Tuesday, November 26, 2013

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.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

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.

Friday, November 22, 2013

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.