Safe Place another version

I see the Bride in a circle
And the silver sword of the Spirit in her midst
The sword is revolving around the circle
One by one each person stands before its point
One by one each is shaken
And the devil shakes behind
The sword and Satan
And the people inbetween

When I am caught between the blade and the foe
God bids me be still.  Be still!
The sword is deadlier than the Devil

Let go neither of Me nor your brother’s hand
Forgive him quickly!
In the light of this sword he is no more guilty than you.

The church is in a circle
The sword of the Holy One in her midst
It revolves around the circle
One by one each soul before its point
While in his terror Satan hides behind us as his shield
The sword and Satan
And the people inbetween

My people, you know in part
But the whole matter is plain to me
Trust me
Obey me, I order you aright
Control your spirits, they are subject to you
The sword is not a weapon against you, or your brother
And you are not called to wound, but to reconcile!
Drop your finger!  Put up your hands!
My command
Love one another without measure
Beyond reason
As I have loved you.

I will deal with the snake.
Take heed to yourselves and your brethren
And see to it you grieve not my holy Spirit with your temper
He has borne much
Because of your pride, and your impatience, and your ignorance
But he will faithfully finish his work
And you will yet rejoice.

No-one escapes the sword.
But it is for your defense
To vanquish the adversary from your midst.
Know ye not that the enemies of God slay each other?
Stay your hand!  Rather be slain!
Submit your grievance to me, and accuse not!  I alone will justify.
If you submit not your pride, I will wound your pride
If you admit not your ignorance
You will move in the mighty strength of your ignorance,
And none of my power.
If you hold not your peace,
Your temper will betray you to oppression
To tyranny

Sumbit to my freedom and bend to the helmet of your salvation
Do not be found naked, but clothe yourselves with Christ.

He is gentle and meek, lowly and humble in heart
He spoke not back to his accusers, neither resisted the hand of man.

Repair the breaches.  Quickly forgive.
Reconcile with your brother
It is joy in the end

Fire, Oil and Salt 10 1991

Someday we will be wholly free
But these days, even my joy is suffering
For tasting even briefly your company
And being released even shortly in your name
Has turned me cold to the call of the world.

In the epicenter of your presence, what of man?

Now again, I am constrained to be still
To hold my peace; to bide my time
To submit and defer my hope yet again
And for your sake, I will
Because you said, Peace, be still.

And the contrast between the exultation and the waiting
Sharpens to a deadly keen
I know that you are forging me
For there is great heat and light
And then scalding in the brine
Scalding in the foaming unction that so liberally inundates me
Neither can I hear nor see
God, what metal is wrought in me
That I would judge neither by sight nor sound
But by the keening blade within.

Having been found in the holiest place
Now where else can I go?
Can earth sustain this passion?
Can the world endure this keening heart?
Or is it that thou alone art privy to the deep:
Of the salt in my soul
Aye, and yes, it is salt
The salt tear, it is a river to the ocean

With oil and salt they did burn meal unto thee
With fire and oil and salt I burn
Savor unto thee

The Rose of Sharon

When you were with us, how beautiful you were.
How you were our delight
How much more now are you your Beloved’s.

When He sent you among us, how it grieved Him to be parted from you
Now He is comforted, and we, bereaved.

And when He stole you away
It was at the urging of children
It was with a company of horses
All known to you by name
By hand
By heart
By muzzle...

Creatures of the Breath indeed
Neither Pharaoh’s chariot nor Hagar’s tent
Nor all the earth
Was fit for them
And they stamped their feet
Imploring until
Like a Lion, He slipped into that other camp
And escaped with the Rose of Sharon.

I heard Him say to thee...
“Thou are beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah
Comely as Jerusalem
Terrible as an army with banners...
As a lily among the thorns, so is my Beloved among the daughters...”
                        (Song of Songs)
Neither could He bear her death
So was she stolen.





                5/91  For Joyce Gregorian Hampshire

Faithful 5/1991

He dealt with her in His own way
And it all happened so fast
I hardly had time to believe my ears
And now, all I can do is trust His judgement
Because my time is done
And my deeds must stand as they stand.

Hold my peace, then
For I trust on my own behalf as well as hers
And put faith in a greater faith
Surrender to a love
Far more comprehensive

Caught short, I protested
I wasn’t finished--there was more I wanted
To say
To be
To share

But His eye rested on me
And when I saw it
There was nothing I could deny

She Dances

You took her
And what can I say?
Did she know it would be her Dancing Day?

I do not know.
But that I hoped
I prayed
I tried to play for her
A little of the music to be played
On her Dancing Day.

I walk forward, day by day
With a quickened step now
To the measured time of my own
For I do know where I’m going
And it is brighter by far than this.
I will dance.

For it is to my Dancing Day I’m bound
No sad farewell!
No tear-dimmed eye!
But a great reunion in the sky

And as horses prick up their ears
And swell, arching their necks
Springing from hoof to hoof
Their tails high like flags of glory
And then charge, heedless of death
Running like thunder,
A mounting roll of wild drums
So shall we run to the Lord of the Dance
So shall I run to Thee


Sidney Couch  5/91   for Joyce Gregorian Hampshire

Power In The Blood

Cheer up!!  Things could be worse!   Oh, yes.

I hate it when people say that.  It is a poor excuse for a comforting word.
First, it isn’t fair.  It shoves aside the fact that I feel like shit.
Second, it is a comparison, and comparisons suck.

I’m not dealing with the theoretical “Things Could Be Worse,”
I’m dealing with “Things Are Pretty Bad As They Stand.”
How long can one float along on the buoy of  “Well, Golly, I’m Alive!” ?

The bottom line is that yes, I’m okay.  I’m still alive.
But before the bottom line, today,
There is all this formidably discouraging fine print.  You know?
The survival surge is past, and now it’s the daily living I’m confronted with,
So just close the door and leave me alone for a while, will you?
I feel like shit and I want to cry my bloody eyes out.

Even when the door is closed, I still have to deal with my soul.
God and my soul.
Can you hear me shouting, God?
I’m past the Jesus, Why me?
And am rapidly dissolving into plain resentment for the exhausting role
I have to play.
Everyone looks at me.
Or they try NOT to look at me.
People talk about how brave I am and what a pity it is and how lucky
(or unlucky)
I am, and really, God I am so tired of it.  It is a big trial,
And I’m not gracious now, I’m just cross, and shouting like a fool.
I’m severed, damn it,
And the impact of the loss was too huge to be felt at first.
Taking it all in is so expensive.  I’m expended.
Can you see me, Lord?  Will You touch me so I know You are there?
I’m too tired to slog on blindly--I want proof.
Water me before I dry up.

There are times
When all the knowledge, hope, love, and faith in the world
Cannot comfort a tear stained heart.

There was a time when Your own heart was comfortless and tear stained,
And those who were with You simply fell asleep in the garden.
I know how You felt, then.
This is a common bond, isn’t it?  This tear stained, comfortless heart. 
This side of the cross is dark, in spite of the light beyond it.

That was a time, though, when You didn’t try to say anything.
Instead, You went in silence carrying that dark cross.
You allowed the cross to expose the power of Your blood,
And You watered my tear stained heart with Your own blood,
And that was enough.
                          

4/91  For Joyce Gregorian Hampshire

The Safe Place 11/1991

I see the church in a circle
And the silver sword in her midst
The sword is revolving round the circle
One by one each person stands before its point
One by one each one is shaken
And the devil shakes behind
The sword and Satan
And the people in between

When I am caught
Between the blade and the adversary
God bids me be still
Peace!  Be still!
The sword is deadlier than the Devil

Let go neither of me nor your brother's hand
Forgive him quickly!  Quickly!
In the light of this sword
He is no more guilty than you are

The church is in a circle
The sword is in her midst
It is revolving round the circle
One by one each soul before its point
While in his terror Satan hides behind us as his shield
The sword and Satan
And the people in between.

My people, you know in part
But the whole matter is plain to me
Trust me
Obey me
I order you aright
Control your spirits, they are subject to you
The sword is not a weapon against you
Or your brother
And you are not called to wound
But to reconcile!  Drop your finger!

Handprints

Proof that they were here:
Their prints upon my wall
Their sacred hands placed, reassuring, on my wall.

Mark well, Mighty Ones
Guardian Angels
Their prints are on my wall
And the Holy One intones for me.

Devotional 02/1991

Why are you hurrying to do all these things?
Why are you rushing, leaving no time for me
Making me and boxing me
Telling me and helping me to be like you
To get the work done.
I am not like you.  Why are you hurrying to do all these things?

The day is burning
The heart churns
The spirit is groaning too deeply for words
And the hurry and the work are all things.

Why are you hurrying to do all these things?
Why are you spending, finding no peace with me
Calling me and needing me
Demanding me and showing me
How to get the work done; to be like you
I am not like you

Your ways are burning yet you won’t let them go
The spirit is groaning too deeply for words
When the hurry and the places are all things.

Why are you going to do all these things?
Where are you going, leaving no place for me?
Entreating me and proving me
Helping me and telling me it’s good
It isn’t always good.  Why are you going to do all these things?

The peace I have to give
Has no place to fit in this tightly woven life
Field to field, house to house, job, to endless job
Til there is no place for me to be alone with you
No place because of the daily grind grind grind
No time
No time for me.

Believing ca 2/1991

In this life, there are two things we need:
A reason to live,
And something worth dying for.
God answers both of these.

