The Door

I will forever be the girl waiting by the door, waiting for you to let me in, to sit me down, to tell me all will be okay, that I will be okay, that I am accepted, that I am loved. But you can't always come to the door. You are too busy, too preoccupied with other matters, matters that are more important than my insecurities. You won't always catch me standing there, won't always feel this yearning, my longing to be received. Many times, you'll fail to notice that I am even around. Why bother with me? On the surface, I am strong with a tough exterior, my emotions are contained like the Queen of Swords, not giving away too much but just enough so that others know I am not bothered. But inside, the wall around my heart has already crumbled. She knows not where to go, how to move. She's forced to remain still so that I can take a good look at her. She's no fool. She's broken and she knows it.

No one fusses over me. It does not matter where you place me, whether in a pile of dirt or a bush of burrs, and for how long, I remain silent and alone never uttering a single complaint. It had always been this way. I imagine it will be this way for good. When I was a child, no one had time for kisses and caresses, for storytelling or lullabies. Parents deem themselves fortunate when their child doesn't whine or ask for anything. But when the child grows up, he has learned not to ask for help either.

I wait for you to see but my buffer is stronger than I. I am self-sufficient after all, as a result. Like a pillar, I stand tall and erect. I can't easily be swayed or manipulated. The other thinks I can be because of the way I tilt my head, the words I use, or the language my body speaks but they would be mistaken. These are the ways of the sword, my sword and I am always a step ahead even though on the surface it may appear to be the opposite. Appearances cannot be trusted. What if I allowed myself to fall? Will anyone be around to lay a rug down before me so that my fall is less bruising? I doubt that very much. How can I depend on that kind of help, the kind of help that's really and genuinely required?

You offer peanut butter and crackers. I want peaches and cream. You whisper to be strong but perhaps strength is to be found in allowing myself to be weak. I must stop pretending if only for a little while, must stop pretending that I am above all of this hurt.

Every time you leave me waiting at the door, I feel like I don't belong, like I belong no where. And for some reason, I think of Jesus and then a power comes, an electrical current runs through me and suddenly, I no longer have these feelings. I belong to myself, completely self-possessed. The help I need comes from within fueled by faith and hope. These have not failed me. Ever. I am human though, far too human, in a light I had not seen myself before and this displeases me.

I don't wish to need anything or anyone. Too many disappointments. Far too many let downs. That is the way of the human. I want to be more than human. But first I must forgive, otherwise I will simply fail to be, simply fail to become. How does one forgive with a sword in hand?

Necessity

If I should see
What I could be
I will love Thee
Honorably.

This need not be difficult. But it is. It is. I have failed in all the ways you've needed me to succeed. I am sorry. Sorry for these little interjections, these tiny hiccups that tend to create insurmountable mountains with their breath. I am sorry for my shortcomings, for this personality that hangs on for dear life.

I see what I can be when I lose--an argument, a game. I see what I can be when I persist and insist I do not need to win. You smile your little smile and I worry. I worry I will not be heard or is it that I will be? You must see beyond me and these layers. You must not listen to a word I say. I lie and do not know it. Forgive me for I know not what I say. Forgive me for I know not what I do.

How I wish to share these things that I've seen. How I wish to connect. God knows how alone I have felt on this side. But to cross this line would create a loneliness I could not bear. To go back to a life I no longer recognize. To find no comfort where there once was, you cannot fathom what this tastes like when you find yourself in this place, when you've traveled so far to get where you now stand and even so, they have only been tiny steps, just tiny steps. How much farther one must go...it is overwhelming.

But what am I to do? Tell me. Speak. It is this heart that leads. I do not know the why or the how of it, but I am certain it is my heart that leads. And I follow. Willingly. Without doubt. Blindly? No, not quite. There is a faith here I trust. It is still too early to trust myself so I must rely on something else. I see that this something else is greater than I.

Do not give up on me. I mean well even in my stupidity and insecurities, in my reactions. I'm not asleep all of the time. Sometimes I am truly awake and I can see you in the far distance above and beyond this world.

