I’ve looked for myself in the eyes of the street,
Seeking to fill the emptiness
I seem to have always known
With a glance, a smile and a nod
From someone I’ve never known.
I look for some reflection
Of the me I hope they see.
I reach out with my eyes
To touch someone,
Ask them to touch me.
And once in a while the mirror
Is bright and shines myself back
To me.
Most often though,
The faces just go
On by.
And I wonder what it is about me
That no one wants to see.
Perhaps I really am different,
Odd as I’ve always thought.
Perhaps it shows in my face,
This worthlessness I feel.
Empty, odd, worthless, lonely.
Nothing I do, no one I use,
Nowhere I go seems to satisfy me.
I look deep inside and all I can find
Is a big black hole,
And fields of butterflies.
Perhaps this fluttering emptiness can’t be filled
by anything out there.
It’s a deep, black hole,
Never quite mending,
Always demanding to be filled.
Never satisfied,
It changes it’s shape
From hunger to sadness to euphoria
To anger to anxiety to arrogance
To madness.
I’ve sought to feed the Hole
With any thing I could.
My friends, my family,
My youth, my future,
My heart.
I sacrificed everything to fill it
And seemed to only feed the emptiness.
And the fields of butterflys.
Now I’m sure this fluttering emptiness can’t be filled
By anything out there.
So tomorrow I’ll walk down the street
and remain inside myself.
Perhaps someone might wonder
what’s up with me for a change.
I’ll not look around
For I know what I need can’t be found
Out there.
For what I thought was a hole
That needed to be filled
Is actually a place,
Where God has lived all along.
All my demons I projected upon him
Odd, worthless, angy, mad demons,
And he has received all this stuff
And somehow turned it to good.
What I took for emptiness
Was stillness and peace,
Things I couldn’t abide.
Now when I look deep inside all I see
Are these beautiful butterflies.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Log, summer 1996
Log
Lord, give me strength, give me love for myself. Peace of miind and heart. Help me love myself, trust myself, give myself some credit, some slack. “For Goodness sake be gentle with yourself!” I do my best. I am lucky to be alive, to be free, to have a ƒamily. Love, freedom, joy, I have so much more than I see, than I need. And I have you.
May 20, 1996
I’m standing there, thigh-deep in the only slightly frigid water of the Bradley Park swim area, watching my wife swim, when the voice of a small girl says, “Go after your dreams!” as she launches herself past me into the, for her, chest-deep water. She paddles fearlessly, resolutely, in a semicircle and back to where she started. She sees me standing there open-mouthed, staring at her and she adds, “Thats what my mom always says”, her confident, thoughtful grin bubbling up to her eyes and lifting her head a little higher. “I’m the only one in my family who can frog paddle,” she says as she plunges out again and then, under her breathe, “Or dog stroke or whatever...” I took her for a prophet but I couldn’t say just what she meant to me. My dreams are much too far away. Either too long ago or somewhere in a distant, undefined future. Even those I bring near to hand are unformed, fearful of being identified as something real. I wish I knew her mother.
I don’t even have dreams at night much anymore, not that I remember anyway. Do our dreams die a natural death or are they murdered by life? Should we try to resurrect old ones or move on to new ones? What do I do with my new awareness of the “death” of my dreams? Are they truly dead or only sleeping? Some dreams are murdered. Slain by abuse. Tell me Lord what are my dreams? I don’t know anymore. The only one I know for sure I have right now is to write. Does it have to be occupational to be a ”real” dream? I need to write, whether I do it or not, I need it.
May 21, 1996
What now my love? Now that I’m freer? Now that I’m not so compelled to do what’s “right”? Now I do and be and speak and see the truth more readily. About myself, about my family, about my life. It makes things harder sometimes. Things aren’t so black and white. I used to think , no matter what, this is a great life . Anything is better than what I had before, but it’s not necessarily the greatest. It is a “wonderful life”, I won’t be jumping off any bridges soon (there’s an angel to dissuade me), but unlike Jimmy Stewart, I’m not seeing affirmation pouring in at the happy ending right now. Oh they’re there alright but rather difficult to spot. Like a straight board in the wood pile these days. Anyway, things aren’t as great as I thought. My wife was so gracious as to point that out to me last night. “There is a lot of stress in your life right now”, another way of saying “Things are pretty tough”. Oh, well, its better to see it as it is and deal with it than live and die denial. And die you may or wish you could when reality doesn’t match up with the story you’ve sold yourself.
I sold myself a bill of goods starting when I was five years old. I buried the most significant events of my childhood and spent the rest of my life reacting to them. I always wondered why my inner life did not match my outer one. Always out of sinc, always hiding especially when there seemed nothing to hide. Always on the outside looking in at my life unable to reach in and touch it or ,seemingly, to do anything about what was going on. “Hey, look out ... , no don’t do that..., ahh ,not again you dummy”. It all seemed to happen without my consent. Without my knowing just what was going on.
So now I’m learning how to live with a new awareness, a different point of view.
I have come to realize I have choices. I no longer feel I need to be subservient to survive and perhaps I’ll be OK if someone doesn’t like me or if I don’t like them. This new awareness means I don’t have to lie to myself about how I feel. Whatever I feel is OK, what can I do about it after all? It doesn’t mean I act on everything I feel but it does mean its OK to feel ,whatever... I am emotionally free for the first time in my life and I am scared. There are more choices than I knew. One thing about being compulsive, you usually know what you’re going to do. When you’re dominated by an unremembered past you feel strangely justified in what you do, after all, you’re not responsible. You feel you have no choice. With freedom comes responsibility. Scary, but I’ll take it and not because “anything is better... “ rather, because its what I want.
Later, 1996
Dear God, how am I to go on when I’m feel overwhelmed by getting up in the morning, anxious about puting on my clothes, fearful of going to work. How can I be a “man” in this world when I’m afraid to shovel snow. Fear of life, fear of death, loss of hope, strike me sometimes when I ‘m watching a movie, brushing my teeth, getting out of bed. Less often a love of life strikes me unawares, in the middle of cleaning a laundry room, driving home, shoveling snow. So perhaps it evens out a little but why the fear, the anxiety, the fear shaking me down to the bottom of my stomach, an almost constant gnawing at my soul. Help me lord to find hope and peace.
What now my LORD? AM I TOO WEARY OF LIFE TO BE STRONG? Is my heart too worn from a life lived in fear, subconcious or concious? Why can I not have hope?
Deep down, is my faith only a comfort and not my base? Lord, help me to know the person of Jesus. Help me to get beyond my fear and whatever else keeps me from him.
Fear of all. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of commitment, fear of loss. Fear of responsibility, fear of mistrust, fear of closeness, fear of being alone. Fear of giving up, fear of getting stuck, fear of too long a time, fear of too short. Perhaps what I need is Now.
Even later, 1996
So what now? Now that I’ve changed? Reba wants a boom box, Darrell needs a truck, so does Bill. The boys need toys and clothes and so does Lila. What does Cathy need? Her old husband back. Well, she can’t have him. He’s gone. I can only barely remember him and that’s not enough for you or me. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone to bring him back. I wouldn’t do it if it was. Sorry. Get used to it. Give the new me a chance. I think you’ll like him once he grows into himself.
Too late, 1996
Lord, give me strength, give me love for myself. Peace of miind and heart. Help me love myself, trust myself, give myself some credit, some slack. “For Goodness sake be gentle with yourself!” I do my best. I am lucky to be alive, to be free, to have a ƒamily. Love, freedom, joy, I have so much more than I see, than I need. And I have you.
May 20, 1996
I’m standing there, thigh-deep in the only slightly frigid water of the Bradley Park swim area, watching my wife swim, when the voice of a small girl says, “Go after your dreams!” as she launches herself past me into the, for her, chest-deep water. She paddles fearlessly, resolutely, in a semicircle and back to where she started. She sees me standing there open-mouthed, staring at her and she adds, “Thats what my mom always says”, her confident, thoughtful grin bubbling up to her eyes and lifting her head a little higher. “I’m the only one in my family who can frog paddle,” she says as she plunges out again and then, under her breathe, “Or dog stroke or whatever...” I took her for a prophet but I couldn’t say just what she meant to me. My dreams are much too far away. Either too long ago or somewhere in a distant, undefined future. Even those I bring near to hand are unformed, fearful of being identified as something real. I wish I knew her mother.
I don’t even have dreams at night much anymore, not that I remember anyway. Do our dreams die a natural death or are they murdered by life? Should we try to resurrect old ones or move on to new ones? What do I do with my new awareness of the “death” of my dreams? Are they truly dead or only sleeping? Some dreams are murdered. Slain by abuse. Tell me Lord what are my dreams? I don’t know anymore. The only one I know for sure I have right now is to write. Does it have to be occupational to be a ”real” dream? I need to write, whether I do it or not, I need it.
May 21, 1996
What now my love? Now that I’m freer? Now that I’m not so compelled to do what’s “right”? Now I do and be and speak and see the truth more readily. About myself, about my family, about my life. It makes things harder sometimes. Things aren’t so black and white. I used to think , no matter what, this is a great life . Anything is better than what I had before, but it’s not necessarily the greatest. It is a “wonderful life”, I won’t be jumping off any bridges soon (there’s an angel to dissuade me), but unlike Jimmy Stewart, I’m not seeing affirmation pouring in at the happy ending right now. Oh they’re there alright but rather difficult to spot. Like a straight board in the wood pile these days. Anyway, things aren’t as great as I thought. My wife was so gracious as to point that out to me last night. “There is a lot of stress in your life right now”, another way of saying “Things are pretty tough”. Oh, well, its better to see it as it is and deal with it than live and die denial. And die you may or wish you could when reality doesn’t match up with the story you’ve sold yourself.