For in Christ, our living is abundant.
He is pleased to give us Himself, first,
And then fellowship with all those who are kindred spirit to us;
Who value the imperishable inheritance of love
As far more precious than the material we leave behind.

And in Christ, our dying is our dancing day
It is like the night before the wedding:
We sleep if only to hasten the dawn of our joy--
To see Him face to face!
To take the hand of the Lord of the Dance, and promenade down the line
Reunited at last with all our kindred; Lover, and Beloved
At the wedding of the Lamb.
We will sit at the banqueting table
We will sup
And share the cup

Fear not!
Having thought life was done, we find it has just been won
Has barely begun

And this inheritance of love,
Imperishable:
More precious than anything we could hold
It is the crown He gives us
It shines in the faces of all our beloved, gathered in His presence
Both here on earth, and there, in that great cloud of witnesses,
And finally, in His over-arching and eternal kingdom

The common ground
Uniting the reason to live
And the thing worth dying for

New Old Friend 1991

Never did I meet you in the flesh
But I have met you in the heart

Never did I talk with you
But in the voices of those who love you
Have I come to know you

They were lucky enough to share this life with you
And the next, which waits for its reunion

I will wait, too, when your reunion
Will be my introduction
To my new, old friend


            --For Mrs. Boeker and Mrs. Muntz, and to Beth, posthumously

The Repeat Offender ca 1993

He was a repeat offender
And I was just another repetition
Doomed to repeat my own defeat
I forgive him, but do not allow him to touch me

Forgive me!
Surround me with swords when I forgive him
Post mighty ones on my right and left
Above and below
In front and behind

I agree to forgive
I forgive. It makes me suffer
Because somehow I must regain the heart I lost
He sullied it, and I would not give it to you so dirty
So even if it means another betrayal;
As long as we triumph over the darkness of the lie
I can forgive.
A total triumph would see him restored to his right mind, safe.
Who in their right mind would ever do what he has done?
And how do I regain a virgin heart?

Forgiveness is agony
Because I cannot find it in me
It isn’t there;
It’s in the Sacred Heart
My agony rests in you
Because you know betrayal’s bitter end

So here is the pain that bears out my love
I give it to you, such as it is, to comfort you
For you have forgiven such as me

Fear In The Light

When you are safe
You can sit back and look at what you survived
Sometimes the truth the light sheds
Is a terrifying sight
It is safe to look, now
But the danger was much more dangerous
Than we knew

When one is safe, it is needful to look back
If only to better appreciate the safety
But also for wisdom
And to cast out the fear

Christmas 1990

It is dark when I rise and dark when I stir the pot
But dear child, Thou art Light
And I can see.

It is cold when I dress, and cold when I stir the embers
But dear child, the gift of Thy heart is warm.

All through this season with its cold hard beauty
Through its dark hard night
You, Child, are the reason
That I am patient for the light.

For You chose hay as Your comfort
The breath of the beast
Your lullabye

Homeless You came, as You would go
Cradled in a wooden manger, Your beginning
Opened opon a wooden cross, Your end.

And all for love
For love that You came
And the heart that brake upon that tree
Now it lives, inside of me
A promise
Sacred trust
And though it is dark, and hard, and cold
I know Thou art for me
Light, and tender, and warm
Life that returns
Love that never ends

Alle Kind 10/27/89 Upland Farm, Holliston MA

Would God that I were as Adam, who knew alle animals by name;
Who called them kind, and they were known to him.

Would God I were by leaf and tree; that bare the bud and the fruit
Home for flocks and hive and alle kind who came

Would God that I could be
All I was meant to be

Come there soon a Day
Be it soon!
Come there soon a Great Rising Day
For alle life that pines
For alle trees that sigh
For alle doves that mourn
For alle sheep that cry
For me
For thee;
A Dancing Day
Far above the Doom

Would God that I be as Adam was meant to be
Who knew alle kind by name
That I could call them all the same
My lot, my charge, my heart
Be tame and walk with me
And lonely, never be
But dancing
Singing, with a Catikin singing, with Ivory Tusk,
Singing, with a Shaggy Bison Cow,
Singing, with a Sea Horse, alle kind

I know there be One
By whom I be formed; in whom alle kind
We be kin
And like that One,
Would God that I become  

Faith Hope Love -In My Garden variation

Fear of being left behind
Fear of dying
Fear of thinking you are and finding you are not
Fear of rejection

    This is life after repentence, before life in the spirit.  Hope, faith and love shall conquer these,  perfectly.  But in the meantime, I must override my fear.  There is nothing else until you come and rescue me.

    Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair, to have to live shrouded in a mystery, to know the promise, hope in it and even experience it at some level, and yet be exposed to such effective attrition that you despair of surviving.  I can only surrender, because there is nothing else worth dying for, whether you save me or not.  After confession, and before the unction, is as close to purgatory as I ever hope to be.

    Am I quickened, or not?  Indwelt, or not?  Awake, or asleep?  Saved, or lost?  It doesn’t matter anymore, because I know that there is nothing else in this creation but you, and there is nothing worth living for but you, and there is nothing I can give you beyond what I have already given, which is this life of mine.  I am your prisoner, and sometimes I  feel like I must endure the lowest chambers, dark and far away, and all my pleading will not reach you.  Pleading gives in to enduring.  I wait.

    Meanwhile, there are the longings.  Longings for love.  Longings for knowings.  It is at the heart of my reality, and although it will give in to endurance, it also cries out when it canot endure any longer.  What am I supposed to do?  I cry out for you.

    Measuring time against time, we discuss the times.  Are they worse now?
It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter at all.  I have no way to register against what went before or what shall come after.  I must endure my time, whatever it is, and what I shall cling to, I do not know.

    So, in the light of this uncertainty, I ask, How far will you reach for me, and how will I know you?  There is the rub, because of the longing in me to be loved and to love, to be known, and to know.  Will my loving and knowing ever be enough to get me to the finish?  What if I go crazy?  What if I get senile?
Will it be enough to save me?  To keep me awake?  It’s all I have to give.  It isn’t enough, and I know that.

    Only your mercy will save any of us.

    So I continue in faith, trusting myself to that which I cannot see.  Hope?
I haven’t hope, yet, or perhaps itt is something for children, and I have had a hard time keeping alive the child whithin me.  She exists, but she is very fragile.  She wants so much to hope, but she is very gragile, and I cannot always hide the horror and the scars from her eyes.  She sees me growing older and tired, and the hope that she cherishes for me, I cannot hope to fulfill.

    And love is something for I know not what.   Love is not of this world.  Sometimes love excapes out of me, and it hurts.  I haven’t untangled love yet from desire and symbols and the things longing had to escape into when I was a child of wounded parents.  I learned the language of my kind.  Love is a wound.

Love is a wound.
Hope is for children
Faith is a mainstay.

Friend, how I long for you!  How miserable life shows itself after I glimpse into your realm, hoping.....Hoping to see you.

In My Garden another version

Fear of being left behind
Fear of dying
Fear of thinking you are and finding you are not
Fear of rejection

This is life after confession, before Life in the Spirit.

She:
I must override my fear with faith, hope, and love.  There is nothing else, until You rescue me.

It doesn’t seem fair, to have to live in mystery; to know the promise, to hope in it, and even experience it at some level, and yet be exposed to such attrition!  I can only surrender.  There is nothing else worth dying for but You whether You save me or not.  After confession, and before the unction, is as close to purgatory as I ever hope to be.

So, am I quickened or not?  Indwelt, or not? Awake, or asleep?  Saved?  Lost?
You know, it doesn’t matter anymore.  I know that there is nothing else in this creation but You, and there is nothing worth living for but You, and there is nothing I can give You beyond what I have already given, which is my life. I am Your prisoner.  Sometimes I feel as though I endure the lowest chambers, dark, and far away, and all my pleading will not reach You.  Pleading does give in to endurance, though.   All right.  I wait.

I long to love and be loved.  To know and be known.  I long to be drunk in and savored, and to drink in and savor.  It is at the heart of my worship, and although it will give in to endurance, it also cries out when it cannot endure any longer.  What am I supposed to do?  I cry out for You.

Everybody talks about our times.  Times are worse, they say.  Armageddon is upon us.  Do you know what?  I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.  I can’t register against what went before.  I wasn’t there.  I can’t register against what ever will come.  I must endure this time, whatever it is.  What I shall cling to, I do not know.

How far will You reach for me, and how will I know You?  Because of the longing You placed in me to love and be loved; to know and be known; will my loving and knowing ever be enough to get me to the finish?  What if I go crazy?  Will it be enough to save me?  Or keep me awake?  It’s all I have to give.  It isn’t enough, and I know that.  Only Your mercy will save any of us.  I have lived on this faith a long time.  It is my mainstay.

Hope--You see how hurt I am.  Hope is for children, and I have had a hard time keeping alive the child within me.  She exists, but she is very fragile.  She wants so much to hope, but she is very fragile, and I cannot always hide the horror and scars from her eyes.  She sees me growing old and tired, and the hope that she cherishes for me, I cannot hope to fulfill.

Love is something for I know not what.  Love is not of this world.  Sometimes, love escapes out of me, and it hurts.  I haven’t untangled love yet from desire and symbols and the things love had to escape into when I was a child of wounded parents.  I learned the language of my culture.  Love is a wound.

Love is a wound.  (The French,  is “bless” --I am blessed.)
Hope is for a girded heart.
Faith is a mainstay.