"Poor in Spirit & Crazy"

He thinks I get a hit from all of this. Then may this be the high, the tiny spark that spawns and fuels creativity. How else shall I work with this? This hit that makes me feel alive and beautiful. Pained and disgusting. He does not understand the mechanics of what is happening inside of me right now. He is like a puppet, a parrot, one who mimics his master. And he thinks he is speaking from an authentic place. He does not see how Mother Mary has my back, how she takes a silent but active stance in my life. Man and woman will always be a universe apart. He is becoming exactly that which he decided long ago, never to be. I pity him.

And master does not believe in dream. Kills it at every turn. I don't understand how one can do all that work and still lack compassion. He will use the excuse that he is just a man, full of flaws, only human. But if you point them out to him, if you hold the mirror up, he takes great offense. And why? Because he expects the other to change but does not demand the same from himself. He wants to go on living like he is teacher but lacks humility to learn from student. Let no one tell me what is acceptable or not. Let no one throw back in my face that which they do not wish to transform in themselves. That is not the game I am playing. He fails to understand that I am the real who can see. He speaks to me as though I am in need of a certain kind of guidance. He cannot help me. I see who and what he is behind the curtain.

And this is when the pain comes, so relentless and piercing. What is it in him that I gravitate towards? What is it? How can I want that which hurts me? How can I trust that which consistently lacks heart and sensitivity, that which is cold, that which does not change or transform? What does this say about me? I am trying to live in that space the Sufis speak of, to see him from another place inside of me. This must be why. But he disappoints. And I don't have any more time to give...to him. He has shown clearly what he can do with my gifts. I can no longer feel bad about how I feel, pretend that these feelings of doubt do not matter, that they do not tell a story. Feeling bad just keeps me stuck and in my place. Too much power is given away at the expense of myself.

But maybe I only see what I want to see. Maybe the real is the dream. Maybe he really is good. But how can I believe in someone who tells me to forgive him his indiscretions, time and time again, when he does not extend the same openness in return? Maybe I don't want to believe that someone can be that self serving. If he only takes that which he needs, only gives that which he does not miss, then what becomes of that person whom he takes from, whom he gives to? How is it reciprocal? How is it equal? How is it sound and true? I will forgive him his indiscretions but he does not need to be a part of my life for me to do this. What a realization. I will not in any way become like the others, not today or tomorrow. Not ever. He knows full well I will never become what he'd hoped he could get from me. I am no puppet.

I see what is required. But the dream gets in the way. You see, the dream and what is required are not the same. I don't know how to work with this when my hands are tied. I simply can't do anything. I am forced to remain still and wait patiently. For what? I do not know exactly. But I understand, it is the only way.

And let's say, I did give in. Then what? I will become like the woman in Rider Waite's, the Devil card, bound to that which does not Love, that which controls and possesses. I will lose my power and dignity. And for what? Gratification? The fulfillment of desire? I would rather lead and be silent like the High Priestess, be tied to nothing and no one. To be self-possessed. That is Freedom. Liberty. It does not matter what I want. It only matters what is right and just. What we want is transient and I cannot rely on the temporary. I am fortunate to be able to see this. Truthfully, I really must thank him for this kind of awareness.

Man is weak. He'll concoct every possible scenario to justify why his behaviour is okay, even convince himself he's doing it for the greater good. But he is asleep! He does it for himself. Only for himself. That's why it is up to each of us to uphold some kind of standard if we want to keep our self-respect, if we want to be real. He can not give me that. No one can.

I must have given the impression that I was a fool. When the opening came, I thought I had been given an opportunity to make things right, to go back to the way things were. But Mary whispered, "No, that is not it. You must look inside." And then I saw it, as clear as day, I saw what she meant. She had provided the opportunity for me to speak, for me to see the truth - as I had been asking for days and almost forgot I had asked - and with that, I saw that it was the end of a chapter. That it did not matter how I was perceived, whether I was understood. That the only way to begin again, was to turn the page. And so I did. I turned the page. My Mary, my saving Grace, how could I have ever doubted that you would come through?