I sold myself a bill of goods starting when I was five years old. I buried the most significant events of my childhood and spent the rest of my life reacting to them. I always wondered why my inner life did not match my outer one. Always out of sinc, always hiding especially when there seemed nothing to hide. Always on the outside looking in at my life unable to reach in and touch it or ,seemingly, to do anything about what was going on. “Hey, look out ... , no don’t do that..., ahh ,not again you dummy”. It all seemed to happen without my consent. Without my knowing just what was going on.
So now I’m learning how to live with a new awareness, a different point of view.
I have come to realize I have choices. I no longer feel I need to be subservient to survive and perhaps I’ll be OK if someone doesn’t like me or if I don’t like them. This new awareness means I don’t have to lie to myself about how I feel. Whatever I feel is OK, what can I do about it after all? It doesn’t mean I act on everything I feel but it does mean its OK to feel ,whatever... I am emotionally free for the first time in my life and I am scared. There are more choices than I knew. One thing about being compulsive, you usually know what you’re going to do. When you’re dominated by an unremembered past you feel strangely justified in what you do, after all, you’re not responsible. You feel you have no choice. With freedom comes responsibility. Scary, but I’ll take it and not because “anything is better... “ rather, because its what I want.
Later, 1996
Dear God, how am I to go on when I’m feel overwhelmed by getting up in the morning, anxious about puting on my clothes, fearful of going to work. How can I be a “man” in this world when I’m afraid to shovel snow. Fear of life, fear of death, loss of hope, strike me sometimes when I ‘m watching a movie, brushing my teeth, getting out of bed. Less often a love of life strikes me unawares, in the middle of cleaning a laundry room, driving home, shoveling snow. So perhaps it evens out a little but why the fear, the anxiety, the fear shaking me down to the bottom of my stomach, an almost constant gnawing at my soul. Help me lord to find hope and peace.
What now my LORD? AM I TOO WEARY OF LIFE TO BE STRONG? Is my heart too worn from a life lived in fear, subconcious or concious? Why can I not have hope?
Deep down, is my faith only a comfort and not my base? Lord, help me to know the person of Jesus. Help me to get beyond my fear and whatever else keeps me from him.
Fear of all. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of commitment, fear of loss. Fear of responsibility, fear of mistrust, fear of closeness, fear of being alone. Fear of giving up, fear of getting stuck, fear of too long a time, fear of too short. Perhaps what I need is Now.
Even later, 1996
So what now? Now that I’ve changed? Reba wants a boom box, Darrell needs a truck, so does Bill. The boys need toys and clothes and so does Lila. What does Cathy need? Her old husband back. Well, she can’t have him. He’s gone. I can only barely remember him and that’s not enough for you or me. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone to bring him back. I wouldn’t do it if it was. Sorry. Get used to it. Give the new me a chance. I think you’ll like him once he grows into himself.
Too late, 1996
Monday, January 21, 2008
Therapeutic late night ramblings 12/20-21 Please ignor
Therapeutic late night ramblings.....
Dreams lay strewn about my life
like the wreckage of a vandalized home.
I live like the dispirited tenant,
heartbroken and violated,
sad and shattered.
More than a bit confused,
overwhelmed by the task
of putting his home back together again.
“Nobody understands that some people expend a tremendous amount of energy just to be normal.”
--Camus
The necessities he borrowed or bought at the now familiar pawnshop and placed in a small, windowless, colorless room, previously unused, thus left undamaged by the vandal. The bed, the birthplace of dreams, is not his own. His was totally devastated by the interloper, savagely slashed, shredded, its stuffing bled randomly about the entire house, had to be swept up hauled away. Remnants he found in odd places long after the disaster. This one, a loaner, is pressed into a corner, unlike the former, which had stood in the middle of the large bedroom downstairs where it had been always just the right temperature, cool in the summer, warm in the winter, the walls a beautiful, pale blue. Savage, vulgar graffiti now desecrates the sky blue walls, the golden carpet that always felt so good on his feet, now slashed as well and urinated upon. It is much smaller, emptier, than the bed he once had, ill fitted by the much too large, once carefully chosen, now stained, bedclothes of the other.
The small night table had been in his art studio/gallery downtown he had run during his off hours, acting as the only once used cash drawer (a friend had bought his best abstract). Soon after he opened it he had gotten sick, a bad reaction to a new anti-psychotic, so the free advertising he got from the nice little article in the paper had went to waste as the shop was not open for the two weeks following the soon forgotten press. Not being one to collect fond memories, he had no copy of the paper, a teaser picture in the upper left corner of the front page and a half page article in the business section. He closed up shop after the disaster, calling his seven artists to pick up their freely hung work. His were stored but then auctioned off by the storage place when he couldn’t pay his rent.
On it sits an $8.99 clock radio, single alarm, randomly set, the radio never used, it might be too comforting to go to sleep with an old song in his ear, to wake to something less jarring than the staccato beep beep of the buzzer. Next to it sits a $34.99 “home stereo system.” A little green light always on, it collects dust while his collection of vintage rock and pop sits in a black binder somewhere amid the clutter as it had been in his car (which had been in the shop, the bill for which he had to make payments on to get back, which promptly broke down to an unrepairable status, soon after his truck was stolen, leaving him on foot until his church gave him a wrecked but drivable, donated car four months later) that fateful day. He had learned the lyrics of many of those classic tunes and bought a guitar he fancied he could play without lessons, but that dirty look from a coffee house patron, and the uncomfortable silence the night he played and sang sent the guitar to the pawn shop and the tunes from his memory. The vandal had found the empty jewel cases and seemed to delight in smashing them one by one in the middle of the living room, leaving the jackets still readable, in order: James Taylor, Van Morrison, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Neil Young, (a very ironic vandal), Carol King, Bob Dillon, Bad Finger (yes, Straight Up), Simon and Garfunkle, CCR…
Across the room is a old wood file cabinet, donated by a friend, it is largely empty, the delinquent bills sent to an as yet unpaid lawyer for the as yet unfiled bankruptcy, while new bills pile up on the desk on the other wall. He hopes the soon to be filed for income tax return will be enough to pay the lawyer and the credit counseling service who had told him the best thing to do until the bankruptcy was to not make enough money to have his wages garnished. The bankruptcy should improve his credit.
The vandal had stolen his pick up and all his brand new tools, which were in the custom-made (by him) truck bed tool box (Insurance? Self employed carpenters don’t have insurance!). He lost $5000 dollars on the job he had to pay someone else to finish. Gone was the collection of classic country, given him by his mistress, he had in the cab of his truck, along with the thousand dollar stereo system. The vandal had left the little satellite radio receiver unit, with six more months subscription already paid, sitting in the driveway. His livelihood stolen, he went into winter with only his disability income.
In the file cabinet are his two college diplomas, BS Psychology, BS Philosophy. He had made the mistake of graduating after being turned down for the Masters Counseling program (He had made no secret of his madness, thought it an advantage. He had, after all, completed a tough double major. They claimed he needed to improve his communication skills), but the university had kept the diplomas for unpaid pharmacy bills, hence they were not in the house to be trashed. They kept them for three years while he struggled along, too honest in his resume to get a psychology job with just a BS and no experience. He received them only because he had gotten a job as a carpenter with his former university, not long after the disaster, and they had taken the unpaid bills out of his wages. Not one to bolster his self esteem, reward himself or show any semblance of self-love or pride, the diplomas lay stashed away.
The job had been full time but after six months of being terrified to go to work, anxiety ridden all day, depressed all night, under medicated by his reactionary nurse practitioner (She had decided, after being treated for seventeen years for schizoaffective disorder and half a dozen psychotic or manic episodes, he merely had a personality disorder and did not need medication.) yet producing volumes of exemplary work, he took a part time position before he lost his disability permanently and his mind, again, or his wages got garnished, or he lost his disability deferment on his $48,000 worth of student loans. Yes, it appears he could have been gold bricking, if it weren’t for the fact that he was truly about to lose it, again, that he truly was suffering terribly and that he has had a voice in his head telling him to do all sorts of odd, irresponsible things as well as feeding him a near constant stream of surrealistic stories about himself for the past twenty years.
Well, time to go to bed, its 12:01, I’ve got the day off tomorrow, but have plans to get up rather early, read the daily scriptures, pray for protection from evil spirits (that’s another story), visit a friend, entertain my (former, step) grandkids and clean up the mess of broken dreams around this place (there are lots more I haven’t mentioned yet). If you haven’t guessed, the vandal is poetic license, a metaphor for the illness, a device to move things along a little smoother, without the complex, rather surreal, real details.
Dreams lay strewn about my life
like the wreckage of a vandalized home.
I live like the dispirited tenant,
heartbroken and violated,
sad and shattered.
More than a bit confused,
overwhelmed by the task
of putting his home back together again.
“Nobody understands that some people expend a tremendous amount of energy just to be normal.”