This was once a beautiful Garden.  Now I mourn it.
Every day I wait for You,
Whispering the promise of Your return
My great hope brooding over their sandy bones.

The Scout:
Gentle One, don’t surrender to bitterness.  Timid One, let your faith define you, not your failure.

This world is darkening, and Satan and all his kingdom are coming to nothing.
This world darkened when My flesh was quenched because I am the Light
Now it darkens because it is dying itself
But I am alive forevermore, and I am the Life, so cling to me
In spite of what you see.

She:
That Thee and I could be One
It must be what Eden was
Are we going to get home?

The Scout:
Beware of the double-edged sword--there is a sword that guards the way
Trust in Me to show you the way
Only I can show you safely past the sword.

Long for what I placed in you--it is your compass, pointing the way home.
The gifts I have given remain with thee
It is up to you then, rich or poor, civil or savage, to use them.

Babylon will try to confuse you with her talk and her logic
And her insatiability.
She will try to bastardize your heart; to sell your heart of hearts
Don’t you understand?  Follow me.
Don’t keep looking at Babylon!   She is ugly to Me.
Just a little while, and all this shall come to pass
Just as I have told you.  Don’t fret.  Be kind.  Be true.  Be faithful
Wait for me.

Babylon’s day is drawing to a close
And your beloved creatures and kindred will be free once again, and forever.

Do you understand how I want you to be?
Witness to Me
My garden is yours, Beloved, it is already yours.
The sword will destroy Babylon’s snare
Babylon herself will not escape it
But I will show you safely past it
And set you free in the Garden,
My Love.

Kiss of Life 1989 - 2000

It is Winter.
It is Winter as well for the bride.
She is a frozen city
She lies in state, suspended, the daughter of a King.

One year, I found a rabbit frozen in the river.
It was half in, as if caught swimming when the water turned into ice,
By some cruel magic.
Sometimes my spirit is like that rabbit.

There are times when I feel as if this Body is forever sleeping:
Forever frozen, as if under a cruel spell
The River is iced over, and all is still
Forever dreaming
The daughter of the King lies in state.

There are times when I am painfully awake, so alone,
While everyone around me is deep in stoney sleep, frozen in time
It is like wandering in a graveyard.
I marvel astonished at what I see

Beloved, your promise keeps showing me Life
And, that Life is mine.
Here we are frozen like a rabbit in the river, so lifelike
Eyes as bright as polished onyx
Spirits encased in agony

A kiss of love would break this spell

Spring is coming, I am told.
Life comes back.
We are waiting to be awakened, is it not so?

The Mirror 1988 - 2012

All these...from One, came into thousands.
They are the metaphor that You have given us while You wait..
Let me be worth waiting for!
Could it be that You love me measureless
Better than I love these?  Am I like this to Thee?

(This mirror cuts me to the heart because my love goes much unrequited
Poured out on the earth, on creatures dimly aware
Who cannot fathom my heart
Children I would die for who cannot tell right from left)

In as much as I can understand I love You.  I love you
Day by day, as I see all these, how fierce is my love.

It cuts me to the heart, this mirror, this metaphor made of clay
Covenant with me for these thousands,
Helpless and dimly aware.
Your heart, it is big, full, and fierce with love.

I sing to Thee!  You Beloved, You are precious to me
You are more than all these
More brilliant Your love than the suns that shine
What could I give for Thee?
What could I give, save my heart?

Little One, you, Beloved, are precious to Me
You are the crown of all these
More brilliant your love than the suns that shine
What could I give for thee?
What could I give save my heart?
There, I guard thee, my eye ever upon thee
My love full and fierce for thee
My spirit around thee
Fear not, my Little Ones, My covenant is breakless
And I am poised, biding the time

There shall none say no to Me
When the time of My waiting is done

In My Garden 1987 - 2012

“Would that we had ambassadors of Peace,” she said. “This was once Eden.
The once and future Eden.  But now I mourn as it languishes.”

Every day I wait for you,
Whispering the promise of your return to these prisoners
My great hope brooding over their manic despair
Great hope will not disappoint, but how to say when?
The signs are all around, so faith must be the strongest part.

“You are my gentle one, my timid one,” he replied.  “Let faith define you, not
failure. Let faith define you.”

This world is darkening and all this failing kingdom is coming to nothing.
This world darkened when my flesh was quenched
Because I am the Light
Now it darkens because it is dying itself; everything dies, in its time.

But I am alive
And I am the Life
So cling to Me
In spite of what you see

“That thee and I and the Land could be one,” she said, “It must be what Eden was.
How are we going to get home?  I know this is slated for fire; men draw wrath from the sky.”

“Beware of the double edged sword,”  he warned. “There is a sharp sword that guards the way.  Trust me to show you.  I can show you safely past the sword.”

And that which you long for was placed in you by Me.
It is a compass, pointing the way home.
The gifts I gave remain with thee
It is up to you then, rich or poor,
Civil or savage,
To use them.

Babylon will try to confuse you with her talk
And her logic
And her insatiability.
She will try to bastardize your heart;
To sell you heart of hearts
See?
Follow me and don’t keep looking back.
I know you are searching for My Garden
Only I can show you safely past the sword, Beloved.

Just a little while, and it shall come
Just as I have told you
Don’t fret
Be kind.  Be true.  Be faithful.
Wait for me.

Babylon’s day is drawing to a close
And your creatures and kindred will be free once more
There is a redemption, which all of creation longs for.

Do you understand how to be?
Witness to Me.
My Garden is yours, beloved, already yours
The sword will cut Babylon's snare
Babylon herself will not escape it
But I will show you safely past it
And set you at home in the Garden, My love.

Communion

It is the old struggle between the head and the heart; between the flesh and the spirit, and as the first is only resolved by yielding to faith, the second is only resolved by dying to self.

    There is a redemption.  Greater thanks, then, for that day, when this box will not restrain me through one more sunrise, and this longing for kinship, it will be satisfied.

    Kinship is an entity and I did not realize it.

Without The Kinship, you cannot understand.  You are dumb.  You can only speak the language of your kind, and the door your soul longs to pass through is shut tight.

    I keep the night watch.

    In my dream, my soul tumbles out of its box.  Free, it is light.  It shines.  It can mingle and shimmer with a myriad souls, like the Milky Way.   In my dream, my soul frolics like a kit fox with its litter mates.  It summersaults like an otter in the water.  In my night watch, my flesh becomes transparent, like the Monarch Butterfly’s Chrysalis just before it breaks open, and through it the colors of my wings glimmer in the promise of flight.

Ebbehardt's New Diary 1987 - 2012

My name is Ebbehardt.  I am from Germany.
I was a soldier in the War when I was young--Just a child.
To soldier was the only choice and we were many children at war.
When I came to my end, I was devastated.  I felt betrayed.
How can you do over your life?  Germany was blood in my mouth.

When the chance came for me to leave, I took it.

When I first saw the statue of Liberty
I thought--Liberty has endured.
She outlasted Hitler.  I am having a chance to start over.
Thank God.  Thank God.

When I first meet the people of the Church who invite me
They look at me, and there is no need for words.

The family I live with, they treat me like their own
They have heard what I did and lived through
But that doesn’t matter to them
They keep saying “You are in America, Ebbehardt.  You are free.
You can be anything you want to be.  You can choose.”

This is mercy.

I have met a nice German girl, Zelda.  I have a job in a gas station.
In my night school, I learn to speak good English.
After that, I think I will try to be an insurance agent.  I want a family.
I will work hard.

Sometimes I wonder, why me?  What did I do to deserve this?
I am a guilty man stained with the blood of a madman’s debauchery.

I left friends and family in Germany.
Some broken.  Many dead.
I escaped.  This is grace.

The Archetype 1987

She stands, holding the light aloft
And we, drawn to the light and the majestic figure
Straggle into port, wave after wave, year after year.

Can you see yet? Can you see Liberty?
God touches the heart,
He intones in sighs too deep for words,
And bears us up over the waters.

Are we not moved to sobs as we crowd on deck
When that tall figure at last fills our eyes?
Liberty awaits us--greets us
Liberty’s even, noble gaze reads the hope in our hearts.
The Lady in the harbor has this Archetype
The Holy One striding over the water
And that is why her face is firm as stone
And why we weep, moved beyond words.

We left the old world and the old order.
We left everything behind

We were refugees, vagabonds; exiles and homeless dreamers
And now, a nation!
Here is the Port.
Sons and Brothers, Daughters, Sisters, Mothers, Fathers, we are free!
We are not afraid in this promised land,
We are called home from all nations of the earth

When hope kindles our souls and sets fire to all our bridges,
We have this Archetype
And people will clamor and swarm to it
Because we have put in to port on a Rock

It is now for us to become Liberty
Firm as stone
To live the Life of the Walker on the Water
And bear up the Beacon!
Walk on, children, til the sea is full of glory

Sanctification 1987

She: (Repentant)
Oh, forgive me Lord!  I’ve sinned!  I’ve taken what wasn’t mine,
And set up a shrine for myself.  I avoided suffering for You, Lord.
I closed my eyes again and chose despair to my hurt.
I hardened my heart against Hope, and snapped at You, my Friend,
And now I am so sorry.

(Losing control)
I have no control!  Circumstances are against me!  I can’t make sense of anything.  I’m cold.   My life is futile.  Lift me up!  Save me!
Make me be what You want me to be!

