Refuge

I see Jesus in the distance, his arm and hand outstretched.

I move towards him. He tells me to sit next to him, on a bench in the park by three trees. The grass is lush and spectacularly, green. I dare not look at him, but his gaze and silence reach for me and so, I turn my head to the right.

"What is it?", he asks. "Nothing, my Lord. Nothing." "Your eyes tell otherwise. You know you can't hide from me. Why would you want to? I accept you." In my quietness and downward pose, I thank him, softly, tenderly. He knows I love him dearly.

I feel misunderstood. I feel voiceless. I feel that it is a challenge that I will forever find difficult to overcome. I want to be seen, to be truly accepted, to be revered, to be treasured.

Then, the tears come and my sound is deep. He touches my hair, then takes a tear drop with his finger and places it on his cheek. I am speechless. My tears stop. I reach for his face and take my thumb and wipe away my tear. He says, "No need for that. I will help carry the burden."

I look for you in man. I've been looking for you my entire life. I'm sorry, but, I cannot see. Perhaps, he does not exist...here, that is...here. In my quest, there are only silhouettes, only dreams, and visions of what is not...here.

I look up and see the stars. Stars! I have forgotten that they are stars. We have forgotten what we are looking at! Poets and philosophers, musicians and writers, they grab hold of a thing and they delve into it, wholeheartedly. I want to be delved into, wholeheartedly. Who will reach my depths? Who will even want to?

I want you to be enough. But, I was born so that I would see what I am supposed to see. Let me be the instrument that you choose to express yourself, through. I bow my head to you. I bow my head. But, please don't ask me to bow to man. I cannot. I will not. He is not worthy. He is broken. He is fallible. He, no matter what strength he draws upon, will be ruled by his ego. Why should that be so?

How can we live up to any ideal? If too ideal, one is rendered a hopeless romantic. If not ideal enough, a cynic and a pessimist.

Do you value me, my Lord? I aim to attract what you are but, I fail...not miserably...but, I fail, nonetheless. And you know that I am not perfect, that I am flawed...so, so flawed...and you tell me, that they're precisely why you love me, more.

You say to me, "Go where you see my face. Embrace the space where I reside." And I have. Have I not? Tell me, my Lord. Have I not? You smile. You show me that my intuition is sharp, that it is my guiding light, that where there is light, there you are. And I place my faith in this, because it is the only thing that is truly, truly, real...the only thing that speaks to my heart, directly.

You lurk in the shadows, too. You lurk in places I have yet to go to, places I am, currently, blind to. But, you are patient. You make no demands, because you understand my heart. You understand the depth of my cup.

I offer you my cup. Drink from it, the way I drink from yours. Let my well be replenished because I am running on empty. I am thirsty. You're the only one I will ever look up to.

And then you take me by surprise when you tell me to stand and you remain on your knees. I don't understand. What do you want me to see? To comprehend? You bow your head in humility and I sob because it makes no sense to me...why you would bow to me? And you say, "I bow to all that is true and beautiful in you...all that is false and ugly in you."

I reach for your chin and you grab hold of my hand. "I bow to the goddess in you. Accept this and you shall never suffer, again. You have my word. You will not find a resting place in man, only comfort, and it shall be temporary, at best. I am your refuge."

The Two Gardens

I sit in the center of this garden. The green grass is lush and shiny. I feel a breeze caress my cheek. I'm comfortable. Yet, I am lacking. What am I lacking?

The rose bush is huge with thorns in hidden places. How her sight and scent lures and entices only to prick you when your approach is too eager, aggressive and without care. I am reminded of myself. My skin is soft, my hair, silky. If you come too close and too fast, you'll wish you hadn't.

I'm not alone, here. I used to think that I was. In the silence, I can hear the music of the spheres, of my spheres, peaks and valleys. I want to be understood, to be accepted, to...be. I hear a voice, a familiar one, being carried on the wind, moving towards me. I'm too busy looking at the spilled cups to appreciate the ones I have standing.

That's when I notice another garden, in my mind's eye. There, the grass is lush, too, the rose bushes, grand and majestic. But, there is an unusual tiny flower tucked away in the corner of the earth. I'm attracted to this little flower, this lonely flower that sits quietly, and asks for nothing. I bring focus to it. I imagine what it would be like to go to it, to tend to it, to marvel at its texture between my fingers.