--Camus
The necessities he borrowed or bought at the now familiar pawnshop and placed in a small, windowless, colorless room, previously unused, thus left undamaged by the vandal. The bed, the birthplace of dreams, is not his own. His was totally devastated by the interloper, savagely slashed, shredded, its stuffing bled randomly about the entire house, had to be swept up hauled away. Remnants he found in odd places long after the disaster. This one, a loaner, is pressed into a corner, unlike the former, which had stood in the middle of the large bedroom downstairs where it had been always just the right temperature, cool in the summer, warm in the winter, the walls a beautiful, pale blue. Savage, vulgar graffiti now desecrates the sky blue walls, the golden carpet that always felt so good on his feet, now slashed as well and urinated upon. It is much smaller, emptier, than the bed he once had, ill fitted by the much too large, once carefully chosen, now stained, bedclothes of the other.
The small night table had been in his art studio/gallery downtown he had run during his off hours, acting as the only once used cash drawer (a friend had bought his best abstract). Soon after he opened it he had gotten sick, a bad reaction to a new anti-psychotic, so the free advertising he got from the nice little article in the paper had went to waste as the shop was not open for the two weeks following the soon forgotten press. Not being one to collect fond memories, he had no copy of the paper, a teaser picture in the upper left corner of the front page and a half page article in the business section. He closed up shop after the disaster, calling his seven artists to pick up their freely hung work. His were stored but then auctioned off by the storage place when he couldn’t pay his rent.
On it sits an $8.99 clock radio, single alarm, randomly set, the radio never used, it might be too comforting to go to sleep with an old song in his ear, to wake to something less jarring than the staccato beep beep of the buzzer. Next to it sits a $34.99 “home stereo system.” A little green light always on, it collects dust while his collection of vintage rock and pop sits in a black binder somewhere amid the clutter as it had been in his car (which had been in the shop, the bill for which he had to make payments on to get back, which promptly broke down to an unrepairable status, soon after his truck was stolen, leaving him on foot until his church gave him a wrecked but drivable, donated car four months later) that fateful day. He had learned the lyrics of many of those classic tunes and bought a guitar he fancied he could play without lessons, but that dirty look from a coffee house patron, and the uncomfortable silence the night he played and sang sent the guitar to the pawn shop and the tunes from his memory. The vandal had found the empty jewel cases and seemed to delight in smashing them one by one in the middle of the living room, leaving the jackets still readable, in order: James Taylor, Van Morrison, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Neil Young, (a very ironic vandal), Carol King, Bob Dillon, Bad Finger (yes, Straight Up), Simon and Garfunkle, CCR…
Across the room is a old wood file cabinet, donated by a friend, it is largely empty, the delinquent bills sent to an as yet unpaid lawyer for the as yet unfiled bankruptcy, while new bills pile up on the desk on the other wall. He hopes the soon to be filed for income tax return will be enough to pay the lawyer and the credit counseling service who had told him the best thing to do until the bankruptcy was to not make enough money to have his wages garnished. The bankruptcy should improve his credit.
The vandal had stolen his pick up and all his brand new tools, which were in the custom-made (by him) truck bed tool box (Insurance? Self employed carpenters don’t have insurance!). He lost $5000 dollars on the job he had to pay someone else to finish. Gone was the collection of classic country, given him by his mistress, he had in the cab of his truck, along with the thousand dollar stereo system. The vandal had left the little satellite radio receiver unit, with six more months subscription already paid, sitting in the driveway. His livelihood stolen, he went into winter with only his disability income.
In the file cabinet are his two college diplomas, BS Psychology, BS Philosophy. He had made the mistake of graduating after being turned down for the Masters Counseling program (He had made no secret of his madness, thought it an advantage. He had, after all, completed a tough double major. They claimed he needed to improve his communication skills), but the university had kept the diplomas for unpaid pharmacy bills, hence they were not in the house to be trashed. They kept them for three years while he struggled along, too honest in his resume to get a psychology job with just a BS and no experience. He received them only because he had gotten a job as a carpenter with his former university, not long after the disaster, and they had taken the unpaid bills out of his wages. Not one to bolster his self esteem, reward himself or show any semblance of self-love or pride, the diplomas lay stashed away.
The job had been full time but after six months of being terrified to go to work, anxiety ridden all day, depressed all night, under medicated by his reactionary nurse practitioner (She had decided, after being treated for seventeen years for schizoaffective disorder and half a dozen psychotic or manic episodes, he merely had a personality disorder and did not need medication.) yet producing volumes of exemplary work, he took a part time position before he lost his disability permanently and his mind, again, or his wages got garnished, or he lost his disability deferment on his $48,000 worth of student loans. Yes, it appears he could have been gold bricking, if it weren’t for the fact that he was truly about to lose it, again, that he truly was suffering terribly and that he has had a voice in his head telling him to do all sorts of odd, irresponsible things as well as feeding him a near constant stream of surrealistic stories about himself for the past twenty years.
Well, time to go to bed, its 12:01, I’ve got the day off tomorrow, but have plans to get up rather early, read the daily scriptures, pray for protection from evil spirits (that’s another story), visit a friend, entertain my (former, step) grandkids and clean up the mess of broken dreams around this place (there are lots more I haven’t mentioned yet). If you haven’t guessed, the vandal is poetic license, a metaphor for the illness, a device to move things along a little smoother, without the complex, rather surreal, real details.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Matthew
Matthew
He is perfect.
His hair floats in baby fine soft warm curls above his head.
Love is in every move.
The hollows and the fullness of his body
are in perfect symmetry.
He is a wonder to see.
Even with his dirty face and runny nose
he is still not short of perfect.
His movements, however measured or unsure,
are perfectly honest and always inspired.
His smile already has a dozen different shapes.
From wide, wide open
to the barely parted lips of awestruck wonder.
But most of all it is the spark which moves him,
the soul that shines out through his eyes
and enlivens his limbs,
that is a sight to behold.
A little god unfolding before our very eyes.
He is perfect.
His hair floats in baby fine soft warm curls above his head.
Love is in every move.
The hollows and the fullness of his body
are in perfect symmetry.
He is a wonder to see.
Even with his dirty face and runny nose
he is still not short of perfect.
His movements, however measured or unsure,
are perfectly honest and always inspired.
His smile already has a dozen different shapes.
From wide, wide open
to the barely parted lips of awestruck wonder.
But most of all it is the spark which moves him,
the soul that shines out through his eyes
and enlivens his limbs,
that is a sight to behold.
A little god unfolding before our very eyes.
Andrew in the Trees
ANDREW IN THE TREES
Andrew loves trees.
I’ve never known anything as wonderful
as Andrew in the trees.
Perfect tiny hand grasping hairy calloused finger.
Stepping through ankle deep grass
he notices his shoes
won’t let his toes touch the grass.
He pulls me to a stop
and plops on his bottom on the ground
and tries to pull them off.
He grins that grin up at me
and points to the ground for me.
Knowing my place,
I plop down, too
I pull off both shoes and socks,
revealing his marvelous toes.
He lies back quietly and looking up and back,
notices the trees above him.
With a sharp intake of breath, hahh!,
he quickly points over his head
then looks at me in surprise and amazement.
Yeah, Andrew, trees.
He rolls over on his belly
and points again.
He tumbles his way up
and points to his feet giggling
before he runs toward the nearest tree.
He spys a gnarled root and follows it to the tree
looks up the bark to the branches.
At last he sees the leaves hanging over his head.
He points with that quick intake of breath that lifts him to his toes.
Ahahh!
He trots the few steps back to me
with his arms reaching up
and barely audibly says, “Hup”
I lift him to the low-hanging branches
and his tiny little fingers play with the leaves,
awe-struck, Ooooh, aahhhhh.
And an occaisional surprised Ahahh!
until my arms could do it no more.
I put him down and he giggles softly
as his feet touch the grass.
We totter back to his shoes.
Perfect little hand clutching callused hairy finger.
Forever, I could do this forever.
Andrew loves trees.
I’ve never known anything as wonderful
as Andrew in the trees.
Perfect tiny hand grasping hairy calloused finger.
Stepping through ankle deep grass
he notices his shoes
won’t let his toes touch the grass.
He pulls me to a stop
and plops on his bottom on the ground
and tries to pull them off.
He grins that grin up at me
and points to the ground for me.
Knowing my place,
I plop down, too
I pull off both shoes and socks,
revealing his marvelous toes.
He lies back quietly and looking up and back,
notices the trees above him.
With a sharp intake of breath, hahh!,
he quickly points over his head
then looks at me in surprise and amazement.
Yeah, Andrew, trees.
He rolls over on his belly
and points again.
He tumbles his way up
and points to his feet giggling
before he runs toward the nearest tree.
He spys a gnarled root and follows it to the tree
looks up the bark to the branches.
At last he sees the leaves hanging over his head.
He points with that quick intake of breath that lifts him to his toes.
Ahahh!
He trots the few steps back to me
with his arms reaching up
and barely audibly says, “Hup”
I lift him to the low-hanging branches
and his tiny little fingers play with the leaves,
awe-struck, Ooooh, aahhhhh.
And an occaisional surprised Ahahh!
until my arms could do it no more.
I put him down and he giggles softly
as his feet touch the grass.
We totter back to his shoes.
Perfect little hand clutching callused hairy finger.
Forever, I could do this forever.
My Lord
My Lord, my God, my King,
Your will oh Lord, is my command.
“Let it be done to me according to your word”
Let me know your word.
If I could but know with certainty your will,
Nothing could sway me from doing it.
But I see in a glass darkly.
Your will seems a mystery
I must unravel.
Speak plainly to me.
Open my mind and heart to your Spirit.
What is my purpose? How am I to achieve it?
For the journey is as important as the destination.
The way as important as the guiding truth,
The resultant life.
You are the Way, the Truth and the Life,
My Jesus, my love, my God.
Your will oh Lord, is my command.