The Scout: (Reaching)
Here I am, Little One.  Aren’t you world weary!

You already know what I want you to give up.  Give up everything.
It is your death.  Until it is all given over, you will suffer your death.

She: (Wistfully)
How do I separate out the Vision?  How do I give it all up
Without losing sight of the Vision?

The Scout:
Because, Child, I am the Vision.
I live within you, and I am stronger than the one who is in the world.

When you are in the world, I am stronger,
And I will will defeat the one who is in the world.
Do you understand?  Remain in me. Don’t stay in the world.
I am stronger than the one who is in the world.
I have overcome the world.  Until you abide in Me, it is your death.

I overshadow you.  Remain safe in me.  I am the Life, the Way, and the Truth.
I am the Bread of Life.  How can you lose?  Who can be against you?
You are weak, but I am strong.

Fisher's Net 1987 - 1991

Walker on the water
Everything that rises in my soul
And is whipped about by the wind,
You calm.

My heart is wild,
But I know your promise is breakless
Walker on the water
Everything that rises up
And is whipped about by the wind
You calm.

Where once I lived in the world
According to the dictates of my heart
(My heart was wild)
Now I am split open
My body dead
My spirit, alive
My heart, it struggles yet
Like a fish in the net
But in the cords of your love
In the strong, breakless lines of your love.

Real Estate Versus the Land 1987

Man’s hand tightens around the throat of the Land
Where shall we run from the weight of his interest?
Oh how I chafe at the binders.

How are people supposed to live?
The whole world of poor is held at the mercy of the moneyed few
And those who try to live quietly on the Land are driven out
Or forced to the concrete and the cardboard
The post and the nail.
The city is sacked, and the high born buy refuge in the country
And there is no middle ground.

We yearn to live on the Land
When?
We have this vision

I have this vision, but it isn’t wealthy enough for the world
And it costs too much.

This was our first field
Where we herded our little flock.
In my vision that indeed, you gave me
We tend again the garden.  We shepherd the flocks.
We care for all, and we live.  Our peace is our living.
No-one drives us off, with weapon or coin
Coin won’t have power over life, like it does here, now, my love.
The Land is dear.

But the high born scorn your price,
They scatter a miserly fee for the purchase
They scorn the alter and require the blood instead
To the post and the nail!

I can see Paradise.  Even from the top of this post
And you have turned in a king’s ransom
For me.  

I AM Your Vision

Be Thou my vision, and light of my heart
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best thought by day or by night
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light
                            --Be Thou My Vision
                            Traditional Irish
                            Mary E. Byrne, Elanor H. Hull

The Scout:              
Child --I will awaken you.
I will come up behind you and put my arms around you....

She said,
Where shall I live?
I know You say, Don’t worry.
I know your hand supports us, but it is hard to sense, and I puzzle.
We dream and we sleepwalk the land.
I want to know your peace alone as home, Jesus.

The Scout replied.
You enjoyed the light today.  Dreaming, yes.  Playing.  Play!
You played on mountains today.
The sun was dancing, and life began returning.
Return to me.  Come home to me.
You have been sealed up, and it is time to come home.

She said, Wipe me clean then.  See my heart? It’s all sooty.  I’m distracted.

The Scout ran his hand over her soul.  There, he said.
You are as white as snow.  I am the heart of your heart.  Don’t worry.

I love you.


She was still torn.
How is it that I can be so high, and then so low?
So full of energy and desire and then so wasted and flat.
I feel so old.
I am afraid of falling.

The Scout spoke up
It seems like forever to you, doesn’t it?
But compare it to the eternal, and look at it through my eyes.
See?
You are afraid to hear my voice,
And reluctant to do my bidding.
Beloved, Satan’s triumph is in this world,
And creation has been subjected to disappointment.
Understand, he will try to crush you with circumstance.
Who are you going to believe?
I am Hope.
He is disappointment.
Little One, see me.
I want you to know I love you.
I have given you the gift of Vision to see Paradise.
Understand?
Earth as it was meant to be.
Life as it will soon be.
That is why your pain is so great.
You must try to live this Vision.  Hold on to it.
It is a futile gesture to all except those who will see with eyes of the heart.
Have faith in me, Little One.
You linger over disaster too much.
Have faith in me.  I will guide you all the way from earth to heaven.
Don’t try to justify the use of your time, or you will lay aside the Vision.
You must live in My time.  That is a long time.
Didn’t I say I would prepare a place for you?

She said,  I’m sorry.  I get so paralyzed and so afraid.
It means so many things.  I want to be sure it is you.  Just YOU.

The Scout answered
It is Me.  Don’t be afraid.

She asked,
Please, why do we suffer so hard?
Where are we just hurting ourselves?

The Scout explained
My love is forever.
I created you to be complex and sensitive,
And all these things work for good for those who believe.
You know this in your spirit, but you still carry fear in your body.
Why else do you think I want you to crucify your flesh? It must die anyway.
I will burn out that fear with the heat of my love and you will live yet.
Sit close to me.
You are afraid of the feeling of being tampered with--or being seduced.
My love is not like that.
My love is like sun on soaked seed.
Remember?

Satan’s power is seductive,
You feel stolen from.
My love up builds.
My love will crucify only your separation from me.
It will give you joy.
Satan will make you feel dirty and ashamed, like hiding; brazen, arrogant.
You have to expose yourself to Satan; or he tricks you.
You present yourself to me.
I redeem you.  See the difference?
I am holy.  You are the work of My hands.

Listen to the Heart 1987

Sit still, Little One
I want to rock you: I would comfort you
Let me hold you
Go ahead and cry on my shoulder, Little One.

I love you so
And you are so lonely for Me!
Trying to fill up the empty space with things that bring you joy.

They bring you joy only because they witness to Me
I am the joy your soul thirsts after.

Go ahead, then, enjoy my witness
The things you love--I created them
The Land you hope for--I hold it for you, Little One
I understand.

I understand your pain as you watch Eden gone awry
I understand.
I created you
I have wrought thee, and should I treat it as a light thing?
No, Little One.
I am laboring to bring it all to thee
All for thee, because I love you.

You are mine, and Little One, I am thine.
Thou art my heart’s desire
How I yearn for thy heart
How earnest I am for thy tears.

For the Mare 1986 - 2012

In olden times
Men adorned thee and rode to war
And how I wept as I watched thee go
Singing through my tears for my Beloved
And after thou wert gone,
There was no-one to cover my grief
For they love to war.

They took to the hunt, singing;
My Beloved, for Joy!
Racing the wind on their mares
Thundering over the land
With streaming hounds and spanning falcons
Quarry fleeing exhausted before them.

I glory in all my Beloved
I rejoiced when you returned, laden with spoil
Gazelles too beautiful and still
Rabbits so soft
Mares, won by stealth and surprise

My brothers, wounded, or dying....

Yet, see, I entered the tent with unclouded eye
With large and beautiful eyes for my Beloved
With girded heart for my wounded and dying
These dying knew then the yearning of my heart
They began to see my great hope groaning within me
They knew at last why I weep through my singing
When they adorn thee and ride thee to war

You were a gift from the living God
And not just to my Brother
What comfort I have found, to bury my face in your mane
For you would hear all my heart and never say no.
Thou hast borne me, too, over the sands, and for joy
For the sheer joy of life exulting

A gift to guarantee my hand,
Earnest for me
Now I wait with girded heart and unclouded eye
Waiting for the time my Betrothed will come for me

Oh, great-hearted mare, how hot my spirit rose
When I heard the promise!

We ride!
Thousands upon thousands, we ride
We fly on the wind,
On glistening steeds to redress the land
To herald this final kingdom with a roar
To see the finish of the one
Who loves to war

We watch the river bring life back to the sands
That was the promise.

For this age will pass.  It will pass, God be praised
And we will yet adorn thee for peace
For just peace, fine, and clean
We will cover the land
With peace like rain
Pasture for the herds and thunder over the land!

We shall bear this scattered people home
From the farthest reaches, with great hearts
And reconciliations;
On the white horses of the wind

Rosebud 6/22/90

    

6/22/90

Dear Rosebud,

    I was intrigued with the letter you wrote about getting older, and thought maybe you would be interested in what it is like for me.  I'm older than you are, but I'm still "going through it;"  my perspective is just a little further down the road.   Take what's valuable, and realize I still have questions, too.  The most irritating thing about all this is that I had to slog so far along before there was any hint that others, too, are experiencing the same thing.  I refer to the perception of beauty, and the effect it has on desire.

    Now excuse me while I expostulate.  America is wonderful in many respects, but in the area of sexual appeal and artificial expectations, it is awful.  Must you look like a cover girl to be perceived as beautiful?  Must you have the physique of a Goddess and the responses of a nympho to be normal?   Is it an unspoken archetypal conspiracy that schools women endlessly into believing that when a woman hits thirty five, her sex drive is supposed to shift into overdrive?  Mine did no such thing.  Mine sucked in and plain disappeared, leaving my husband in a state of animated frustration and me confounded.   Desire and beauty.  I had not yet begun to consciously consider the fading of outer beauty, but already it had affected desire.

    I spent two years doing everything  I was supposed to do in order to rekindle passion.   I had absolutely no luck.  So next, frustrated and depressed,  I did nothing. That didn't work either.  I counseled.  I complained to my GYN, who suggested I counsel.  I prayed.  I gritted my teeth.  I bought new undies.  We abstained.  We tried new locations.  Reluctantly, I accepted this development as a Phase of uncertain duration.  And finally, I gave up.   This was  having to live with something like:  a major visible scar;  a missing ear--a radical mastectomy.  It wasn't just going to change because I was annoyed.   My libido was loboto.  Phase One. 

