Box of Pictures, Garden of Flowers July 21st 2014

                                                  Box of Pictures, Garden of Flowers July 21st 2014

(Molded I am by The Grieving Woman.  I do not turn her away.
        Her Low Places are familiar roadways to me.
                Her Great Load, my most faithful companion.)

On the table in front of me, a Box of Pictures
Evidence of my life: the Storage, the History
                I don't live there, anymore,
                But the imprints remain, the themes continue..

We decide about Good and Bad, Happy and Sad
However, You, when you made Everything,
                 Simply said, "It is good."
                 I am ever under this mercy.  It is the Garden of Flowers.

I am so grateful for the opportunity to sit
To remember
To sift
Realizations of what was true then and still
This Box of Pictures reminds me.

(I was always asking then.  I am still.
        I ask to see You.
                You show Your handiwork and it is beautiful,
                        Whether I stand back or peer close.  Peerless handiwork.)

This is the turning wheel, the Garden of Flowers,
And the farther we walk, the more we are here now;
                It is we are crossing thresholds, like jumping rope,
                In rhythm, in sequence, with every turn.

(Oh.
        It is the Grieving Woman, dancing in the whirling ropes.
                She is laughing.
                        When She dances, all of life gathers to her energy
                                She will delight and affront
But She goes through all the movements.)

We stylize her unfolding with memory's expectations,
Recording and storing,
                But she always interprets the dance anew
                Right now, the Garden of Flowers, astonishing.

She moves and changes,
        Shape-shifting through the whirl of the ropes,
                Swinging around a core like an orbiting globe
                        Like an actress
                                Defining an eyebrow
                                        Grading through every emotion of color
                                                   Every state of being and service,
                                                          Every calling, every imagination

However subtle
However transcendent
There is a Matrix giving context for our sake.

It is in our nature to rebel against its form and function
To despair of Life's Fleet Nature,
Of the blood and dirt of Her Birth and Death
We even find fault with the unique signature impressed upon us
Our likeness, our family

But there is a threshold!
Jump over!

Oh, Look!  She becomes You
        And You become
                Me
                      And suddenly (although it is gradual)
                                   The Incarnation is Everything.

The Box of Pictures is a reminder.  We were That.

I realize, I will always ask.
I will search for meaning and purpose, and direction
                And I will be surprised, relieved,
                By secret pathways in plain sight to the Garden of Flowers,
                The confirmation of Who We are Now.

You, Beloved
        Are the Guide who is silent through all my cycles

            The axis of my orbits
                And who opens the Secret
                        Back to the Sanctuary