“Let it be done to me according to your word”
Let me know your word.
If I could but know with certainty your will,
Nothing could sway me from doing it.
But I see in a glass darkly.
Your will seems a mystery
I must unravel.
Speak plainly to me.
Open my mind and heart to your Spirit.
What is my purpose? How am I to achieve it?
For the journey is as important as the destination.
The way as important as the guiding truth,
The resultant life.
You are the Way, the Truth and the Life,
My Jesus, my love, my God.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Poems to My Mistress, My Sin, My Undoing
I Can’t Remember
Have I loved you forever or just these past few days?
It seems a bit confusing you see
Because it’s so fresh and so new,
But it I seem to remember you
Back in those tender adolescent times
And not just in these too wise middle aged years.
But then you were always too wise,
You and your startlingly dreamy, too sexy eyes.
You terrified me then, I remember now,
It was all I could to just smile.
You’re a little scary now, still
But that just serves to fascinate me more,
If such is at all possible.
Have we been together or apart all these years in between?
Pardon me if it slips my mind.
We fit together so well it feels like we could have been partners always,
But it comes back to me now,
The years I wasted away from you.
Time that should have been spent with you naked beside me,
And beneath me and above me and dieing for more
Yet having all we could ever want.
Yes, I seem to recall aching for you in pubescent agony
And adolescent angst.
Mesmerizingly close but excruciatingly far,
You teased me unmercifully without even knowing it.
And now I hear that you felt quite the same.
An impenetrable barrier of mere inches
Seems to have grown into thirty-odd years.
I don’t seem to be able to recall
Just how this could possibly have happened.
Such inexhaustible passion
Passing lethally close and then what?
Ahh, it comes back to me now,
We were merely fools,
Playing a mysterious game.
We didn’t know the rules and by the time we learned…
Well it doesn’t matter now,
I remember I loved you,
Then as now
Truly, madly, deeply,
Passionately.
Foolish
Comes the night.
And you slip from the side of my mind
Where you whisper in my ear
All day
To the front,
Where I can hear nothing but you,
See nothing but you,
Think,
Of nothing but you.
And, I will admit,
Worry a bit.
Where are you?
Are you happy?
Are you thinking of me?
Are you too busy
For your lost little boy across the miles?
I have no reason to doubt you,
You are the most dependable of lovers,
But still I have my moments.
You are always there
In some way
Reaching out
Considering me,
Yet I still fear losing you in some way.
Something I said was not quite right,
Something I wrote was all wrong,
I must have sent you away somehow.
I am not the perfect lover.
But then you are there,
And my voice smiles or my fingers dance.
She loves me after all,
How amazing is this woman.
How constant, how true.
And me a half crazed, ex carpenter
She somehow holds dear.
How blessed am I, how lucky.
And how foolish.
You have said you will love me forever,
I believe you, Dear.
I am just a foolish man.
Can you forgive me?
Dreaming
I am not lucky enough to remember my nighttime dreams,
They flee my mind as soon as I wake.
But I am quite expert at daydreams,
and my daydreams are of you.
Yes I dream of you,
of holding your hand
and walking intimately down a western street.
pausing for a tender kiss
whenever love overwhelms us.
I dream of your kisses then,
your lips, your tongue, your whole body
in them.
I dream of holding you in bed,
my arms and legs wrapped 'round you,
cupping your breast in my hand,
my lips on your head and
breathing you in.
I dream of drinking in your green brown eyes,
as much as you'll let me.
And sitting next to you in a restaurant,
sharing food and love and looks and kisses.
I dream of being with you.
I know not what I dream of at night,
but if it is anything like my daydreaming,
then I am a lucky man indeed.
Not A Day Goes By...
Got a picture of you I carry in my heart
Close my eyes to see it when the world gets dark
Got a memory of you I carry in my soul
I wrap it close around me when the nights get cold
If you asked me how I'm doin', I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you’re still with me it's true
Somehow you remain locked so deep inside,
Baby, not a day goes by…
I still wait for the phone in the middle of the night
Thinkin' you might call me if your dreams don't turn out right
And it still amazes me that I lie here in the dark
Wishin' you were next to me, with your head against my heart
If you asked me how I'm doing I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you’re still with me it's true
Somehow you remain locked so deep inside.
Baby, not a day goes by…
Minutes turn to hours, and the hours to days
Seems it's been forever that I've felt this way
There may have been a million years in between
But Baby you’re still the best I’ve ever seen
If you asked me how I’m doing I’d say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you’re still with me it's true
Somehow you remain locked so deep inside,
Baby, not a day goes by…
That I don't think of you.
That I don’t regret all the time we lost.
And I try not to think of what it cost
For us to be so long apart
It must have hardened your heart
‘Cause you’re not with me now
And I always thought we’d be together somehow
Ordinary things
I am finding I long to do ordinary things
with you.
Take a walk in a park.
Hold hands.
Go out to lunch.
Rub your leg.
Sit in someone's living room and talk.
I think we have been extraordinary for too long.
Extraordinary remembrances,
Extraordinary sharing.
Extraordinary passion,
Extraordinary pain.
It all seems too much,
I am worn away, exhausted.
Perhaps we just need to do some things together
that only require love,
and not a lot effort,
or risk.
Easy, comfortable things,
things where we can pretend its always like this.
Perhaps we need to build up
a reservoir of everyday memories,
something to fall back on when we are apart.
Because we are apart too much.
Have I loved you forever or just these past few days?
It seems a bit confusing you see
Because it’s so fresh and so new,
But it I seem to remember you
Back in those tender adolescent times
And not just in these too wise middle aged years.
But then you were always too wise,
You and your startlingly dreamy, too sexy eyes.
You terrified me then, I remember now,
It was all I could to just smile.
You’re a little scary now, still
But that just serves to fascinate me more,
If such is at all possible.
Have we been together or apart all these years in between?
Pardon me if it slips my mind.
We fit together so well it feels like we could have been partners always,
But it comes back to me now,
The years I wasted away from you.
Time that should have been spent with you naked beside me,
And beneath me and above me and dieing for more
Yet having all we could ever want.
Yes, I seem to recall aching for you in pubescent agony
And adolescent angst.
Mesmerizingly close but excruciatingly far,
You teased me unmercifully without even knowing it.
And now I hear that you felt quite the same.
An impenetrable barrier of mere inches
Seems to have grown into thirty-odd years.
I don’t seem to be able to recall
Just how this could possibly have happened.
Such inexhaustible passion
Passing lethally close and then what?
Ahh, it comes back to me now,
We were merely fools,
Playing a mysterious game.
We didn’t know the rules and by the time we learned…
Well it doesn’t matter now,
I remember I loved you,
Then as now
Truly, madly, deeply,
Passionately.
Foolish
Comes the night.
And you slip from the side of my mind
Where you whisper in my ear
All day
To the front,
Where I can hear nothing but you,
See nothing but you,
Think,
Of nothing but you.
And, I will admit,
Worry a bit.
Where are you?
Are you happy?
Are you thinking of me?
Are you too busy
For your lost little boy across the miles?
I have no reason to doubt you,
You are the most dependable of lovers,
But still I have my moments.
You are always there
In some way
Reaching out
Considering me,
Yet I still fear losing you in some way.
Something I said was not quite right,
Something I wrote was all wrong,
I must have sent you away somehow.
I am not the perfect lover.
But then you are there,
And my voice smiles or my fingers dance.
She loves me after all,
How amazing is this woman.
How constant, how true.
And me a half crazed, ex carpenter
She somehow holds dear.
How blessed am I, how lucky.
And how foolish.
You have said you will love me forever,
I believe you, Dear.
I am just a foolish man.
Can you forgive me?
Dreaming
I am not lucky enough to remember my nighttime dreams,
They flee my mind as soon as I wake.
But I am quite expert at daydreams,
and my daydreams are of you.
Yes I dream of you,
of holding your hand
and walking intimately down a western street.
pausing for a tender kiss
whenever love overwhelms us.
I dream of your kisses then,
your lips, your tongue, your whole body
in them.
I dream of holding you in bed,
my arms and legs wrapped 'round you,
cupping your breast in my hand,
my lips on your head and
breathing you in.
I dream of drinking in your green brown eyes,
as much as you'll let me.
And sitting next to you in a restaurant,
sharing food and love and looks and kisses.
I dream of being with you.
I know not what I dream of at night,
but if it is anything like my daydreaming,
then I am a lucky man indeed.
Not A Day Goes By...
Got a picture of you I carry in my heart
Close my eyes to see it when the world gets dark
Got a memory of you I carry in my soul
I wrap it close around me when the nights get cold
If you asked me how I'm doin', I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you’re still with me it's true
Somehow you remain locked so deep inside,
Baby, not a day goes by…
I still wait for the phone in the middle of the night
Thinkin' you might call me if your dreams don't turn out right
And it still amazes me that I lie here in the dark
Wishin' you were next to me, with your head against my heart
If you asked me how I'm doing I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you’re still with me it's true
Somehow you remain locked so deep inside.
Baby, not a day goes by…
Minutes turn to hours, and the hours to days
Seems it's been forever that I've felt this way
There may have been a million years in between
But Baby you’re still the best I’ve ever seen
If you asked me how I’m doing I’d say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you’re still with me it's true
Somehow you remain locked so deep inside,
Baby, not a day goes by…
That I don't think of you.
That I don’t regret all the time we lost.