Redemption

I walk down this grey hallway. I can hear my steps, the humming sound in the walls, a moan, a murmur from deep within. I am alone but I am not alone. Here, I remember. I remember who I am.

Here, I do not ask, do not pray, do not want or need. Then I feel a kind of power vibrate. And I know without any doubt, that my choice to be alone, on my own, for this little time, in this space, is right and good and true.

I am influenced by nothing and no one. There is a protective layer so thick that surrounds me, one could mistaken it for a defense mechanism. This interpretation would be incorrect, though. It is just my voice shining through. Finally, that subdued voice has had a chance to come through in all its glory with purpose and meaning. It has barreled through the density of thought and feeling and in doing so, has helped this density become lighter. It disperses right before my eyes and I can sense the lightness from the inside too.

Do you want vulnerability? Do you want me to break down and open up, so that you can help me rebuild anew? Is this what you want from me or for me? I had better trust you first. This requires that you lead by example. This requires that you walk your talk. Otherwise, this protective layer does indeed become my wall, and rightfully so. I can’t rely on anyone who won’t make attempts to catch me when I fall, he who gives only that which he does not miss...

When you’ve had enough, your body, heart and mind look for refuge. The stillness within will not betray or lead you astray. One’s former self begins to dissolve and one can see things more clearly. There is one catch, though. You may not like what you discover, what you see, not only about yourself but about the other, too. In this space, we are equal. Out there, one must be cautious, must use discernment. The people we meet on our path will always be for our own learning, although, not necessarily for our own good.

It’s just the past catching up to me, the unsaid rushing in like a river demanding to be heard. The shades are raised and the sun is shining through in all its beauty. What was I thinking? Where was my sword? Why did I doubt its power in my time of need?

I am amazed how one night under the sheets can bring so much clarity in the morning. What workings take place during sleep? I underestimate sleep’s ability to awaken. May I never doubt again. I am grateful and in awe at how my helpers come. They are kind and merciful, only merciless when they need to be, when it is imperative I see that which must not be hidden from me any longer.

I must learn to discern when guardedness is appropriate, when it is for my own protection, when it is a reflection of the voice coming through as a form of help. I see now how my voice persisted, insisted because I had been taking far too long in accepting its advice. But still it was patient and unwavering and for this, I will forever be indebted. May I never falter again.

Release

I've been avoiding this but the Muse will not have it. She demands I speak. No time for little dramas. No time for ignorance or pretend. No time for lies or dormant hurts. Yet, all must be raised and released.

When love becomes restrictive, then it is no longer love. I made it to the front of the line. When our eyes met, I saw that he had already received me. He poured into my cup and when I walked away, I saw that the cup had already been filled...with my tears. He laughed at me. No, not with me. But, at me.

My heart expanded beyond me, around me, filled every crack and crevice. But he could not see me. He does not see me, who and what I am. I speak but he does not hear. I reach for him, but he does not sense. I cry but he does not feel. It is hard to see a man who is covered under layers of debris and dirt, filth and darkness. I gave him my loyalty, my dedication, my admiration wanting nothing in return except for honesty, truth and beauty. Apparently, I had asked for too much.

He makes a fool of himself in front of the others. Behaves stupidly, cowardly, deceptively. I saw through all of that. I stood erect with my dress, a symbol of my honour but he wanted none of it. He wanted the small. I did not understand how he could want the meaningless and the insignificant. And so, with my hand, I grabbed hold of my foolish heart and placed it back within its chambers. Gently, I scolded it, told her this was not the way for he is undeserving. She acquiesced even though she did not understand.

With my hands, I rubbed my face, gently swept over my neck and breasts, along my stomach and settled upon my abdomen. With my head looking down, I could not believe the heaviness and dread one can feel in this realm. I see that I want to avoid it, to run from it, but it is no use. Because I am aware of this tendency, I stay still and frozen to experience this pain more, until it no longer consumes me, until I can see it for what it is and release it. There's so much to say, so much to make right but it is pointless. And with this realization, the hurt becomes larger. I am too weak for this. But Mary whispers and says, "No, that is untrue. You will transform this hurt until it becomes something else." I ask, "How much longer?" And she says, "You must be patient. All good things come to those who wait. But you must work on it now."

