Today is my day
to be thankful for
my every-new-moment wholeness
To break free from old cellular debris
Awakening in the morning
with a promise
to recommit to myself
with the energy of Nature’s God
in synchronistic song
(National Suicide Prevention Day, 2016)
The gift of not seeing — it hides
beneath a gray sweater and makes
rainbow colors. It paints my eyes
a deeper shade of green. It is a
novice at all things true, and
tells with loyal honesty. It never
masks its feelings behind a sleek
charade.
The gift in glassy blue has
wide, thin strips of gentle beamings.
Its color turns orange to blue to
green, and a thousand different leanings.
The shades of the shadow produce
pure light.
first a hand
then a fist
an obscure movement
of vagueality
the skin goes then
as fishes eye-of-blue —
seen through
transparency
Another eye, though smaller still
Is it all right?
What does it feel?
I do not know —
I only see
inward shades
of outer me
(First Impressions)
Yeshua has told me to hold on to the story of the Prodigal Son.
Not because my adult child (no proper terminology exists) is expected to come back to me on her hands and knees begging to be called a man again.
No, it is about those who are already home, fixing up their bedrooms just so, and holding themselves enamored with their chosen existence.
It is about those who feel they have more of a right to exist in their own spiritual space and to keep others out based on their idea of what it takes to be worthy. They place appearances and their ability to discipline themselves over and above others’ sense of honesty. They weigh themselves on the scale of life and find others wanting. It is as if they were on a see-saw, holding the weightier worth in their being; they keep the others forever down and helpless as they suspend them in the air.
Don’t be surprised if they stop playing with you, children.
We won’t be surprised when we visit, imperfect, and you don’t want to let us in.
Lord, I pray that you will make me an instrument of your peace
even though Jesus said sometimes there would not be peace, but a sword.
I’d like to sow love
but my fear drives me to defend against what you hate.
If I could pardon, I would, and be pardoned;
But after I died, I might not still know
how to get along with others.
I’d love for you to give me faith in place of doubt,
as doubt has been the mechanism of fear
which has been the driving force for me to try to be good
so that I won’t be consigned to eternal torture.
If you could replace my despair with hope,
I would still know that
for everyone,
life is being prophetically preached as getting much worse
in a literal way
before it gets better.
If your light could be shined into the darkness,
there is not a better time than the always now.
And I feel I cannot change
a part of my being that you put into place
which is so much a part of your empathy for those who are not special;
You’ve given me the Spirit of Sadness that supersedes the joy in the feeling
of getting mine.
For I do not want to be consoled out of caring for the unimportant,
the ones who can’t call themselves a man-made label,
but who possibly know your Spirit anyway.
For there is no ego in Christ,
and His generosity of heart does not require puffing up,
only Love.
I will not be understood. I mirror you in that.
I will not say flowery words that preach to the choir
to receive the seal of approval from the many.
I will give to whom I give, without speaking of it.
I will ask you to pardon me when I complain because dying hurts,
or I can’t understand others.
Help me to make you happy and to bring joy
in the uniquely peculiar way you have bestowed on me;
I ask you to help me forgive myself and others
when we enjoy our false feelings of competition
as if in some race to be the best over being loving.
If I have trouble loving rightly,
help me to see what love there is in me and you together.
If each person knew the joy of existing in love
they would never leave it.
Therefore, since the potential and seed-planted desire of all your creation
is to intrinsically experience the high of love,
help me to see all my brothers and sisters
as operating in only the highest degree of love
that they can in this moment
even if it is mainly out of self-preservation.
From this perspective, most are operating
from the highest level capable
in the cumulative consciousness.
Help me to be part of a shift that helps the collective move forward.
Help me to have empathy for those
who are seemingly tethered to the generalized quality of this mirage,
and for the areas of my life
where I am blind to it myself.
Help me to care for the collective wholeness, even as I know
I have to account for my individual self.
Correcting in self
Loving toward others
May it be so.
I started meditating in the mornings because studies show that it helps clear the mind and improves focus. Well, I didn’t want to do just any old meditation. I wanted results fast. So I started a meditation that encouraged me to get into full pretzel lotus position as soon as possible. I thought if I could just get someone to sprinkle a little salt on top, someone might eat me and put me out of my misery.
This should have been effective because, instead of letting my mind race, I stretched myself beyond my limits. I gave myself something to think about, since it hurt like Hell!
The pain got so bad that I had to make an appointment with my psychiatrist. “Everything was going pretty well up to this point,” I pointed out.
“Meditation is supposed to be peaceful, a stress reliever, not torture,” she replied.
“No pain, no gain,” I said, miserably.
“That doesn’t apply to self-care,” she said. “We don’t call it self-abuse, for a reason.”
“Look,” I said, “I know it seems like I’ve been going for all-or-nothing here. I was just trying to get my brain focused by stressing it out, along with my body, so that when I’m done, every cell in me would think that regular life is a piece of cake.”
She looked at me like I had my eyeballs in my ears. “I’ll tell you what,” she countered, “If you’ll stop trying so hard to change yourself quickly, which has practically made you kill yourself with meditation, I won’t have try to warn you against extremes. Deal?”
“Deal,” I answered.
I walked out with plans to train for my first pentathlon, as soon as possible.
How I treat my Body is how I treat the world;
Forgiving of my belly folds, which are the proof of carrying, nurturing, and developing my babies;
Understanding of my upper arms and wrinkled elbows, too much skin from my ancestral DNA; my mother is in my arms;
Empathy for a back that does not flex without feeling pain, representing all the times I have bent my learning in a painful direction, but am still able to stand aligned;
For a right leg that is shorter than the left, which is just asking for time and patience to stretch enough to catch up;
For downward-turned shadows on the face, that because of gravity, cause me to consciously focus on building my smile muscles;
And the right and left arms that for 15 years have gradually and steadily borne the discomfort that comes with the unnatural position required to play the violin;
For the brain that has recovered so many times through pharmaceutical intrusion and accidental neural-pathway forming of dead-end roads;
And the heart that with the center of my chest has held the tension of the realization that back-tracking those roads is a journey fraught with dangerous turns that appear out of nowhere;
For the hands that have typed or written my journey into a record so that I may find my way out;
And the hair that has acclimated to many dye jobs so that there is one thing that allows me to not just accept what is;
For the Body that needs loving kindness, the Body that is all members, and for those cells that are believed to somehow exist outside;
The way I treat my body is the way I treat the world
I poured out my heart
to the wall
and laughed with false jovial glee
at my own nervousness,
disclaiming my pain
in my aim to please;
The magnifying glass
test tubes and beakers
all bubbled and broke with questions
as my pain was dissected,
(with smoked salmon on the side)
A beige blandness
shining as bright as the white of your eyes
covered me with your ashes;
never again
Meeting today
Grace would rule
only because
they’d believe they could change one
But having instead
known one forever,
they’ve projected the butterfly
into a worm
Perception changes not the butterfly
When pleasing Wrathful God
ye bear with patience
all cleansing of thine holy place
yea, holy of holies,
ye are called
Ye shall be
like a camel
unburdening thyself
of thy smallness,
accommodating
thy passage
through the eye of the needle
into the welcoming
Holy Gate’s
City Arms
Their alabaster sheen
unveiling
a face too bright yet to see
without blinking
Yes,
Ye shall accomodate
as if by a thread
though the opening into your self
is an ego-based blessing
Ye shall be qualified to enter
into
the city of ransomed souls
Sophia's Voice 