And I try not to think of what it cost
For us to be so long apart
It must have hardened your heart
‘Cause you’re not with me now
And I always thought we’d be together somehow
Ordinary things
I am finding I long to do ordinary things
with you.
Take a walk in a park.
Hold hands.
Go out to lunch.
Rub your leg.
Sit in someone's living room and talk.
I think we have been extraordinary for too long.
Extraordinary remembrances,
Extraordinary sharing.
Extraordinary passion,
Extraordinary pain.
It all seems too much,
I am worn away, exhausted.
Perhaps we just need to do some things together
that only require love,
and not a lot effort,
or risk.
Easy, comfortable things,
things where we can pretend its always like this.
Perhaps we need to build up
a reservoir of everyday memories,
something to fall back on when we are apart.
Because we are apart too much.
Borderline
Follow me down to the waterline, come on out to the edge, come on up to the ridge, to the place where two worlds meet. To the place where I’m not bound to one or the other, where at last I feel complete. Follow me now to the place that I go to escape the grasping life. For I am not of this world nor the other, I live in the place where they come together. I cannot stand to be bound by the constraints of any one existence. I cannot trust the limits of any one world, I need the freedom of the borderline. To be identified, to be pegged, is the death of hope to me. The smooth, wet sand at the waterline, the vacant field at the edge of town, the ridge line where mount and sky meet, carry such possibility, such hope, such desire, such freedom. Past and future come together and exist in harmony. History and potential hovering harmlessly in one peaceful space. Not clamoring for attention nor constantly pressing forward, but waiting, patiently, for me. No unrealistic expectations, no never-ending guilt. Just a comfortable place to look forward and back with the breeze blowing in my face.
Whispers (Excerpt)
I was still five years old when it was the worst
and I lay there in the dark afterward,
still and quiet, wanting to be somewhere else.
And I went to a place I’d never been.
A place clear and cool yet warm and still and in motion too.
And white,
not just white on the surface but white clear through
and it felt good to look at it
and good to be there.
It seemed like a cave,
with high white walls melding into the ceiling of solid white air,
like a mist made of rock, translucent.
I raised my hand to touch it,
knowing it was out of reach,
yet feeling it was near at hand.
I was standing on a rock ledge and I started to cry.
‘cause I was safe, I knew, he couldn’t get me here
but where I was I didn’t know.
I just knew it was a good place,
a safe place to cry.
God was here, everywhere.
This place was made of God,
I could almost see him moving in the mist rock.
I laid down and waited until I stopped crying
and my heart stopped pounding
and I could breathe without sobbing.
Too soon I knew it was time to go.
And then my leg was warm and shaking and a voice called my name
and I smelled the dust of the old church
and felt a hand on my leg and I was back.
I was back and someone told me to go home
and I never saw the old man again.
But his voice would play in the back of my mind for many years to come,
and I would visit the cool, clear, warm white place in my dreams knowing peace was there
and God.
and I lay there in the dark afterward,
still and quiet, wanting to be somewhere else.
And I went to a place I’d never been.
A place clear and cool yet warm and still and in motion too.
And white,
not just white on the surface but white clear through
and it felt good to look at it
and good to be there.
It seemed like a cave,
with high white walls melding into the ceiling of solid white air,
like a mist made of rock, translucent.
I raised my hand to touch it,
knowing it was out of reach,
yet feeling it was near at hand.
I was standing on a rock ledge and I started to cry.
‘cause I was safe, I knew, he couldn’t get me here
but where I was I didn’t know.
I just knew it was a good place,
a safe place to cry.
God was here, everywhere.
This place was made of God,
I could almost see him moving in the mist rock.
I laid down and waited until I stopped crying
and my heart stopped pounding
and I could breathe without sobbing.
Too soon I knew it was time to go.
And then my leg was warm and shaking and a voice called my name
and I smelled the dust of the old church
and felt a hand on my leg and I was back.
I was back and someone told me to go home
and I never saw the old man again.
But his voice would play in the back of my mind for many years to come,
and I would visit the cool, clear, warm white place in my dreams knowing peace was there
and God.
Slip of Vision
A slip of vision and the world changes.
Heaven and hell on earth can be in the same place.
It’s all about learning to look at things
with the eyes you were born with
not the ones the world gave you.
Or is it me, or you.
I know I don’t see me the way that you do.
If you see me at all when we look at each other.
We see through the veil of our experiences.
Our minds have made up most of what we see
before we ever see it.
Perhaps my slip of vision is a way of getting to the truth.
Beyond self-imposed illusion,
beneath the mask of sanity,
perhaps lies something more real than what we see.
Our minds build up webs of logic
around what our senses give them.
Miracles are made into the stuff of the ordinary.
Abominations are turned into the commonplace.
Are you too beautiful for me to understand?
Is that why you seem so plain
and feel so extraordinary?
Is that why it’s the light in your eyes
that takes my breath away and not your body?
A slip of vision.
I’ve known demons
who looked like the people next door
most of the time.
‘Cause they were.
I saw them with their masks down, too
and they didn’t look the same.
I’ve seen angels that looked like the girl next door,
bouncy blonde hair and movie star smile,
and then with a wink of her eye
she’s gone.
Miracles and abominations
wrapped in the stuff of now
Heaven and hell on earth can be in the same place.
It’s all about learning to look at things
with the eyes you were born with
not the ones the world gave you.
Or is it me, or you.
I know I don’t see me the way that you do.
If you see me at all when we look at each other.
We see through the veil of our experiences.
Our minds have made up most of what we see
before we ever see it.
Perhaps my slip of vision is a way of getting to the truth.
Beyond self-imposed illusion,
beneath the mask of sanity,
perhaps lies something more real than what we see.
Our minds build up webs of logic
around what our senses give them.
Miracles are made into the stuff of the ordinary.
Abominations are turned into the commonplace.
Are you too beautiful for me to understand?
Is that why you seem so plain
and feel so extraordinary?
Is that why it’s the light in your eyes
that takes my breath away and not your body?
A slip of vision.
I’ve known demons
who looked like the people next door
most of the time.
‘Cause they were.
I saw them with their masks down, too
and they didn’t look the same.
I’ve seen angels that looked like the girl next door,
bouncy blonde hair and movie star smile,
and then with a wink of her eye
she’s gone.
Miracles and abominations
wrapped in the stuff of now
True Light
True Light
A light once came into the world,
created by the Father through the True Light.
This created light was beautiful and pure
and shone brightly for a time.
This light then met the darkness and the darkness overcame it
and the children of this light were in darkness for a long time.
The True Light then came into the world,
“the True Light which enlightens everyone”.
When the True Light met the darkness,
the darkness did not overcome it.
The True Light chose life
and earned freedom for the children of the light.
And those who came to Him
were able to return to the Father because of Him
“And the Word became flesh
and made his dwelling among us,
and we saw his glory,
the glory of the Father’s only Son,
full of grace and truth.”
A light once came into the world,
created by the Father through the True Light.
This created light was beautiful and pure
and shone brightly for a time.
This light then met the darkness and the darkness overcame it
and the children of this light were in darkness for a long time.
The True Light then came into the world,
“the True Light which enlightens everyone”.
When the True Light met the darkness,
the darkness did not overcome it.
The True Light chose life
and earned freedom for the children of the light.
And those who came to Him
were able to return to the Father because of Him
“And the Word became flesh
and made his dwelling among us,
and we saw his glory,
the glory of the Father’s only Son,
full of grace and truth.”
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I Asked
I asked
Is there love?
I have dreamed of love
For a very long time.
Reached out for it
And it slipped away.
Yet I went on dreaming.
Have I dreamed of you
Just these past few days
Or was it you I have been dreaming of
All my life?
How is it you have stepped
Into my life
And in a heartbeat filled me up?
How is it I seem to know you
Like no other
Without ever holding your hand?
Like you were a dream.
Did you appear out of nowhere
To capture my heart and soul,
Or have you been with me forever?
Excuse me if I seem confused,
You heart fits so neatly next to mine,
Our thoughts so often one,
It seems I must have known you
All my life.
But then I wouldn’t have been so lonely.
Was it you I looked for when
I was alone in the crowd?
Was it you I waited up for
All those nights I couldn’t sleep?
No matter, you are here now
And I am happy.
Whatever dreams you come from,
You are now very real
And there is love.
Is there love?
I have dreamed of love
For a very long time.
Reached out for it
And it slipped away.
Yet I went on dreaming.
Have I dreamed of you
Just these past few days
Or was it you I have been dreaming of
All my life?
How is it you have stepped
Into my life
And in a heartbeat filled me up?
How is it I seem to know you
Like no other
Without ever holding your hand?
Like you were a dream.
Did you appear out of nowhere
To capture my heart and soul,
Or have you been with me forever?
Excuse me if I seem confused,
You heart fits so neatly next to mine,
Our thoughts so often one,
It seems I must have known you
All my life.
But then I wouldn’t have been so lonely.
Was it you I looked for when
I was alone in the crowd?
Was it you I waited up for
All those nights I couldn’t sleep?
No matter, you are here now
And I am happy.
Whatever dreams you come from,
You are now very real
And there is love.
Me an' Reb's Jesus
Me ‘n Reb’s Jesus
They told me Rebel was half thoroughbred
but all I ever saw in him was quarter horse
and he was walking
that quarter horse walk now.
Clomping along, neck out,
head down, just like me,
neck out, head down,
we were quite a pair that day.
We were riding the ditch rider’s road
which didn’t really go nowhere
which was good
because that’s where we were going.
I could here the trickle of the little ditch
we were riding
and if it had been blue
instead of muddy brown things would have been perfect.
