I have no idea and no memory of what I post from, day to day, hour to hour, save the memory of phrases and ideas . . . or dreams that propel me from ‘rest.’ I refuse to obey the ideal that I must sleep a contiguous eight, seven, six or five hours. It suits me not. For those who ask, in general, I am generous with my time and for a few overly so going so far as to be for them a nurse if need be in the sense I am neither poo, pee, or blood adverse. But in that statement betray myself and fear being kicked to the curb by the one thing I overtly and consummately find, life, love and meaning for: hospice work; yet like the ministry have so little time left to gain the requisite degree proclaiming my right to do or be so.
I am a person ‘on fire’ with knowing the value and price of each and every moment. And too well aware of death but more the victims of war on both sides. In that I am convicted that death is not the end of what writes ‘immortal’ or not, prose or poetry, or the faltering attempt to cram a new life into a small vessel of time as in think cosmically and act locally.
Organically growing from my arising methodology of collecting quotes, astonishingly wonderful way to learn to ‘write’--and I’ve never be able to apprehend the difference between crystals and prisms metaphorically . . . or like mirrors and windows, glass is a gas, crystals are something else altogether at least to me in the rock polisher of my mind more precious than any other stone.
In any case this ‘morning’, for it is still dark, opening my quote files in Jarte: multiple tabs, WordPad on steroids, the entire alphabet available, I fell across Tennessee Williams: “The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.”, then remembered “Suddenly Last Summer” which like several experiences continue to tumble in my memory until they become transparent.
If you were to ask all and sundry relatives, wives, lovers and friends they might well say the I did perpetrate ‘evil’, or no good, did them dirt, especially in my leaving and like the one who suggested I volunteer at hospice I continue where led daily in homage and reverence for them as well as for what I’ve become: bliss, joy, confident in voice, act and deed, at last in these fleeting moments. A warriors mind and poet’s heart; “Today is a good day to die.”
The sweet baptism of a child is but a dedication, the baptism of fire, quite another. A choice made for whatever reason or season in ecstasy, terror, during mid to later years, is substantive.
I gave my heart to Jesus over the telephone in St. Petersburg Florida long ago, then my soul recently to God in private. Of the former I fear I’ve made a bit of a fetish, at times nearly a cult figure. Yet of the latter God, unknowable, yet present the song of the wind playing the Aeolian Harp of me best blessed by vagrant breezes and typhoon obvious. Doesn’t mean I’ll not fail nor that I can speak for the personage of many names but I will arise again to pantomime seeking the Elephant groping blind. No birds alight on me like Francis but dragonflies yes and whales too and even snakes in dreams have baptized me. . . . again and again.
Yet obviously my tap root is in Jesus and my leafy arms reach and find before God all the other prophets sent to heal our suffering individually and collectively. In love there are no boundaries only love itself--its own justification--just like life.
My sole intention is to aid you in finding your soul magnificent. . . . and we’ll be fools for Love together. Blessings of the day Mothers -- no regrets.
“Prayer reaches out in love to a dying world and says, "I care." --Dick Eastman
"The sheer rebelliousness in giving ourselves permission to fail frees a childlike awareness and clarity. ... When we give ourselves permission to fail, we at the same time give ourselves permission to excel." --Eloise Ristad