    Phase Two was a real twilight zone.  It was un-sexual.  I realized I couldn't keep trying to be something I was no longer, and I was no longer sexy.  I was distinctly un-sexual.  A female eunuch.  I became even more aware of how sex and innuendo is used in this society.   Sex is like the center pole of America's Revolving Door.   So if you aren't talking business, and when you do not relate sexually, you simply cease to exist in the eyes of a major portion of society.  You are merely a Drone.  The ever present women who use sex and sexual appeal to get what they want begin to seem like female studs.  Not that much different than the men they manipulate.  Not only that, but that Goddess had sauntered into my house and settled her steel buns in MY chair, where she sat, mocking me with arched eyebrows and french panties.

    This phase had a good side and a bad side.  The bad side was that I became very cynical about men and sex, which wasn't fair.  My poor husband!  My desire for sexual contact was about zip.  Adequate sex was about all I could manage.  Good sex was a thing for guys.  The good side was that I became aware of a huge quiet side of life that had to do with caring and communicating that was not constantly being overtoned by sex.   This of course is with little people and some (not all) old people.  So I realized again how victimized we are by sex, and how peaceful it is not being constrained by an orientation that is always so sexual.  We are, after all, so much more than sexual.

    But I was not more than sexual, I was UN sexual, so I spent a lot of time redefining myself as an un-sexual person.  So much of my young adulthood was spent in discovering myself as sexual and then developing that concept incorrectly that I now felt very alien.   One is still human, of course, even if one is not horny.  (It’s true). Going further, I realized, and not just intellectually, that an attitude of chastity or celibacy which is assured by an absence of desire causes one to see others more clearly.  The "virginity" of the other person becomes more apparent, and more easily understood as something which should be honored, guarded, and protected; cherished.  Sexuality, in its highest sense, is sacred, and should not be violated or profaned.   It is not, contrary to the common cultural mindset, for anyone else's mind's eye.  Of course, this did not help my husband.  He was having none of my problems, and although sympathetic,  feeling like a eunuch totally escaped him.
    I slogged on through the months, feeling un-sexy, and un-pretty, and un-female, resigning myself to blue jeans with pleats and a rather shaky sense of self, glad for the insights but uncertain about the repercussions on my marriage.  Obviously I could not just quit having sex.  Obviously, I could not fake sex.  Obviously, I wanted, in whatever capacity, to have a healthy sexual relationship with the man who adores me, body, mind, and soul.

    Things began to crystallize in the Spring.  Of course, you think,
"Ah, Spring. "   Well.   I went to a horse show in baggy jeans and no makeup, and in the ladies room, there came out of one of the stalls a woman who makes men salivate.  She was not trampy or tacky.  She had long straight black hair down to her seat, pulled back in a simple barrette.  She wore eye makeup.  Her jeans fit.  She wore boots that melted around her ankles and she had on very little jewelry.   Our eyes did not meet.  I imagine that women like her are as uncomfortable with women like me, in this stage, as vice versa, especially as we maneuver past each other in the mirrored ladies room.  So I just kind of took in her unfashioned beauty from my pleated jean perspective, and thought to myself,  "You're just as pretty in your own way when you wear a little makeup and jeans that fit and your sleeves rolled up and your neck bare.  What gives?"  She smelled nice.  I smelled like two in one Flea and Tick shampoo, which is all I had in the shower stall.  It had gotten to this.

    Well, honestly, I got tired of feeling frumpy.  Then, I had a couple of dreams, and finally God intervened.  In the dream I was aroused.  (!!!)  I was in a great huge house, trying to find MY room, so I could be aroused in private.  This is crucial.  Arousal is NOT for the public, in spite of TV, and R-movies.  Every time I would find an empty room, some (!@#$) person would come wandering in blathering on about something, and I would have to go find another room.  I wanted my husband.  Every time I found HIM, HE was sitting down, surrounded by six or seven people all demanding his attention and talking to him about CARS.  (*&%$##?!). I could never get him away from those people.  This was bad.  Finally, I got a needle and thread and started to sew myself shut!   It hurt, and I only got one stitch in.      Then I woke up.  Holy Revelations! This dream was about Repression!  So.  Finally the obvious breaks through.  I am not sexless.  I am repressed.  I don't have enough PRIVACY.  I cannot get my husband's ATTENTION away from his WORK.   These are My Major Issues.   Can you identify?

My Major Issues: 
    A)Privacy 
    B)Attention

Also,  I am not eighteen.   And my sex drive is NOT defined by what I was told. My sex drive is defined by attitude, fatigue, stress, quality of attention, atmosphere, and hormones.  Personally, the first five can very effectively obliterate the sixth, which may be gasping at this stage anyway.

    And then, the God part.  My husband and I had a horrible (really bad) day revolving around what he thought I had done with his car keys.  They were lost, and it was My Fault.  Boy, was I in the dog house.  (This is an old conflict).  It turned out that he had left them at the video store, and it was Really His Fault.  Boy did he feel bad.  He expected me to beat him up.  He deserved it, but God had a better way, and changed my attitude.  I had the upper hand. I kissed my husband.  All of a sudden it got very private.  (You know, what my husband does, doesn't change that much.  It's how I respond.  He is predictable.  I am not.)  Then I went out and bought a new bra and some sunglasses.  Like that.

    Then I squared off with the Bitch and ordered her to get her steel buns out of MY chair. 


    I am perceiving myself as beautiful again, aging notwithstanding.  After all, aging is really prevented only by early death.  Get it?

    These things I realize:  Working out what's best for us may take a long time.  It is a very individual thing.  But:  Attitude sets a stage.  Fatigue never works.  Stress is a bucket of cold water.  Quality of attention works both ways.   Am I getting quality attention?  Am I giving quality??  Atmosphere is the canopy.  Hormones....my husband has lots of hormones.   But, neither of us is eighteen, thank you God.

    And Life, which is so much more---recognizing and chaperoning the virgin, holding the virgin as precious; which has to do with value, and security, and guarding; and beauty, which has to do with the inner person, and sharing;  cherishing the enduring ties that bind us together as we bump up against all life has.

    Are you out there?  It's okay.            

Road to Emmaus 1985

There are two witnesses
That testify
There is the evidence
And there is the heart:

Here I am
How I yearn

So look at all there is:
I sift over all that has happened
The words and the deeds
All that was
All that is
And my heart burns within me

“Did not our hearts burn within us
While he talked with us along the way
And while he opened unto us the scriptures?”

There are two witnesses
That testify
There is the fact
There is the burning heart.

Seamless Garment 1985

Do you believe in God?
Good.  I do too.
Tell me, who is Jesus?

This book says that God the Father cannot be seen
But the Spirit conceived
And God the Son shows us the Father
By embodying Him.
My book says that it was God the Father
Who commanded creation to be
And God the Son
The Way it was done.

Jesus is the fabric
Cut on the Father’s own pattern of life
Dismiss Jesus
Dismiss all created phenomenon
You cannot do it, can you?

My book says God the Father
Commanded creation of, by and for
His son Jesus
And when Jesus, the very fabric of Life
Was crucified
I must have died, too.
When Jesus, the very fabric of Life
Was raised up,
I must have risen with Him.

Can you believe it?  I do
Jesus is the very fabric of Life
We live in Him, a seamless garment
He by dying reconciled all men, all creation to Himself
Because
He made us.  He bore us.  He loved us
And He could not bear to be torn away from us by sin
All that which blinds men to their true love.

The Wee Dog 1985

It’s just a wee little dog
But it’s a feisty Scot
With a stout heart

You laugh.
But it’s a high and noble thing he gives me as a free gift
Love
With honor.

For the mite loves me with a stout heart
Waiting for me patient when I’m gone
Racing around me in circles when I come home
Bursting with joy.
There’s none like him!

Take my word, he’s a rascal.
How I labor to clean him up and take proper care of him!
And he repays me by rolling in the muck;
That fine sense of humor he has, putting me in my proper place;
That dignity, defying all the dirt.

But when things are tough, do you know
He is gentle
The little gentleman
Staring out at me
With eyes that slay me with the love he gives me
Free for nothing
All wrapped up in the dignity he carries in that wee hide

There’ll be no room in Hell for the likes of him
Miserable dogless place that it is

Where else could the wee dog end up?
Could the ground contain a spirit like that?
Go ahead and laugh.
I’ll wager the Good Lord couldn’t refuse the smiling mite
Surely, Heaven will abound with his like
Aye
I’m sure of it
The wee dog has taught me about stout heart
And love with honor
All that I ever hope to be
He is already.

Look at him!
Those eyes follow me ever, where I go
Just awaiting for a word from me
Look at his joy, the way he sings under my praise
Like a quivering bow
That arrow has pierced my heart.

God
Would that I could be unto Thee
As that wee dog is to me

Aye, I’m sure of it
It is a high and noble thing,
Given as a free gift
Love with honor
And laughter
This blue blooded dignity
All wrapped up in a wee furry hide
A bursting with joy

Why I Love Rainbows 1985

In a word:
Hope.

In the story of Noah and the flood
God destroys all He has made
But for one wooden boat
For the evil that man opened upon the land
Grieved Him at His heart
And He regretted creation.