Because Rebel and me were blue.
You see Rebel and me had lost our best childhood friend today
and even though we hadn’t seen him
for going on four years we were still as blue as blue could be.
He’d changed a lot. He’d grew his hair and dropped out
and punched them damn needles in his arm until this morning
when they say he screamed Jesus! and his heart gave out
he was so high.
I have a feeling it wasn’t the same Jesus me and Reb talk to.
I heard a familiar sound and Rebel clomped to a stop
and I looked around at a place that should have been familiar.
But it wasn’t at first but then I remembered that hollow sound
I’d just heard and the weeds
that were a lot taller then
or so it seemed and yes,
this was the bridge over the canal on that last day
that we were best friends that last wonderful,
stupid day, four years ago.
Reb was four and I was thirteen
and Daniel said he was fourteen
but everybody knew he was fifteen
on account of getting kicked out of fourth grade
and having to repeat.
He was smallish, compact and solid and lithe
and there was not anything he could not do.
He was to prove that this day.
We were just messing around in the canal with Reb,
riding bareback in the three and a half foot deep water
and diving off his back and riding
up the side and sliding down his back
into the water when Daniel
got this gleam in his eye and looked at the bridge.
“You wait here,” he said
in a voice that was already half way
to completing some glorious stunt.
He took Rebel and disappeared for a minute
and then I heard Reb’s only smooth gait,
a ground-gobbling canter
that I loved in the evening
when the cool breeze caught my face.
As the pair topped the rise,
Daniel was just steadying himself on two feet
standing just ahead of Reb’s hind quarters
as he neared the bridge and with a slightly muffled,
“Geronimo!” he did a perfect cannonball
into the center of the pool on the
down stream side of the bridge.
A few feet to either side and
he’s dead meat on boulders,
too far out and he’s strained through gravel.
He pops up with a whoop and I nonchalantly say,
“Yeah, but can you catch the horse?”
“You know as well as I do, Marco Polo,
that that horse is too dumb to run away,”
and he just looked me in the eye grinning
and God knows I tried to keep a straight face
and I tried to stay cool but, but,...
I broke down. “Damn!” I finally exploded.
“That has got to be the bitchinest thing
I have ever seen in my life! I can’t believe it, it was perfect, and the Geronimo thing...Perfect!” “Ain’t it though! Damn that was good” Just then Rebel came up and nudged my elbow, “and you, you looked like Trigger or Traveler or Silver or something. Its like I hardly know my two best friends all of a sudden.” This was a bit of a faux paux in my social circle as one never actually admitted to having a best friend, it was too intimate a term. We blushed past the moment and then he said, “Your turn.”
I looked him straight in the eye and said “I wouldn’t do that on a tricycle, let alone a horse. You’ve got me on this one.” The rest of the day past mostly in awed reflection on the jump. He seemed to stay there all day, too, never come down.
He finally looked at me and said, “You’re never gonna make that jump, are you?”
“ I didn’t say that, matter of fact I probably will but I’m gonna practice the ride up first and work out the jump timing, you gotta remember, I’m younger, things come a little slower to me.”
“Its not that I’ve got some great power you don’t or that you’re afraid, is it?”
“I’d say mostly no on both though I am a little scared and you are a little awesome, man.”
“It was like, from the second I decided to do it, no from the second I thought of it, I knew it would be perfect, its like sometimes I get this power and its like, I can do anything.”
“I know, I see it in your eyes sometimes, usually its something crazy.”
“No, its something real, its something that I feel with my whole body and soul, like I’m on fire man.”
“Look, Daniel, this jump was really cool, and like, I’m gonna try it myself but its not like its some kind of religious experience, man. Its just an adrenaline rush, you’re a good athlete, high on adrenaline, its not some higher calling to be like Super Stunt man or a crash test dummy or something. Besides, you scare me, a few feet either way and you’d be jellyfish, man.”
“You just don’t understand!”
“ No, I think its you who don’t understand! You’re gonna mess around and get yourself killed and I’m gonna be stuck in this stinking town without you!”
Those were the last words we spoke as friends.
All there was after that were Howdy’s and ’cuse me’s.
I don’t think he ever cut his hair again
or bathed for that matter.
School was only an occasional pastime
and the drugs took over
when the adrenaline couldn’t do it any more.
I thought it my fault for a long time.
All of it, the broken friendship, the drugs, the diein’...
I looked up and saw that Rebel
Had again taken me where I needed to go.
The old woman’s house not far from the canal.
She had watched sixty years worth
of boys grow up from her laced windows,
though not many stopped and talked as I did.
The cookies were out and the ice tea in the glass
as I let myself in the back door.
She’d long since told me just to knock
and wait a few and come as she didn’t get about
like she used to.
Its my fault, you know, all of it.
ever since the jump in the pool.
It seems you are suddenly a very powerful person
especially for one so young.
No child, he made his own choices.
He was headed down that road anyway
It was you kept him off it for a long time
and offered him a better way to go
that he very well could have taken,
had he had the courage.
No it wasn’t your fault,
I knew his father and his father’s father
and wasn’t a fine bone in their bodies
and this one was looking the same until he met you.
Oh he was still wild but he wasn’t bad
and he wasn’t cruel and stayed away from the bottle.
For three full years I saw that boy grow
and I thunk just maybe he’d make it.
But when I saw you alone for so many days
I knew he had found a way
to excuse himself from your influence.
No child, Its not your fault he’s dead
matter of fact, you damn near saved him,
and maybe, just maybe you did.
Maybe it was you and Reb’s Jesus
he was screaming for this morning,
when his heart gave out.
They told me Rebel was half thoroughbred
but all I ever saw in him was quarter horse
and he was walking
that quarter horse walk now.
Clomping along, neck out,
head down, just like me,
neck out, head down,
we were quite a pair that day.
We were riding the ditch rider’s road
which didn’t really go nowhere
which was good
because that’s where we were going.
I could here the trickle of the little ditch
we were riding
and if it had been blue
instead of muddy brown things would have been perfect.
Because Rebel and me were blue.
You see Rebel and me had lost our best childhood friend today
and even though we hadn’t seen him
for going on four years we were still as blue as blue could be.
He’d changed a lot. He’d grew his hair and dropped out
and punched them damn needles in his arm until this morning
when they say he screamed Jesus! and his heart gave out
he was so high.
I have a feeling it wasn’t the same Jesus me and Reb talk to.
I heard a familiar sound and Rebel clomped to a stop
and I looked around at a place that should have been familiar.
But it wasn’t at first but then I remembered that hollow sound
I’d just heard and the weeds
that were a lot taller then
or so it seemed and yes,
this was the bridge over the canal on that last day
that we were best friends that last wonderful,
stupid day, four years ago.
Reb was four and I was thirteen
and Daniel said he was fourteen
but everybody knew he was fifteen
on account of getting kicked out of fourth grade
and having to repeat.
He was smallish, compact and solid and lithe
and there was not anything he could not do.
He was to prove that this day.
We were just messing around in the canal with Reb,
riding bareback in the three and a half foot deep water
and diving off his back and riding
up the side and sliding down his back
into the water when Daniel
got this gleam in his eye and looked at the bridge.
“You wait here,” he said
in a voice that was already half way
to completing some glorious stunt.
He took Rebel and disappeared for a minute
and then I heard Reb’s only smooth gait,
a ground-gobbling canter
that I loved in the evening
when the cool breeze caught my face.
As the pair topped the rise,
Daniel was just steadying himself on two feet
standing just ahead of Reb’s hind quarters
as he neared the bridge and with a slightly muffled,
“Geronimo!” he did a perfect cannonball
into the center of the pool on the
down stream side of the bridge.
A few feet to either side and
he’s dead meat on boulders,
too far out and he’s strained through gravel.
He pops up with a whoop and I nonchalantly say,
“Yeah, but can you catch the horse?”
“You know as well as I do, Marco Polo,
that that horse is too dumb to run away,”
and he just looked me in the eye grinning
and God knows I tried to keep a straight face
and I tried to stay cool but, but,...
I broke down. “Damn!” I finally exploded.
“That has got to be the bitchinest thing
I have ever seen in my life! I can’t believe it, it was perfect, and the Geronimo thing...Perfect!” “Ain’t it though! Damn that was good” Just then Rebel came up and nudged my elbow, “and you, you looked like Trigger or Traveler or Silver or something. Its like I hardly know my two best friends all of a sudden.” This was a bit of a faux paux in my social circle as one never actually admitted to having a best friend, it was too intimate a term. We blushed past the moment and then he said, “Your turn.”
I looked him straight in the eye and said “I wouldn’t do that on a tricycle, let alone a horse. You’ve got me on this one.” The rest of the day past mostly in awed reflection on the jump. He seemed to stay there all day, too, never come down.
He finally looked at me and said, “You’re never gonna make that jump, are you?”
“ I didn’t say that, matter of fact I probably will but I’m gonna practice the ride up first and work out the jump timing, you gotta remember, I’m younger, things come a little slower to me.”
“Its not that I’ve got some great power you don’t or that you’re afraid, is it?”
“I’d say mostly no on both though I am a little scared and you are a little awesome, man.”
“It was like, from the second I decided to do it, no from the second I thought of it, I knew it would be perfect, its like sometimes I get this power and its like, I can do anything.”
“I know, I see it in your eyes sometimes, usually its something crazy.”
“No, its something real, its something that I feel with my whole body and soul, like I’m on fire man.”
