Templates

I see now, growing old is a luxury.
We ought to focus more on aging gratefully,
 than gracefully.
 Life isn’t a tree we’re meant to carve our
name into the trunk of.
 We are the trees,
 and life leaves its mark upon us.
 My body will betray me
 long before my spirit breaks.
 Each wrinkle, a well-earned reminder of all
 the ways by face wears happiness.
 I’ve lost too many people,
seen enough lights snuffed out early,
to walk these roads begrudgingly.
Or with envy.
Or with anything other than appreciation.
I’ll take every step left affectionately.

When the day comes,
feed the earth our flesh and bones,
knowing that from where we lie
love grows.

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1191933939320646

There is a grace approaching
that we shun as much as death,
it is the completion of our birth.

It does not come in time,
but in timelessness
when the mind sinks into the heart
and we remember.

It is an insistent grace that draws us
to the edge and beckons us surrender
safe territory and enter our enormity.

We know we must pass
beyond knowing
and fear the shedding.

But we are pulled upward
none-the-less
through forgotten ghosts
and unexpected angels,
luminous.

And there is nothing left to say
but we are That.

And that is what we sing about.

Every day at the park
the dog goes mad chasing squirrels
that he will never catch. The busyness
of the squirrels is unending,
and so is his pursuit. He has no concern
for sense or safety, would gladly
follow his obsession
in front of an oncoming car.
And so every day we practice
coming back. I call his name,
and mostly, on a good day,
he circles gleefully around to me
before heading out again.
Every day, over and over,
that futile chase and the return.
Every day, a galloping dharma talk
on the discipline of calling out again
to my scattered mind,
to my grasping soul,
that it is time to come home.

In twenty thousand years, when the dust settles on this earth
and the despair, and
its fires burn out, and it recovers from horrors that today seem endless,
and the planet returns to what it was twenty millennia ago—
green with blue water, and white clouds always—
then we will meet.

We will arrive as we did the first time:
without shields, without weapons,
eyes open to the soul,
whose question is a key,
whose answer is a haven,
whose language travels—like waves of light on ether—the distance between us,
       beyond speech.

We’re going to need that time. Perhaps more.
For the volcanoes to cool,
and lamps to light the first, second, and third skies,
for the trees to reform into forests extending in all directions,
for light rays to return to their source—gold’s and silver’s light—and you and I:
You will see me and fall into my arms.
I will see you and fall into your arms.

West Bank, 2023

God said Let there be light
and we stood before the sun
shed the daylight from our selves
and donned dusk

God said Let there be light
and a moth emerged
from my molasses-black chrysalis

God said Let there be light
and we became
our blackest selves

God said Let there be light
and we became our own gods

God said Let there be light
and from the shade we watched
the sky shine her brightest

Let there be light
and day became
seemingly so

Let there be light
and night was never so black

Let there be light
and flesh became skin

and skin became colored

and the light was let in the house

and the cotton rose in the fields

and the master’s tools took shape

and an ocean kept us apart

and the indigo washed the coastline

and blue-black hands worked their fingers to the bone

and the rivers teemed with teeth

and barks ran through the woods

and the days grew darker

and the heavens rose beyond our reach

and God’s absence became apparent

and smoke poured over the mountain’s edge

and the fields filled with fire

and there was light

The moon is full tonight ….

It’s as full as it was
in that poem by Coleridge
where he carries his year-old son
into the orchard behind the cottage
and turns the baby’s face to the sky
to see for the first time
the earth’s bright companion,
something amazing to make his crying seem small.

And if you wanted to follow this example,
tonight would be the night
to carry some tiny creature outside
and introduce him to the moon.

And if your house has no child,
you can always gather into your arms
the sleeping infant of yourself,
as I have done tonight,
and carry him outdoors,
all limp in his tattered blanket,
making sure to steady his lolling head
with the palm of your hand.

And while the wind ruffles the pear trees
in the corner of the orchard
and dark roses wave against a stone wall,
you can turn him on your shoulder
and walk in circles on the lawn
drunk with the light.
You can lift him up into the sky,
your eyes nearly as wide as his,
as the moon climbs high into the night.