I think the word “trust”
and my heart cowers, trembling,
trying to squeeze
into the tiniest corner it can find,
to be left alone to pick up
a million shattered pieces,
find utmost tenderness
in the wake of a thousand heartaches.
There are so many ways of falling apart,
each feeling like a well-trodden road
that can take you to your place of pain
with the great ease of the unburdened.
The climb back, out, in the other direction,
the monumental effort of this.
The ache of one tiny swivel of the head,
the reward is instant.
Right there, just off to the side
on the road of worry,
a tree, gargantuan, protector and protected.
It makes no promises, asks nothing of you.
So you are drawn here, slowly, to observe,
(still clutching your aching heart)
the great way of the tree,
standing through all seasons,
accepting of its plush plenitude
and bear nakedness alike,
harming no thing,
nourishing as it is nourished
only to the extent that it can,
so that it always has what it needs,
the great lesson in this.
The great miracle
of being teaching being,
of all that is offered, all the salves
to a heart in need of healing.
Maybe you are tired (you are not alone).
The brightness, the lighness of step
receded, past resistance, to memory.
It’s been like this maybe for years;
you’ve stopped just shy of wondering
what happens between the early years
of boundless joy and laughter, and now,
and why and how and by whose design
we’ve come to decide on a version of life
less saturated, sparkling and true.
But something stirs. It is inside you,
a gem that cannot be buried long.
It pulses, takes you on the first steps
of a journey you could not have known.
There you are, as if grace itself appeared
to lift the veil, and so you do. And see,
you are standing, has it always been like this?
On the lost wing of stunning remains:
a one-winged butterfly, larger than any legend,
resting for awhile on a mount only rising.
The hint of absence.
I can feel
that I carry grief in me
that is far older
than I’ll ever be.
I know that this
is one of so many things
that unites me to you,
us to each other.
Let us take extra care.
We are visible.
We are invisible.
We do not always know
what we wear,
what visits, haunts,
confuses, wrecks us.
What is harbored,
what needs to emerge,
what needs to be held
With all our love.
How about, just for now,
this one small moment,
nothing but this:
As far as I can see,
the world as a history of origins,
life coming into being,
and I dissolve right into
a time that predates me,
and the greens are readying
for the birds that will land for rest,
the sweet supple leaves plump and open,
and the sky, our shelter and window,
has not yet had to bear witness to the atrocities,
the trees are not yet scorched or felled.
But I do not have to travel in time
or let my imagination take over.
I can be braver.
I can stay.
I can let what is, is.
And I can look at my fear
until it turns into love.
Imagine if life were just a little longer,
so that we could paint more of our experiences
onto the unfolding landscape perpetually receding
deeper and deeper into our expansive distance
(before we can grab it, never to let go).
Imagine if life were just a little shorter,
so that we could rest those worries on holy ground,
about how to prepare for all that inevitable time,
the interminable stretch of years to be filled
(that we still fear, if we are honest, losing).
Imagine if just like that, the perspective shifts,
and life were exactly what it was, and we as we are,
and notions of time faded into the beautiful ether
as we found ourselves reaching no further than here
(Imagine the happiness of living embodied and true).
Under the Hidden Sun
I am you; I am not you.
It is as simple
And as complicated as this.
I, like you,
Can never be
Where or who or what I am not.
I cannot have been
Where I never was.
Only love …
Love knows better than we do
Where I end and you begin,
She is the destination,
Immanent, within us.
I believe that love
Transcends the borders
Of our identities born and made,
The we who we are,
And who we are not,
And might yet be.
Let us not fall into
The dark hole of
We have seen where this goes.
Let us be still, in silence,
So we can find
Our capacity to love,
And the space in which
A power that, if we let it,
Makes us more invincible
The more we give of it,
As we live in love,
Vulnerable, perfect, free.
Let us need one another,
All of us,
The me that I am,
The you that I am not,
The us that we are.