I knew this day would come, when I would have to choose. It was all over the cards. I pleaded with her. I asked if she was sure. She insisted and persisted until I could no longer ignore her. I asked why I couldn't have both. In her gentle way, she helped me see that was simply impossible. "One of them must go." I asked, "Why?" "Because, if you don't, you will eventually lose both." She added, "With sacrifice, I assure you, other gifts will come. You will see."

So, I take this pain and embrace it. I smother it with love and acceptance. What else am I supposed to do? If I do not acknowledge and appreciate it, I will become bitter. That I can not allow. It is not an option. This pain and I will become friends for a little while and she will teach me what I need to learn and then, with gratitude, I will let her go.

Merciful Suffering

I walk along a path in the forest. The trees stand tall and beautiful. They welcome and greet me every time they catch wind of me. I place my right hand over my chest, my left hand over my lower back. I like the feel of my satin dress. I admire the ruby colour, the sound of my breath in this quiet space, a home away from home. My eyes marvel at everything here, every leaf and flower. I am peculiarly intoxicated by the light shimmering through the tiny openings and spaces between the trees, the way it creates a misty golden hue over that which it touches. Ah, what heaven! Let nothing or no one take this away from me. This is my refuge. Here, I am accepted. Here, I am loved...unconditionally.

I find a tree to sit by. I'm always looking for a tree. They have seen it all, weathered every storm, witnessed the joys and sorrows of our time, our ancestors, and I pray they will continue to be after we have passed on. I hear a whisper. Tell me how you feel. I pat my hair down along the sides over my ears, down my face and neck and find that my hands have joined in prayer. I then place them on my lap. My body is tired. Well, it's questioning. The throbbing won't stop. In my legs and arms, my chest. There is pain but not the kind one dies from physically. It is spiritual in nature and so very difficult to contend with.

I feel myself. I sense my aliveness. I am everywhere. But, I am alone. How is this possible? Am I spiritually lacking? Am I longing for something that cannot be attained here? Are there holes that simply cannot be filled? And maybe this is the point. They are not meant to be filled. If I become whole, I will desire nothing. I am not ready to desire no thing. I think magic resides in wanting and not being able to satisfy this want. I don't think liberation comes from not creating attachments. That is not enough. It occurs in the active process of inaction - to desire while knowing it cannot, must not, and will not be. It is a kind of suffering that is merciful in quality. A merciful suffering.

There is tenderness in the suffering. I did not think this could be possible but it is true. This suffering does not take away. It gives. It abides by the law of reciprocation. But first, there must be a shift in perception because the heart will not understand. The mind must be gentle in its delivery or the heart will resist wanting. The heart must not be made to resist because then, another kind of pain ensues which is like a thief. When this happens, the magic is gone - and there, hope goes with it. That would be a great shame.

My heart is open. My body is ripe to receive. My mind awaits my command. I notice there is a pool of water deep in the forest. Even here, the light manages to find a way to pierce through and bounce off the water like tiny stars and sparkles. I remove my dress, my stockings, earrings, and necklace. I slide into my emotions, this sensuality - the water and I, we are one. I hear a whisper again traveling in the air. Tell me more. I move my body towards the sound, my chest rising and falling, as my breathing deepens. I respond, You will not get from me what I am not willing to give. You will not be that which sustains me. Be gone. You are not invited here.

And then I remember. I need the contrast. How else will I know myself? Contrasts are good even when they are painful, especially because they are painful. I retract. I whisper, You can stay on one condition. The wind picks up speed. My black hair feels cold against my skin. I quiver when I say, You must tempt me all day and all night so that I will resist you, not with my heart, but with my body only. In this way, you and I will both gain, but I, more than you.

