Not by my lights but the Author of Light itself do I find my way into and through each epochal day. Why hurry toward the grave; it scurries towards me walking sideways; a Black Scorpion emergent from the darkness clicking.
God, or the genius of God, gave us consciousness, for which we in gratitude attempt to disprove the source.
Mom was brilliant yet addled with arrows of concern. In some sense we, at the very best of times--seldom--were each others pincushions; no squishy stuff, just pure grit.
Neither of us had from birth lived in an Iron Mask of any religion. Astonishingly I recognize M in a parallel learning to pray on our feet. All three of us having had, or being had by, many “oh shit!” moments dying in place . . . those sweet moments of peace, helpless, before crashing into a stone wall or drowning . . . yet surviving. Why? After awhile it becomes second nature to realize that we are living on borrowed time and all is less consequent; humiliation become humility.
And each in their own way live for others in need; our self long ago abandoned. Ego, vanity and greed seem more the spoon fed pablum spoiled brats.
My dreams inform me that I am what I never thought myself to be; able to breath underwater; rocked in the cradle of an infinite black hole.
Cycles of rebirth become more frequent; my sense: The meaning of “virgin birth.” Add a sense of resurrection/reincarnation. Dysfunctions dissolved.
For me, most recently, it was the disintegration of goiters of rage. Railing against that which I could not change.
As for myself; it is a sense of being able to lend those about to die peace. More difficult now seems being called to help those unaware that everything, save God, dies.
Fully aware of my decay: slow, certain, inevitable, anticipated and welcomed. I am at an age when it became apparent I must move on and forward to the living. Tweaking the perception of others to accept that this moment is the only consequent moment worthy of attention: Be Here Now. . . .Discovering life is unworthy of existence not giving to others. My cup overflows and not to give is to drown.
To linger in rage is to add insult to injury. None of the most significant women in my life ever gave me the gift of their tears until now. For a time I will let that statement stand. I have left my previous post, “Closer”, open awaiting some resolution received in last evening’s dreams. Albeit entirely dissimilar in content and context; the humor and poetry of it I apprehend as an ongoing theme.
No two of us fully alike. Each a unique snow flake filled with multifaceted prizms of perception yet snow flake nonetheless made of star stuff. All the component parts of our Cosmic Home. We are nothing like God and God nothing like we. Where we bound is consciousness and perception of one another.
I we would be whole; and this we must. Become more aware of your contra sexual component seeking integration. Or. At the very least recognition. The she in me has no face. My folly has bin to project it upon the being of another physical woman. Typical of what we call romantic love. Great stuff for stories filled with dysfunction; humorous and beguiling but folly nonetheless--always.
Turn and turn about, inside out, upside down. De constructing my psyche by return; a rehearsal to those turning epochs concluded in this: the great work and world of Self must of needs be done alone. Then perhaps, maybe not, we can heal and in being healed help others to heal themselves.
Laughing. I remember a woman, fellow resident in a condo on the shore of Lake Michigan, in Chicago. It was not uncommon to encounter her strolling through the lobby in a rag thong. Of kindness and candor, and a feasible age, though in retrospect I believe now she was married. She, by way of my greatest folly, wishful thinking, became, for a time my ideal woman.
A brief aside, I wonder now, was she the inspiration for my second Marian Dream? Wherein we swam under water impossible distances from whence cometh the ideal of breathing under water! Should any, or each of them, in turn, asked, I would have torn my heart out and handed it to them. Poor Vincent offered only his ear.
Obviously it far less brutally messy to merely write about it. And at that I am currently enchanted by Annie Dillard; her kneading my brain with the fingers of her thoughts. Discovered last night before rest: “Suddenly there is a point where religion becomes laughable,” Thomas Merton wrote. “Then you decide that you are nevertheless religious.” -Annie Dillard “FOR THE TIME BEING”
Remember Rumi’s:
"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."
When Buddha was on his death bed he noticed his young disciple Anan was weeping.
'Why are you weeping, Anan?' he asked.
'Because the light of the world is about to be extinguished and we will be in darkness.'
The Buddha summoned up all his remaining energy and spoke what were to be his final words on earth:
'Anan, Anan, be a light unto yourself.' - Buddhist Scripture
. . . though love: is to remember having had the love at all was more than one can ask of a lifetime. Stand Up, Move Forward growing anew in wonder, awe and reverence reborn. Fear nothing.
. . . is it enough to have grieved thirty-five years? Take however long you need but of needs you and I, we, must live. . . .Until our time to remove from this season in hell and go home to the stars creation/recreation--closure. Death is never punishment but a new beginning; learning more from failure than success. Arise this side or the other.
121117 04:21 Salt
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