God loved Noah
And Noah walked with God
With a stout heart.

So God gave Noah His plan
And Noah and his loved ones
And every kind of animal
And every kind of fodder
Were saved in an ark.

And when He had covered the earth with its baptism
And buried the dead in the weight of the deep
God’s grief was honored
And He was comforted by the ark.

“See,” He comforted Noah,
“It is done.  It will never happen again.”

The baptism of the flood
Like the covenant of circumcision between God and Abraham
Happens only once.
“Here now is my promise,” the Lord said.

“When you see my bow in the sky,
You will remember my promise”


The rainbow stands in shimmering glory
Testifying of His great love for me
The promise between us
Of life saved in an ark
Me
My loved ones
The animals
The fodder.

It will be fire next time
For one baptizes with water to repentance, bringing comfort
And the next comes with fire and the Holy Spirit, to reveal silver and gold.
A wooden boat could not sustain us from the fire.

As Noah climbed into the wooden boat
So shall we clamber in to Thee
A right safe ark
And a great comfort to us who so love rainbows

Noah embarked, and God brought him to rest on the mountaintop.

Take comfort, then, my soul,
For you are destined to port
In Jerusalem of Gold.

The Bastion 1985

I can but trust You

You are my Rock, my Fortress
And from the safety of Your battlements
I watch, amazed, as Your enemies assail You
Flinging themselves like showers of confetti
On Your massive bulwarks and ramparts
I watch, amazed, as they slither harmlessly down and disappear
Like dust in the ground.

From this grace, this high Zion,
I toil at my labors
I tend my charges
I go on with my daily and common things
As daily,
You draw nearer to me,
As my time approaches

Split me open like a chrysalis
Free me of this cocoon so I can fly to you
Magnificent and resplendent in the raiment You cover me with

I can but trust You
My Rock.  My Saviour.  My Fortress.
Comfort like this the world hath not.
Vision like this the world will not.
Love like this, the world can not.

Uncle Sam's Vistas 5/24/85

The farms are folding.

Harry came by today.
Usually he is dropping off his car for us to work on.
Today Harry just came by to visit

And it didn’t matter what I said,
What was on his mind came out.
The farms are folding.

He said, maybe we’ll come out of this holding our asses
And I nodded and shook my head.
He named three farms that were foreclosed
And another, selling off the herd tomorrow
And then he rambled on about cow pastures and vistas:

The cows keep down the brush.
Where the cows roam the hills, there are vistas
Open country and views.

The doctor who bought up Downy’s fields a few years back,
Behind Harry’s back forty, his view is almost gone, now.
He planted locust trees and the cows are gone
The brush is grown up and he can’t see much anymore.
I tell Harry that over in Connecticut it is the same.
Harry shakes his head when we talk of Connecticut.
Landed gentry, he says, and we servant folk are being priced out,
Pushed out to the fringes.

We are built on the land, not the other way.
It is we who are built on the land.
We tend and follow the cows that pasture the land
Not the other way.

I wanted to give Harry soybeans
But his mind was on foreclosures
And herds being sold off.

Presence 1985

All day long I have been remembering
All day.
Hoping and praying.
Holding onto peace.
Biting my tongue
And at the last light of dusk
Digging out huge weeds
And finding fat earthworms.
     (My thin sins, overwhelmed by your fat grace.)

All day long I hurried
Going through my list
Checking
Trying again later
Emptying wastepaper baskets and laundry baskets
Rigging sheets on the line
And wondering where on earth we are sailing to

Tonight though, there was time left
For digging in the corner
For planting zinnias among the lovely fat worms.

A little love letter
In fait accompli

The Calf Pen 5/16/85

Yesterday I went to see the cows.
That is what I say, but I go to the calf pen.

Very young they are, just a few days
They come to me eagerly and wrap their rough tongues around my fingers,
Sucking them
Spitting them out
Retreating
Looking at me with wonder and reproach.

Last time,
Julie and Barb were struggling with a bull calf
Tugging him with rope around his hindquarters
His feet were planted and he was balking
Bawling

Where’s he going? I asked
They sell them for veal, Julie said, wrinkling into a sad smile.

Plant your feet, bull calf,
Bawl.

Later she came over to me and said, I hate that.

Today, I squat by the calf pen in the dusty light, and
The calves gaze at me with wonder and reproach, and
I whisper to them.

Pantomime 1985

My friend is dying.
Her heart is mewing like a cold wet kitten
But she clamps hands over her ears, terrified
Sure she mustn’t pick up the kitten

I am light and I poke at her playfully
So as not to fall under her tomb spell
I know the tomb spell
She is white and slow.

She can see me
She doesn’t understand what I say
But she can see me, and I can see You
I can see You

Let me just slip inside then

How do I jump into the river of Your heart?
I have only this world where I live
And seeing You in it is not as easy as admitting my need
This place is a queen of diamonds
Jagged and beautiful
Compelling hearts to weep and mew

My friend is dying.
Her heart is mewing
And her hands are clamped over her ears
But she can see me
And I can see You

Kingdom Spring

Babylon vaunts herself,
Unaware her Winter is drawing to a close
Now Kingdom Spring is drinking up Winter’s icy pond.

Though I were dead
Yet You shall come.

Wiping His Feet With Her Hair 1984

Now why would you waste your life on something like that?
Don’t you have any real aspirations?
You're such a smart girl.

I flee to him and he covers me
     With wings
     In prayer

There is power upon my head in sight of angels

You are a crazy fanatic.

I flee to him
     And he covers me when he finds me
     Asleep at his feet

Passion 1984

Am I not the most selfish of souls?
I want most of all
Love
To be loved with a passion that renders me speechless
To love in return with a love stronger than fear of death
Than fear of Hell


I wait here in prison of flesh
I suffer, and let me
But promise me eternity
Promise!

Am I not the most selfish of souls?
Have you not made me, my God,
With fierce desires?
How intense when cherishing You
When this world pales in comparison
How fiercely I yearn to be requited in Thee

Forgiveness Where? 1984

Forgive.
Forgive those who despitefully use you
Pray for those who persecute you.

I would
I would
But it is easier said.

I want to stay in the back scullery where no-one goes
And bang around the pots and pans.

Years ago I bore a child of such great hope
A child of such sorrow and pain
The child of a betrayer, upon the deathbed of love.

My firstborn I held innocent
But the sire cast his lot for the shroud of my heart
And gained Cupid’s arrow, all in pitchy flame.

Forgiveness is an attitude reproaching me for my inability
Forcing open the violations of the past
Jimmying the doors of the heart
Forgiveness is an attitude that threatens me with another devastation
And you want trust, as well?
Oh, God!  How I undergo the agony!
The wound inflicted by one so trusted!
If I had known, as you did, I would never have loved him, as you did.

I cannot make peace with my Judas; would he not quickly kiss me again?
There is no peace for my humiliation
I can look back on that pain and long to forgive
I can pray for him knowing I must
But the positive motions of my heart--
Faith, and trust, my love, and understanding?
They will not consent to be given to anyone
But you.

Forgiveness 1984

Forgiveness is a step toward meaningful relationships
Because it builds on trust and not on failure.

Forgiveness is the attitude that is willing to understand
And to take a person into full confidence again.

Forgiveness is closing the chapters on the past,
Whatever its circumstances,
And opening the doors of the heart to friendship and love.

Forgiveness is a great therapy for the heart, because it helps the forgiver
As well as the forgiven.  It settles old issues that bother both.

Forgiveness is necessary if a person is to be free from bitterness and hurt.
If forgiveness does not wash the heart clean, it is prey to festering memories
Of the unforgiven experiences

Forgiveness is an uplifting experience, for it exercises the positive motions
Of the heart,
Like faith and trust, love and understanding
And where these attitudes are allowed to rule, all of life is benefited.


--On the cover of the Marriage Encounter Newsletter

Monolog

So, what is wrong with you?

Here she is,  sitting on the ground.
She is tired and dirty and has no legs.

“I need your help.  Please listen to me, okay?”
“Sure.  I’m listening.”

The river is too wide.  I can’t get over it.  I need your help.

“It’s simple.  All you have to do is get up and walk over.
It’s as simple as that.”
“But I can’t. I don’t have any legs.  I can’t get up and walk over.
Don’t you see?  I need your help.”

“Look.  All you have to do is get up and walk over.  God bless you!
Be whole and strong.”

Nothing changes.
I keep telling them but they cannot see
They just talk louder and smile harder

Crossing Over 1984

    Crossing over required me to admit my insanity.  I used to sit in the cabin on Route 1 and stare out at the Pacific, afraid that I was raving.  I’d contemplate the possibility nervously that I was going through a breakdown; that in fact, I was mentally unhinged.  Insanity is a permanent condition, like hazel eyes or white skin, isn’t it?  Am I crazy?  Doesn’t anyone else think like this?

    I sit and stare out at the sea gulls rocking in the air over the waves rocking over the body of the sea, mindlessly yielding in the endless dance.

    The points of most excruciating tension in my life were when I was resisting the plain facts of my insanity.  First, I just didn’t suspect.  I was just fine, thank you.  Cynical, sad, stressed, jaded, unbelievably naive...but just fine.  No relationship.   Daily facing the brick wall of the paradox of living at all; but insane?

    Then I became suspicious.  The world was definitely insane, and I was its prisoner, trapped inside a human body.  Life and death are just too weighty and paradoxical to consider deeply without going crazy.  You either go rocking insane or you deny the whole thing and just get busy.  Or you confess to God.