“Look, Daniel, this jump was really cool, and like, I’m gonna try it myself but its not like its some kind of religious experience, man. Its just an adrenaline rush, you’re a good athlete, high on adrenaline, its not some higher calling to be like Super Stunt man or a crash test dummy or something. Besides, you scare me, a few feet either way and you’d be jellyfish, man.”
“You just don’t understand!”
“ No, I think its you who don’t understand! You’re gonna mess around and get yourself killed and I’m gonna be stuck in this stinking town without you!”
Those were the last words we spoke as friends.
All there was after that were Howdy’s and ’cuse me’s.
I don’t think he ever cut his hair again
or bathed for that matter.
School was only an occasional pastime
and the drugs took over
when the adrenaline couldn’t do it any more.
I thought it my fault for a long time.
All of it, the broken friendship, the drugs, the diein’...
I looked up and saw that Rebel
Had again taken me where I needed to go.
The old woman’s house not far from the canal.
She had watched sixty years worth
of boys grow up from her laced windows,
though not many stopped and talked as I did.
The cookies were out and the ice tea in the glass
as I let myself in the back door.
She’d long since told me just to knock
and wait a few and come as she didn’t get about
like she used to.
Its my fault, you know, all of it.
ever since the jump in the pool.
It seems you are suddenly a very powerful person
especially for one so young.
No child, he made his own choices.
He was headed down that road anyway
It was you kept him off it for a long time
and offered him a better way to go
that he very well could have taken,
had he had the courage.
No it wasn’t your fault,
I knew his father and his father’s father
and wasn’t a fine bone in their bodies
and this one was looking the same until he met you.
Oh he was still wild but he wasn’t bad
and he wasn’t cruel and stayed away from the bottle.
For three full years I saw that boy grow
and I thunk just maybe he’d make it.
But when I saw you alone for so many days
I knew he had found a way
to excuse himself from your influence.
No child, Its not your fault he’s dead
matter of fact, you damn near saved him,
and maybe, just maybe you did.
Maybe it was you and Reb’s Jesus
he was screaming for this morning,
when his heart gave out.
Obssession
Somehow I gotta make it ok,
some way.
If I can just think it out,
figure a way
I can do it and make it work out.
So I don’t have to lie,
don’t have to steal,
don’t have to hide
myself.
How can I do it without the guilt,
the shame?
Without hurting anybody.
I can plan it, manage it,
make a place in my life for it.
A nice, neat compartment
I can walk right into,
do it,
and walk right out.
But it won’t fit and neither will I.
It gets ugly and spills out
into my world
and gets on my shoe
and in my face
and into my world
and I can’t keep it in any more.
Help.
I’m walkin’, runnin’, drivin’ around,
bursting at the seams.
No satisfaction, no pride, no peace.
I love it, I hate it.
It smiles at me
but inside it hates me, too.
‘Cause it hurts me when I do what it says.
It says this will feel good, you’ll love it.
And it does and I do.
Oh Lord, but then it’s over.
Satisfaction is short
disgust is brief
but guilt and shame last forever.
It follows me out the door
and all over town
whispering in my ear-
Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha again.
Lord, why? Why does it feel so good
and treat me so bad.
It feels like it’s always been there.
It seems I dreamed about it when I was little.
Sometimes I kid myself you gave it to me.
A gift, something to get me through.
Why else can’t I help it?
Why else would it come bustin’ out of me
when I don’t give it no attention?
“It’s good to do it, express it.
It’s part of my inmost being”
Yeah, Right.
But damn, why does it feel so good?
For that little while
and why do I want to go back to it
when it only drags me down
and lets loose all my demons?
Every shameful thing
buried in my mind cellar flys out.
I told it not to let that stuff out.
All I want is it.
But noooo.
All this other shit comes flappin’ out, too.
Now, I just got to do it right.
Do it clean, do it gentle,
do it sweet, do it middle class lovely
and heart to heart.
And all the bad stuff will stay away
and I ‘ll have it all to my self.
and nobody will get hurt.
But somehow somebody always does,
or thats what they tell me.
Funny, that the one thing
that seems to make the hurt go away for a while
is the one thing that everybody says I shouldn’t do.
Frankly, I’m not entirely convinced it hurts me,
but I’m now fully aware it hurts those who love me,
and bothers the hell out of everyone else.
Directly or indirectly, eventually someone gets hurt.
That makes it my responsibility to do damage control,
which means I just don’t do it.
Because my God says quite simply,
do not do things that hurt other people.
There is no way out of this one.
You do it, someone gets hurt,
so you don’t do it.
Even if you think its your destiny,
or a blessing in disguise
even if its the only thing you seem to live for sometimes,
the only thing that makes that ache in your heart go away,
you don’t do it
because it hurts other people.
and if you are really gonna be honest,
you know it hurts you, too
and the reason you say it doesn’t is
you just don’t give a damn if it hurts you,
but let me clue you, you are someone, too.
There are at least two someones getting hurt,
You, and the someone who cares about you.
And don’t give me that, “Nobody loves me” bullshit.
Nobody is so special that they have no one that cares,
everyone gets hung with somebody who cares, its a fact of life.
Now, this caring may or may not be real apparent or useful but
I guarantee there will be someone hurting if you fall.
And fall you will, unless you accept love, accept help,
forget about luck and fate and count on love and God.
Somebody is gonna love you whether you accept it or not,
might as well enjoy it.
And you know I don’t mean sex.
Two human beings caring for each other,
whatever gender they may be.
So close the closet door on your obsession,
lock it in and don’t look back.
Look for help instead,
station someone at the closet door to turn you away
when you come looking for sorrow to ease your pain.
Keep company with hardy folk,
or at least those who know you well enough,
to turn you round when needed.
Perhaps keep in mind how often you’ve failed.
so you won’t get yourself in too deep.
Safety is not always found in numbers,
our peers are sometimes incredibly dangerous,
and one is not always a lonely number.
Always have one phone number you can call
to get help when you’re in a jam.
And remember, if it hurts someone,
don’t do it.
some way.
If I can just think it out,
figure a way
I can do it and make it work out.
So I don’t have to lie,
don’t have to steal,
don’t have to hide
myself.
How can I do it without the guilt,
the shame?
Without hurting anybody.
I can plan it, manage it,
make a place in my life for it.
A nice, neat compartment
I can walk right into,
do it,
and walk right out.
But it won’t fit and neither will I.
It gets ugly and spills out
into my world
and gets on my shoe
and in my face
and into my world
and I can’t keep it in any more.
Help.
I’m walkin’, runnin’, drivin’ around,
bursting at the seams.
No satisfaction, no pride, no peace.
I love it, I hate it.
It smiles at me
but inside it hates me, too.
‘Cause it hurts me when I do what it says.
It says this will feel good, you’ll love it.
And it does and I do.
Oh Lord, but then it’s over.
Satisfaction is short
disgust is brief
but guilt and shame last forever.
It follows me out the door
and all over town
whispering in my ear-
Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha again.
Lord, why? Why does it feel so good
and treat me so bad.
It feels like it’s always been there.
It seems I dreamed about it when I was little.
Sometimes I kid myself you gave it to me.
A gift, something to get me through.
Why else can’t I help it?
Why else would it come bustin’ out of me
when I don’t give it no attention?
“It’s good to do it, express it.
It’s part of my inmost being”
Yeah, Right.
But damn, why does it feel so good?
For that little while
and why do I want to go back to it
when it only drags me down
and lets loose all my demons?
Every shameful thing
buried in my mind cellar flys out.
I told it not to let that stuff out.
All I want is it.
But noooo.
All this other shit comes flappin’ out, too.
Now, I just got to do it right.
Do it clean, do it gentle,
do it sweet, do it middle class lovely
and heart to heart.
And all the bad stuff will stay away
and I ‘ll have it all to my self.
and nobody will get hurt.
But somehow somebody always does,
or thats what they tell me.
Funny, that the one thing
that seems to make the hurt go away for a while
is the one thing that everybody says I shouldn’t do.
Frankly, I’m not entirely convinced it hurts me,
but I’m now fully aware it hurts those who love me,
and bothers the hell out of everyone else.
Directly or indirectly, eventually someone gets hurt.
That makes it my responsibility to do damage control,
which means I just don’t do it.
Because my God says quite simply,
do not do things that hurt other people.
There is no way out of this one.
You do it, someone gets hurt,
so you don’t do it.
Even if you think its your destiny,
or a blessing in disguise
even if its the only thing you seem to live for sometimes,
the only thing that makes that ache in your heart go away,
you don’t do it
because it hurts other people.
and if you are really gonna be honest,
you know it hurts you, too
and the reason you say it doesn’t is
you just don’t give a damn if it hurts you,
but let me clue you, you are someone, too.
There are at least two someones getting hurt,
You, and the someone who cares about you.
And don’t give me that, “Nobody loves me” bullshit.
Nobody is so special that they have no one that cares,
everyone gets hung with somebody who cares, its a fact of life.
Now, this caring may or may not be real apparent or useful but
I guarantee there will be someone hurting if you fall.
And fall you will, unless you accept love, accept help,
forget about luck and fate and count on love and God.
Somebody is gonna love you whether you accept it or not,
might as well enjoy it.
And you know I don’t mean sex.
Two human beings caring for each other,
whatever gender they may be.
So close the closet door on your obsession,
lock it in and don’t look back.
Look for help instead,
station someone at the closet door to turn you away
when you come looking for sorrow to ease your pain.
Keep company with hardy folk,
or at least those who know you well enough,
to turn you round when needed.