LINES

It’s easy to get lost in the wilderness, easy to get lost in dream. When the ego and dream meet, life gets sticky and the line becomes blurred, the line between the real and the false. Yet, the false magnifies beyond proportion so you can never say you did not know, that you could not see. The false begins to envelop you, flow through you, swirl around you and you cannot deny what is being presented. But you dance the little dance because ego is greater than you until you are so consumed by it that suddenly the false becomes the truth, your truth. Now, you have a little problem on your hands.

One must never let the false become truth.

Now, you find yourself playing with want and need. Life used to be so much simpler when I was a child and I did not care either way, when doubt was non-existent, and I was pure. Now, I tap dance between the clouds, between the illusion of my past and future, not quite satisfied with the present. What is it that awakens here in this space? I ought to be thankful for illusion. No? It serves a purpose when we bring attention to it. How am I able to recognize illusion and still be in denial?

Back in the day, Jesus and I, we had a little talk and I shared a few things. He knew what I wished for, what I longed for, what was in my heart. I also understood quite early, that what he wished for me would not mesh with what I wished for myself, at least, not in any way that made sense to me. Jesus moves in circles. I like keeping things straight. He keeps moving the lines, keeps creating spaces and more spaces with lines in places I had not imagined. He and I, we understand each other, to a point. I don’t remember a time when he was not there. He tells me there are things I can have and things I cannot have and that this is right and one day I will understand.

But even when he speaks, I see myself playing with the lines, drawing them back to the way I think they ought to be placed. And he smiles because he knows it is the only way I’ll see what I need to see...the hard way. These lines, the more I play with them, they get heavier, harder to move, to manipulate, like I’m playing a game I cannot win because I’m playing by rules I don’t understand.

My Beloved, he is so persistent and unwavering. I cannot escape him. Not that I really want to. It’s just that, he expects me to always have an open heart, beyond myself. He keeps telling me I can contain more and more and more. I argue with him. I tell him I don’t understand how that is possible without breaking down, without getting sick, without losing my foothold, without bursting. Then he continues, "Well yes, if you don’t give it away, if you don’t share. You must let it flow..." I ask him why he has to bother with me like this. He says I’m seeing this all from the wrong place. Ugh.

Sometimes when we sit together, his eyes are fixed on a certain spot. I just stare at him. I love looking at him. With him, I do not worry or hesitate or doubt. I see all of my weaknesses and that this is okay. Through him, I can do many things. Through him, I develop strength. My tears, they flow, as though from a fountain, uncontrollably. Every now and then, he looks up and I catch a glimpse of myself. Extremely painful. His eyes move down again. I can feel his love all around. He is Love. I am obliterated in his presence.

But still, I fight with him. I wrestle. I demand he give me answers. The more I demand, the less I receive. No, no. The less I am able to see my blessings. Jesus does not withhold. He asks me why he is not enough. How can he ask this? How can he think that is fair? What does that say about me, that my Beloved is not enough? What does that mean? Doesn’t he see what I am? I am only human. He won’t let me play with conscience, won’t let me make errors. He remains stationary. In a sense, he is continually interceding in my affairs. Divine intervention, I suppose?

He protects me. He guides me. Lately, I’d like for him to take a back seat, to sit and watch from a distance, to give me some space. And so he draws closer! He sees I want to fool myself and insists this will not happen. He creates a picture around me with his finger. I am now standing barefoot in a field of grass, trees to my right, trees to my left, flowers all about, open sky, tranquil waters, unimaginable beauty and colour and scents. My face lights up. Then, he draws a snake and breathes life into it, places it by a tree near by. I stare at him perplexed. He says nothing is either good or bad. He says the snake is necessary for my development. He says I’ll learn nothing without the creature.

He says that all of these pictures he creates for me, they stem from the talk we had in the past. He says that I had asked and so he is delivering. He says that I knocked and so he opened the door. He says that I have to trust him, how he works and constructs, how he ultimately plays with the lines. When he sees that I am ready, he will let me create my own pictures.