    I almost let go; almost yielded myself to the mindless dance of the grass and the sound of the water lapping the earth and the wind rocking the body of the water...But then I shook it off and fought and scrabbled my way back to coherence, and from there I furtively slunk back to rationality, such as it was.  Even the most exotic philosophy of man cannot touch the yielding of nature toward God.  What a terrible price we pay for being human and not just creature.  We gain knowledge of life and death, good and evil, and although we can contemplate it where the creature can only yield, unless we confess to God, we go insane, one way or the other.  We are crazy and frail.

    God gave them permission to eat of any tree in the garden; God excepted only the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.  And of course, this is the apple that they ate.  If they had chosen the Tree of Life and scorned the Tree of Knowledge, I would not be insane.  I would live forever.  But instead, they chose the Tree of Knowledge, and so I am crazy.  Then God in his mercy forbade the Tree of Life, knowing that insanity would be relieved by its own death.

Company 1984

Where is she?

We are walking down the road
Some with vigor
Some halt and lame
Some forging on like mighty men
Some pausing to browse on flowers

Whom does she serve?

Upon leaving, I heard them say, We couldn’t communicate.
I just couldn’t be myself.

But when I prayed, he answered.
Where I was at odds, he reconciled.

What then?

Shall the mighty elbow the old aside?
Or is it right to snuff out enthusiasm burning in a new light?

First he gave himself.
Then he gave us.

Salvation and The End of Grief

    Finally, I seem to be crossing over, coming to my senses.  I came to; confessed to God, and God covered me.  He covered me with blood. Blood of the One whose death relieved my sin.

    I have embarked; God is leading me into unknown places; places previously denied, showing me things I could not have seen before, reminding me of the reality of the relationship, showing me that love is not a hostage to power.

    But there is a big difference between the relationship and the convention.

     The liturgy is not the reality.  While I was learning the liturgy, I forgot.  Something in me was lost in translation.

     See, I am saved, but I am still crazy.  My melody is still written in a minor key, and it is much too dark for many who have crossed over, or so they say.  Perhaps they never fathomed the peril of the world.  Maybe my insanity is an uncommon thing, but this bubble gum gospel embarrasses me.  The smiling singing groups embarrass me with their squeaky cleanness and their gauche taste.  I cannot sing like that.  They are slick and shallow, and I am much darker and more noticeably insane, still covered with the deep scratches of the barbed wire hindering my escape.

    Perhaps I have been expecting all this time to be mindlessly happy inside, like I thought you were supposed to be, or maybe they told me that and I believed them.  And I am not.  Not mindlessly.  I quicken to the minor key.  Saved or not.

    It has something to do with the end of grief.  It is appropriate to grieve over the immanent and calamitous death of the earth and all it holds.  There is the end.

    When Jesus showed himself to his disciples after the crucifixion, he showed them his scars and the nail prints in his hands to prove it was really him.  Oh...Oh!  Even saved, I still have the marks, to prove it is really me.  Still dark and crazy and grieving over the immanent and calamitous death.  Incapable of denying it anymore.  Unwilling to argue it anymore.

    You know the world will destroy itself, because that’s what it gets down to.  So do I, but we never admitted it because we were too scared.  Or we were too busy.  Too interested in next year’s fashion, or the house we want to build, or the children we love.  Too busy seeking out the swamps we frequent when we feel too clean and gauche and civil; too aware of the paradox of life and death, good and evil, too rebellious to admit defeat, too ascetic to care.

    I too will die.  I may yet grieve for the demise of all that is, that dies to me when I die to it..  Even knowing earth awaits a redemption just as I do, I may yet grieve for her grievances. I may grieve into insanity, watching this world as I do in the frenzy of death denied, in the numb fear of destruction.  Even if Man denies it, the rats will swarm the rigging because the boat is sinking.  So I reel under the weight of that event like a drunkard, spinning and wafting like a junkie to whom salvation is a good trip; a dream, vaporous in the face of the paradox I struggle with.  I am on my deathbed, and sometimes I am incoherent.  My mind doesn’t work right.  Insanity and trusting God,  who, after all, is bigger.

    My grief used to be colored with brilliant hues of outrage when I was resisting the inevitability of insanity and death.  The outrage of youth which has just begun to live; the outrage of a child under the capricious or numb thumb of its parents; the outrage of an adolescent watching the grownups defile themselves and everything around them; the outrage of the soul against the slum of the flesh.

    Jesus, on the night of his betrayal, prayed in anguish of spirit, and great drops of sweat rolled from his brow.  That is where I am.  The crucifixion looms closer than the resurrection.  His disciples slept, one translation says, worn out by grief.  They were crazy.  What a priceless admission that scene is.  That is where I am.

    My grief is not colorful and brilliant anymore.  It is not tainted with outrage.  Its eyes are not rent with paint.  It is a dark night that will culminate in betrayal and crucifixion.  Only then, after betrayal, and humiliation, and forsakenness, will I be enfolded in the arms of the only One who can comfort me for all my grief and insanity and fatigue; who alone can wipe the tears from my eyes.  It is not yet, but it will come.

    In the mean time, I witness Nature yielding to those who litter her stage with broken glass.  I watch my comfort perked and profaned and asphalted and mutated.  Everything between us and him will be destroyed, even divine creation, until there is nothing for us to put between us and him, and even then, will we deny him, curse him, curse ourselves, and attempt to escape in Armageddon’s arrogant suicide?  Ultimately, I guess I grieve because we deny God.  Earth, being his, is simply the object of our contempt.

     I too must yield if I want that Comfort, but there is grieving to be done before the yielding.  These times, and the earth; crowns of thorns.  I must bear grief and anguish until I can yield up and die weaponless, harmless, surrendered.  The grieving and the surrender are the finish.

   I have found my place in this great body.  I am salt tears.

Fear Series: Fear and Insanity

  
Today is not yet Armageddon.  Today, while most of the rest of the world is abandoned to destruction, we are buying baggies and baked ham.  We are stuffing boxes full of all the stuff we just can’t pack any more of into our houses, and sending them down to the Salvation Army, dumping them into those big red abundant garbage cans.  They are big enough to live in.  I bet they’re warm with all those smelly shoes and old flannel shirts and jeans with broken zippers.

    Can’t you just feel that dark ominous threat brooding over us, waiting to burst open like Mount Saint Helen’s damnation, pouring brimstone and gasoline all over our lives?  Something broods over us.  How high?  Oh, I’m afraid I’m crazy.

    Crazy people have interesting relationships.  Crazy people have special relationships with Jesus.  Crazy people who think they are normal and fine don’t have relationships.  There are a lot of them around.  Ever notice?  Those who know they are crazy often have special relationships with Jesus.  We have to, because of helpless fear. I know.

    I know in my head that I don’t have to be afraid.  He tells me over and over, patiently, gently, over and over and over.  “Don’t be afraid,”  he says.  I know that.   Perfect love casts out fear.  But the love part is hard to find.  And without the powerful love, fear smirks.  When I begin to go through my soul, throwing stuff around like clothes out of the bureau, looking for the powerful love, when I get to the bottom of the stuff and the bureau is empty, love isn’t there.  It’s empty.  It isn’t in me.  That is Fear.

    I have a hard time finding Faith, too.  Faithlessness.  That is Fear coupled with Impatience.

    Sometimes after I’ve slogged around in the muck for a while, screaming because I’m faithless and hysterical because I’m scared out of my wits and whining because I’m spoiled, Jesus comes along and He just sits close by.  Sometimes I hold still enough for him to hold me and stroke my hair.  He doesn’t say much, because he won’t compromise.  This is not a time for words anyway.  He knows I’m wild.  You know how you hold an animal gently that is dying?  You just hold it and touch it, if it will let you.  If it is wild, sometimes all you can do is sit nearby.
    He knows.  Way off in the distance out there somewhere, God is biding his time with me.  There is something old and wild in me which is dieing.  Sometimes, he reaches down into my life with his huge arms and picks me up, and I get a glimpse of what sanity is, where he is.  It doesn’t having anything to do with what we all think is sense.  It sure doesn’t have anything to do with life in this modern asylum.  We are so modern we have become alien.

    Finally, I let down.  Fear gives way to exhaustion, and I cry because he is God and he made me, and no matter what I think, he loves me, and I cannot fathom his grace.  It isn’t in me.  It comes from him.  I cry.  Fear dissolves in the sacred language of the salty brine.

    Later, I sign out.  I’ve been in a long time where it gets really scary, where the wickedness of that bad one just paralyzes crazy people.  I am no longer modern.  I am no longer alien.  I am out.  Jesus validated my release.  He sighs, and I see how hard it was. The queer thing is that He leads me in there, because it’s only in there He can probe deeply, where I’m reluctant and bound up, paralyzed so He can get into those hard places and breathe on me.  It’s work.  But I’m out.  Off critical.  In observation, but recovering.

    I dream that the very worst horrors will pass under me.  I hope that Armageddon will be a nightmare that I watch from a very distant place, praising God and praising God.  But I realize we all go through our private apocalypse.
We watch our worlds blasted apart and everything we held sacred spewed over the contaminated ground.  And we either deny its reality, or we become possessed by it, or we finally throw ourselves down at God’s feet like a beaten dog.  If that, He puts down a pan of cold water, and rivets a shiny name tag to the collar, and reaches for the flea shampoo.  It is a reconciliation.  I’m a dog.  But I’m your dog.  Yes, you are my dog.