Perhaps keep in mind how often you’ve failed.
so you won’t get yourself in too deep.
Safety is not always found in numbers,
our peers are sometimes incredibly dangerous,
and one is not always a lonely number.
Always have one phone number you can call
to get help when you’re in a jam.
And remember, if it hurts someone,
don’t do it.
Air
The following is a poem I wrote to my ex wife, about six years before she was my ex, when things first started going bad, when my condition first started effecting our marriage. I took her to a nice little spot we both liked and gave it to her to read. She was untouched, just said, “Yeah, you haven’t talked much lately.” She is very concrete, was looking for more than just words on a page, she wanted to see actions, results. I was crushed, and discouraged, seeing that we were so far apart, that this labor of love of mine was the best I could do, and it wasn’t enough. I was already doing the best I could. I would say the most important thing in a marriage is to truly listen, be present with your whole self, and respond. In a word, Therese, compassion.
AIR
Tender lays me down on the mountainside.
Takes me kindly and well in the trees.
Loves me lightly and holds me quietly by the waters edge.
Let me dream of you and me far from here
in a world of water and wood and sky.
I’ll light a quick and noisy little fire
In the crisp and brittle morning air
so clean it rings with clarity
like a newly struck bell.
Gentle, fresh and strikingly new each morning.
This mountain morning air,
the breathe of God,
so clear its almost not there
yet is everywhere, present at all times
in clean and startlingly gentle power.
It is defined as much by what it is not
as by what it is.
Not heavy, not close, not stifling damp.
Not pressing with intent
nor crowded with memories.
So clear it is not there.
It doesn’t fill you too full,
too soon when you breathe,
nor does it leave you empty.
This mountain morning air,
sometimes so cold and crisp
it hurts going in,
then makes a strange warmth in your chest
as you draw on its healing power,
then let go in that moist, lingering cloud.
It invites you to draw deeply and often
and leaves you feeling new.
I have loved you long but not too well.
and you have been there patient, tolerant, true.
Let me begin fresh.
Let me draw deep and long
of His breath and hold Him within me
and let go of all the rest in a cloud.
And I shall be clean and clear,
not full, not pressing,
not chased or bent by memory.
Present at all times
yet so light and true and aware
that I shall hardly seem to be there at all
when presence is not what we need.
Let me be rid of the pain,
and the weight,
and the voices.
May I find focus
and discipline
and peace.
And maybe we’ll talk.
and maybe it will matter
that I worked so hard
and things will be better.
I’m just so wore out all the time.
There’s so much going on in my head,
a plump, pubescent boy
who wants more than anything to be a girl
and a skinny, angry teenager
who wants more than anything
to strike out and self destruct
and it seems almost impossible
to talk to you about it.
I’m always afraid of the way
you’ll respond to what I say.
I don’t know if you believe me sometimes
I feel angry a lot these days.
Not buried deep like it used to be
but right near the surface.
I know i’ve been a jerk sometimes.
It takes energy for me to be a good husband,
a good person, and I don’t have much energy right now.
I can’t tell you
just what’s wrong,
I can’t seem to see it or feel it
Perhaps it is like the air,
in me around me,
part of me.
Maybe I carry it with me all the time
and can go nowhere without it.
I seem to have gone nowhere with it, so far.
And I will lightly lay you down
in earshot of the creek,
in newly sprouted eel grass,
in the sand beyond the brush.
On a blanket smelling strongly of grandchildren.
I will kiss your lips so tenderly
you might reach out with yours.
And will touch you once again
with fluid passion fearlessly.
And I will be there gently
clean, clear, true and cool.
And you will be there deeply true,
gentle as always,
clean, clear, true, and warm.
and I will be there...
and I will be there...
and I will be there.
As you might suspect I am an insecure, self centered person desparate for praise and validation. A frustrated, undisciplined writer, unable to focus enough to put it all to gether. I am often ruled by my dysfunction and beat myself up often. by turns arrogant and self abusive. But I am at times peaceful these days because I have found that God truly does love me and if I really work at being mindful of him, I function and feel so much better. It is not in asking him to be with me, for he always is (yet I still beg him to be) it is in my removing the barriers I place between He and I. Arrogance and self centeredness destroyed my marriage more than my wife's not understanding or apreciating me. I would say to all looking for a way to make a better marriage, lay out your heart to your mate, risk being rejected, you will probably be wonderfully surprised at what happens, Be subordinate to one another, which is what Paul really says (Ephesians), serve one another, which is what Jesus says. Out do one another in showing honor (Paul, Romans), and "over all these, put on love, the bond of perfection."
(Col 3:14, truly Pauline), and 1 Coronthians 13 is still a beautiful hymn to love,no matter its psychological origins, and to say "do as I say, not as I do", is an archaic understanding of the church, pre Vatican II, not at all in keeping with the church I have come to know and love in the past 20 years. Love is patient, love is kind, love is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests...It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. How can this be wrong? Love is of God. the love Paul trys to desribe, be it based on his faults or not, it is love. Is it not what we all seek? Sadly, unconditional love is only possible for God, for the trinity, we seem always to screw it up, sooner or later, but the kind of love Paul describes understands this, and still loves. Be nice to one another, Isn't that the first thing we are taught when we step out into the world, play nice?
AIR
Tender lays me down on the mountainside.
Takes me kindly and well in the trees.
Loves me lightly and holds me quietly by the waters edge.
Let me dream of you and me far from here
in a world of water and wood and sky.
I’ll light a quick and noisy little fire
In the crisp and brittle morning air
so clean it rings with clarity
like a newly struck bell.
Gentle, fresh and strikingly new each morning.
This mountain morning air,
the breathe of God,
so clear its almost not there
yet is everywhere, present at all times
in clean and startlingly gentle power.
It is defined as much by what it is not
as by what it is.
Not heavy, not close, not stifling damp.
Not pressing with intent
nor crowded with memories.
So clear it is not there.
It doesn’t fill you too full,
too soon when you breathe,
nor does it leave you empty.
This mountain morning air,
sometimes so cold and crisp
it hurts going in,
then makes a strange warmth in your chest
as you draw on its healing power,
then let go in that moist, lingering cloud.
It invites you to draw deeply and often
and leaves you feeling new.
I have loved you long but not too well.
and you have been there patient, tolerant, true.
Let me begin fresh.
Let me draw deep and long
of His breath and hold Him within me
and let go of all the rest in a cloud.
And I shall be clean and clear,
not full, not pressing,
not chased or bent by memory.
Present at all times
yet so light and true and aware
that I shall hardly seem to be there at all
when presence is not what we need.
Let me be rid of the pain,
and the weight,
and the voices.
May I find focus
and discipline
and peace.
And maybe we’ll talk.
and maybe it will matter
that I worked so hard
and things will be better.
I’m just so wore out all the time.
There’s so much going on in my head,
a plump, pubescent boy
who wants more than anything to be a girl
and a skinny, angry teenager
who wants more than anything
to strike out and self destruct
and it seems almost impossible
to talk to you about it.
I’m always afraid of the way
you’ll respond to what I say.
I don’t know if you believe me sometimes
I feel angry a lot these days.
Not buried deep like it used to be
but right near the surface.
I know i’ve been a jerk sometimes.
It takes energy for me to be a good husband,
a good person, and I don’t have much energy right now.
I can’t tell you
just what’s wrong,
I can’t seem to see it or feel it
Perhaps it is like the air,
in me around me,
part of me.
Maybe I carry it with me all the time
and can go nowhere without it.
I seem to have gone nowhere with it, so far.
And I will lightly lay you down
in earshot of the creek,
in newly sprouted eel grass,
in the sand beyond the brush.
On a blanket smelling strongly of grandchildren.
I will kiss your lips so tenderly
you might reach out with yours.
And will touch you once again
with fluid passion fearlessly.
And I will be there gently
clean, clear, true and cool.
And you will be there deeply true,
gentle as always,
clean, clear, true, and warm.
and I will be there...
and I will be there...
and I will be there.
As you might suspect I am an insecure, self centered person desparate for praise and validation. A frustrated, undisciplined writer, unable to focus enough to put it all to gether. I am often ruled by my dysfunction and beat myself up often. by turns arrogant and self abusive. But I am at times peaceful these days because I have found that God truly does love me and if I really work at being mindful of him, I function and feel so much better. It is not in asking him to be with me, for he always is (yet I still beg him to be) it is in my removing the barriers I place between He and I. Arrogance and self centeredness destroyed my marriage more than my wife's not understanding or apreciating me. I would say to all looking for a way to make a better marriage, lay out your heart to your mate, risk being rejected, you will probably be wonderfully surprised at what happens, Be subordinate to one another, which is what Paul really says (Ephesians), serve one another, which is what Jesus says. Out do one another in showing honor (Paul, Romans), and "over all these, put on love, the bond of perfection."
(Col 3:14, truly Pauline), and 1 Coronthians 13 is still a beautiful hymn to love,no matter its psychological origins, and to say "do as I say, not as I do", is an archaic understanding of the church, pre Vatican II, not at all in keeping with the church I have come to know and love in the past 20 years. Love is patient, love is kind, love is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests...It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. How can this be wrong? Love is of God. the love Paul trys to desribe, be it based on his faults or not, it is love. Is it not what we all seek? Sadly, unconditional love is only possible for God, for the trinity, we seem always to screw it up, sooner or later, but the kind of love Paul describes understands this, and still loves. Be nice to one another, Isn't that the first thing we are taught when we step out into the world, play nice?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)