pond riffled with gentle sighs.

. . . if we sow death we must accept that death will sew us into itself. To weave love is to give generously of self to others that they live as the child whose birth we celebrate soon. Who died for us that we live free of fear. He died, executed for inconvenience to the time in which He walked this earth, a criminal amongst criminals, rebellious; a terrorist. His sacrifice being sacrificed . . . crucified slow humiliating suffocation blessedly brief in his case was the final sacrifice? Yet knowing this he was born, lived, walked amongst us and visible in the poor remains awaiting to be resurrected in each and all persons . . .