I ought to accept where I am, because here is all there is.

Where does change come in? When is it necessary? To get on another trajectory? When is a state of dissatisfaction a true sign to move instead of a reflection of a resistance to what is?

This flower, that's caught my attention, is humble. It's unique. It's beautiful. It's tender. And I'm a feeler and so, I want to give to it, water it, love it. It's not enough to tend to it in my mind's eye. I wish to be near it.

True, I can love from afar. I can love everything and nothing. There is here and here is there. As above, so below. As inside, so outside. That way, the flower is always close...only a thought away.

Persian Rugs & Wooden Floors

I wanted him to love me the way I love Jesus. But, he just wanted in my pants. Should I be flattered? Because man wanted in my pants? I didn't want to go back there, come back here, to this and that space. My arms reached for the divine. My legs moved towards the sacred. My head, with eyes closed, longed to be taken. But, he just wanted in my pants.

I looked up at the clock, distracted by the sound of the hands clicking. It wasn't a distraction, though. It carried me towards a reality, a realization, a sudden understanding. Man and the Divine are not one. But, he thinks he is...connected. No, he is fragmented.

I am fragmented. There are pieces I have yet to retrieve, scattered along persian rugs and wooden floors, church halls and pews, front doors and kitchens. Even the music can't cradle me, can't save me, can't make me whole, not until I see, I see what I am.

He taught me how to dance which helped me learn how to speak the language of the angels, how to open my heart, but not how to manage the overflowing cup. Who will help me with this cup, which is greater than I?

I grabbed the sword...because he wanted in my pants and Jesus watched. Whether there or here, I am just woman. I belong to man. I am virgin and I am whore, nothing in between, and never at the same time, because man won't have it.

I choose Jesus over man every time because Jesus is not in man or is it that man is not in Jesus? I am reduced to sex. I am reduced to body. My feelings and thoughts don't have a say where they ought to, in the presence of my savior. But, he...he who opened my eyes, he who originally, gave...only took away.

When I was vulnerable in front of Jesus, I was only really vulnerable in front of man...he who only wanted in my pants. He had no interest in my mind, no interest in my heart, no interest in...me.

I'm supposed to remember how forgiveness can transform, how love can turn a caterpillar into a butterfly, how the sacred can unite. Today, I wish to forget because I remember the stench of disillusionment.

And in this moment, I persist to matter. Right now, I am, and he was never in my pants.

In My Heart, Only...

I'm tired of this guilt. I'm tired of this shame. I want to overcome these negative emotions by allowing them to serve me, by looking at them straight in the face and recognizing them for what they are...not my enemies, but my friends, my teachers...so that I can release and let them go, once and for all.

I am guilty.
In my heart, only.
There, I have sinned.
A thousand times, I have betrayed.

Will I be forgiven?

Why am I asking to be redeemed and for what, exactly?

For loving?

How is Love a sin?

I loved without action.
My love was never a verb.
I loved without betrayal.
I know my place, my lot.
My love was contained.
It was repressed.
It was expressionless.
It was punished.
It was suffocated.

For breathing?

It wasn't even my love.
It didn't belong to me at all.
It came from above and moved below.

How can I be guilty of anything?

I just loved.
I loved a limitless love.
But, I didn't love a limitless love. Did I?
I got in the way.
And I had to.
Because it was the right thing to do.
Because I am honorable.

I was just a vessel.
I was guilty for loving?
How can guilt and love exist simultaneously?
One belongs to the ego, the other, to essence.

In the world of the material,
Love is reduced to shame
because here,
I am Grace,
I am woman.
I am not "I."

Here, I belong to an other.
Here, I am sinner.
Here, I am whore.
Because I loved?
Because my eye wandered, foolishly?
Because I was caught off guard?
Because I was attracted to what I thought was light?

Love is not quantitative.
It is not linear.
It is fluid.
It cannot be measured.
How can fluid be contained when there aren't any barriers?

May I ask for forgiveness,
NOT for having loved,
but for feeling guilt when there was no need to.