    I’m glad I have this reconciliation.  Who could face life if there were no reconciliation?  You would go around saying “I just can’t believe THAT will HAPPEN.”  I guess that is the difference.  That is why I know I am crazy, instead of thinking I am just fine.  That is why I let Jesus lead me into my fear and lose everything.  That is why I die.  How else could I live?  I’m crazy.  I just have to trust Him, because He knows just how crazy and flea-bitten.

Fear Series: Fear and The Corrupt City

  
The Corrupt City is very close to the root of my fear.  Growing up from the soil of my preconscious mind is the recognition that to me, the City of Man is ultimately an evil place:  It is all man-made.  Concrete and asphalt and metal and machines and all of us for its grist.  The Corrupt City.  Mordor. Babylon.  Sodom.  Gomorra.  The City, and tainted people who gravitate to it, power-hungry and uncontrollably self-validated.  Fear is their relish.

    I know that if I loved those people, if I could truly see them, they couldn’t scare me.  If I had love inside of me, fear would have no place.  Someday, this fear will have to give place to love, instead of holding it hostage.

    But I have always lived in fear.  I grew up in a nutrient broth of fear.  My times reek of hysteria and fear; Fear, and a world-city relishing and denying it, holding love hostage like the carcass of a lamb in a den of jackals.

    The Corrupt City has an endless appetite that leads inevitably to aggression.  Excess always perverts the appetite, and we are no longer tribal.  We have become the consuming Global Village, and now the citizens who aren’t being chewed up and spat out by politic games watch them on screen, or read books about them.  Is this bizarre?

     Those in power tell us straight-faced that a strong defense, an invincible arsenal will make us strong and free and kind neighbors.  First we talk, and then with great predictability and considerable precision, we blow away our opposition.  Then we watch the blow by blow by blow on the news, or share it over the fence.  Awesome.  We watch war movies.  We watch the controversial airing of The Day After and gorge ourselves on the Global Village.

    Where is God in this barrage?  Every side is claiming Him and denying Him.  Claiming and denying; and instead of moving in the assurance of His power like David before Goliath, we are merely pawns in the chess game played by minds we cannot fathom.  And for those who absent God, the absence leaves a huge vacuum that can only be filled with a huge mushrooming cloud of unreasoning fear.  Or denial.  How high can you see?  If God is absent, what is it hovering over us, watching our every move?  If He is absent, then love is frivolous, merely a lamb in the jaws of a dog, and hovering over us is the buzzard.

  
    Some nights, I cannot see very high.  I cannot see over the head of Mankind.  Those nights I don’t let sleep seduce me.  There are nights when I am too crazed to sleep.  Then it is better to keep vigil and face the holocaust with one eye one the sky.  I wait for the sirens and the fire and the scorching wind.  The cloud gets very close, those nights, and heaven is way beyond my grasp.

    It is after all, Armageddon we attend and pervert with fascinated horror.
This is the pinnacle of the Corrupt City.  We are already marshaling on the sands, going through the initial staging.  Isn’t that just a piss-assed thing to say?  Pacifists get mad at me and start to rhapsodize about Humanity and The New Age and Science, saying “I just can’t believe THAT will HAPPEN.”  I look at the evidence, which is not hopeful.  The City is expanding on a dying planet.

    If death is inevitable (and is there anything more inevitable?) why not go out with a bang, reasons the Zealot.  Whether I am immortal or not, it is the glory of the moment.  The Pacifist cannot understand this insanity.  Reason, he is sure, will win the day.  The Zealot cannot tolerate this Reason, unless it serves him Power.  There is no reconciliation for these two.  One refuses to see Armageddon, and the other is rubbing his hands together.

    And confounding all is David moving in the assurance of God’s power.

    The City is deceived into thinking that war in the sands, though perhaps inevitable, is easy.  Their victory is assured.  Although they can see David, they see no higher than his head.

    But death itself is very hard to face.  Annihilation is hard to imagine.  Having your Humanitarian New Age Science Reality reduced to cinders is antithetical.  So is having to admit that Armageddon may not bring you the kind of immortality you prefer.  This is what blackens us.

    And those of us living the amazing denial; denying the evidence of our own decay, we can’t face the desecration of the background Babylon we take so for granted.  It is proof of our substance, our permanence.  Landscaped malls.  Courtyards.  Amenities.  Groceries.  WKRP in Cincinnati.  Earth Day.  Civilized living, reduced to ashes?  Never.  It is an amazing denial we live.  Everything grows old and dies, or is destroyed, or murdered, or slaughtered, or discarded, and we deny it to ourselves.  This life of denial is the piece de resistance of the Corrupt City.


    So. Just imagine the final landscape:  Verdant hills, burnt whole.  Undulant land, pocked.  Imagine slinging your bag over your peeling shoulder and stepping over the charred and stinking on your way to the back to pick through the potholes and the smoking toxic garbage for your amenities.  Still afraid to die?
How abstract.  In this landscape, we are afraid of living.  A new subject, closely tied to fear of death.  Hey, let’s watch TV.  I don’t even want to think about that.

    Welcome to the Global Village.  We refuse to admit that we are out of control, complaining that we are poorly monitored, denying that we are accountable, that what we decide actually matters at all.  We manipulate and abdicate, with no real authority to do either.  We pacify and incite.  We insist on our supremacy and excuse ourselves because we are bestial.  We insult God by deliberately ignoring Him, and look only as high as our own heads.  Truly, in all Man’s attempts to create something for himself akin to validation, he can only copy poorly at best what he lost through his own arrogance; and fabricate as he will, he realizes only Mordor.  It is Babylon that man heaps up for himself with pitchfork and shovel, because Zion is safe beyond his grasp.  

Fear Series: Fear and Denial

It has to do with judgment, and everything that we do to avoid it.
Because if You do not validate us, we perish.
Those of us who realize this grapple with fear.
Those who do not, simply deny it.

There are people who are never validated;
But they deny it.
They are lost
Unresolved
Self-made

They blow through life unmindful
Consuming and being consumed
Help is resisted or just denied

You can see their demon
All that anger and rage and humiliation
And pain, pain pain,
And fear like icicles dripping over the whole sweet cake.
Fear and denial, controlling
But never acknowledged
All stuffed inside

People slam the door on it
And put their backs to the door
But after a while
There’s so much crap in there it starts to ooze through the cracks
And underneath the door like red lava.
But they won’t run away from the door
Even though it’s licking at their feet and their hair.
Finally the door explodes and it’s like a thermonuclear blast

BOOOOMMMMWHOOOSH

Everyone gets wasted.  Nothing is left but a few living dead.
The Un Dead

Fear Series: Fear and Validity

So, am I aged?
Outside, the actions change, like the body,
But inside, things are not always so different.
Inside, it is still
“Am I real?  Is anyone out there?”

Communications are a huge validation.
I forget now and then
And slip back into sleepy dreams and haze
Are you there?
    --What are you?
Am I talking in my sleep?
Is someone dreaming me?

I have this drive to validate myself
By defining some aspect of myself and presenting it
To someone else
Wanting to see what will happen;
Hoping

Hoping the root hairs of understanding will find fertile ground
And a commons will be formed.
Are you there?
But I am afraid
Because I don’t know what you will do.
Maybe you will ignore me, annulling my validity.

So I sedate myself.  I watch the land
The land comforts me
Nature comforts with beauty
And dignity under persecution.
I watch the land
Her long beauty makes persecution seem almost a noble cross.
I have only been mentally abused
Wondering if I am real.
The land is being consumed.

I drive along looking at the way the corn pokes up through the snow.
I like it.
That dead yellow against the snow.
I like the dead corn.
It was planted, it grew, it got cut down and eaten,
And now the stalks are dead in the snow.

It is enduring.
Even though it is dead
It is still beautiful.
I drive along and watch the corn
All in rows that merge and converge and curve
And go marching off in dead straight rows.
Beyond the marching stalks are the fields of dead yellow grass
And the umber and deep dark brown trees, carpets of dead leaves at their feet.
I lose my fear when I am absorbed into the validity of the land.

Some folks can face all that harassment
And still grin back.
Not me.
I cry.
I implore God
I endure.
And then I die
Thousands of times
Which is why I hate it so much.

Fear Series: Fear and Identity

Fear has the flashlight on Who Am I
And Who Am I covers her face

What am I waking up from?
Or am I falling asleep again?

There is a time when you are between the dream and the light,
Still in God’s mind?
Or being formed in secret?
And you exist, apparently, without a name.
How long?  I am not sure.
A few months in the womb?  A few years?  A lifetime?
Do we go to the grave without a name?

Being born into the world has its restrictions
And with them there is a measure of safety
Of identity
At least, it’s the same.
(My name is plain)

Sometimes even a name is no assurance of identity.  It’s just a saddle.

Who I am inside, in the glare of fear
Is confused by time and change.
Times change.  This body ages.  Do I change?  Have I aged?
How will I love you when I am older?
Will I be dead inside and covered with the ivy of the world?

It is confusing.
It is a trial to change from child to adolescent
To adult, to middle age, and on and on
To keep adjusting to the outfits and expectations
And resignations
Does fear swallow up hope and become disillusionment?
Will I finally swallow the monster that terrifies me
Or will it consume me?  Will I dissolve?

Does it matter?