Unraveled and the Birth of Joy

Eve…what a beautiful name. And New Years Eve…the expression would inspire hope. It seems so tragic this past year has been marked by many deaths and funerals, that we couldn’t even attend in person.

But there are people saying this New Year’s Eve of 2021, despite the pandemic and all we have endured or perhaps, because of it ~ they sense a shift in the force.

This includes me.

I will go further and state I believe humanity is in spiritual labor, that despite everything, mankind is about to die to something to give birth to something, something better described as a non thing ~ or Substantive, Universal Awareness.

I find myself pondering the “Eve” in Genesis.

I wonder if the word translated “Eve” really meant not a gender, not a woman,  but womb-man or mankind with the free will to conceive things, or realize things, from within. It also could mean  “labor before New Birth”. She is vulnerable, but with vast potential.

Certainly today, more people than myself have woken up to the reality that outer material systems and authoritative institutions often fail to serve those very humans they were designed to serve.

And I believe when the material, pre-evolved form of a thing, or a letter of law (like a literalist approach to Scripture) is put before the invisible spiritual, or human good it is supposed to serve, it becomes an inhumane monster, an idolatrous “graven image” serving itself.

The older I get, the more I see this phenomena happening all around me. Corrupt police force (that was supposed to defend all human life, assuming it vulnerable and innocent) and the Black Lives Matter movement, is an example of it.

Real human beings – sacrificed for or abused by inhuman systems, powers or beasts of man –  are often the first to realize that true Love and Unity, what we universally recognize as the higher “God or Good” force in all of us (regardless of whether or not we even believe in God) can only be conceived from within. Perhaps the pandemic is serving to remind, in allegory, that old, outer forms must pass away and if they are rebuilt, must be built in a way that protects that which is invisible and lays within, or is at heart and is spiritually substantive.

We as humans have long tapped man’s intellect, or material perceptions, for outer discoveries and material “goods” as the answers to life’s problems. But what if mankind’s survival rests not in outer attainment, but individual, inner enlightenment, and intuitive communication with one’s higher self, or Divine within, including within those persons we are in “habit” of perceiving as the enemy?

For what really kills – if not old habits, that die hard?

Old “shells” are comfortable. But we will surely die if we don’t shed them. They keep us from communication with, and even seeing, others of our kind. The artificial or “material” self-produced division gives the false impression we are separate, above or beneath others in importance.

One would think in a world in which conspiracy theories and assumptions abound, and sometimes are even glorified like new religious dogma – used to justify cruelty or irresponsibility against our own neighbor, human beings would also be able to conceive that we all experience a Christmas, a Passover, and a Ramadan. And perhaps those of us best equipped to inform or aid the other in understanding the “true nature of things” are not those who are most educated, or who have things, but those who most represent in their life journey the Universal Christ ~whether they be Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist or agnostic.

My Christmas/New Years wish for all of us is that there will be a moment in which this realization of true, undying unity comes to fruition in all of our hearts.

Whether we be on one side of the globe or the other, whether we be practicing a religious tradition, or not, whether we be serving soup to keep someone warm and alive in a practical sense, whether we be seemingly alone, with only our guardian angel’s wings wrapped around us, or searching our corner of the sky for that new Christmas star (because we do not want our loved one’s to catch COVID-19), may we feel that Golden Light, that Divine Invisible Substance, which truly unites all of us, and issues in a New Day and a Love that material or mental viruses can’t ever kill or destroy. We are approaching the brink of an event horizon.

Can you see it, can you know it, without utilizing material perception?

For in the end dust is dust, but Spirit sings in the new Nature…of things.

And even though my own material expressions fall short when I try to describe what I observe and hope for from “inside”, I will dare to describe it in allegory:


The Last Funeral Mass

let’s build in matter’s image
said man
and construct forms,
byways,
strategies,
and laws
they will be necessary
for if not man
who else
will save the world?
but the sound of
Woman weeping
troubled them so,
for she would not hush
nor accept their offer
of plea bargain
she had not
contributed
to her own demise
nor was she blaming
them
for theirs
worse
(it was rumored)
she conceived
without them
did away with genders
or reflected
them both
inside of herself
and they held meeting
to determine
if they could
still call her
a her anymore
because
a song had been born
from her tears
or perhaps
The Song
had been born
like a burbling brook,
crystal clear water,
a river
or the motion in it
damn it
grumbled the men
 it is just
like the wind
this background noise
it is persistent
but elusive
some freak
deja vu
the men couldn’t put
their finger on it
what they feared
about this sound
that wasn’t a sound
and this mere woman
who wasn’t mere woman
from whence The Song
sprang
without effort
or strategy
and they did fear it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
unplanned
and unexpected
a beautiful,
yet plaintive  
funeral song
that’s what it was
that she sang,
that’s what it was
they figured,
and asked
is not this
sort of thing
illegal,
heretical,
or contagious?
they wondered if
her song
was somehow
about them
though it bore
no actual resemblance
and she seemed sad
but happy
at the same time
while the song
seemed to grow
and expand
echo back at them
out of their own heads
perhaps
they feared it
and hated it so
because they couldn’t hold it,
or touch it,
to make it definable,
and containable
or give it a label
a form,
a package
or box
to make it safe
for human consumption
hell
it was too unpredictable,
too vulnerable,
too wild,
too free,
too rapid
for thought
or human logistics
like she had already shed
her own shell
without authorization
or permission
from higher command
who did she think
she was?
and they did think
it must be stupid,
foolhardy,
this fruit
what woman had birthed
but actually swifter
more direct
than them
and their inhuman
prodigy
as if this spirit
this spirit
of hers
this non material
thing
this conception
always had
a mind
of its own
or worse
was a mind
of its own
different than theirs
free
from their plans
for her
and the child-song’s
greater good
didn’t the woman
and child
know they were
in danger?
in fact
she and her own
seemed quite at home
in their lovely place
in the woods
where her table was set
with invisible fine things
and she invited them
to dine
on invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
a beautiful,
tinkling,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
they felt it was
for a funeral
how dare she
who was she
how was she
even still alive
yet alone,
they wondered,
wearing
a white wedding veil
had not they created
what really mattered
a material
body of knowledge
and she borne
only what couldn’t
be seen
the ghost
we thought
we eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when we condemned her
for understanding
the fruit
of the tree
the first time
around?
I know
said one
how to fix this
(for they were
after all men,
did I mention)
let’s burn her house down
set fire to the trees
that hide her child
from us
that way he will have to
come out
and show his face
show us
who he really is
that which we cannot
contain
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
and they came at her
with weapons
of mass destruction
but the fire
would not catch,
or light,
or burn those living trees
that she had nurtured
with her own hands
only their black suits
and their own instruments
of death
caught fire
they noticed their hands
now matched their clothing
and were dirty
and marked
with inky black soot
while she calmly reproved them
telling them hurry
and wash up for dinner
she said
you are like
soldered clocks
ticking no time,
while my labor
is complete
for this last
funeral mass
this one
last time
we are not celebrating
the death of my son,
my song
the Love of my heart
who is not made of matter
and cannot die
but celebrating his rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours is what
is no longer useful
the empty chalice,
a rusted metal vessel
all along

Birds,
they come in various flocks
to sing
triumphant journeys
over me

while I stay still
imagining them
the heralds of movement
of my soul

What
journeys do you speak
oh quiet one
who sings your song at night
that watchful, weary eyes
can’t see?

Who whispers stories
just out of reach
like feathers of birds
or angel’s wings

that disappear
upon human touch
when the dark of daylight
shadows me?

Yearning
without reason or cause
but Remembrance

that I know
from somewhere beyond
the conscious state

Like an instinct
to fly up,
up through the skies
like a bird

Because I hear you
calling me
saying come fly
come dance
nay
 come soar with me

For if not
for short statured
perspective
see
my little soul

That
you are bigger than
the world

oh Lady of Wisdom
of the desert
of the woods
this is your castle.
library,
refuge
and home
send torrents of angels
like rain
upon us
adept in your science
and mathematics
of grace
and sacred geometry
so that in the
morning light
we might find ourselves
like our true labor
and true
rendered garments
complete
and combat ready
not with weapons
of mass destruction
men use
in their killing fields
but with Love
for it is only
She
who realizes
her own Revelation
who gives birth to
the one power
mightier than
the sword.
Amen

my mother has mirrors
like those intricately carved
and gilded in gold
what a queen
might have used
or film stars
of the 1940’s
who
without their mirrors
and stories of old
the scrubbing never ended
the scrubbing of dishes,
and pots and plates
it could never be finished
what I mean is
one was always
Cinderella’s
jealous step sister
with too big feet
or the second one in line
for the throne
the third runner up
for some kind of
film star award
no matter what one’s
royal lineage
until one took off
one’s apron
to relax for a bit
perhaps mom took off
a pink one
the one with green stitching
and pointed and starched
black lace
that she had sewn
all by herself
from scraps
she had retrieved from
the rag bin
and found herself
content to cast image
onto something
or someone
else for awhile
and that’s how it all
got started
so long ago
the spell casting
of images
Mom’s magic mirrors
the mistaking
of her own reflection
for a daughter
in the silverware
or the dinner plates
Mom still holds things up
for inspection
wherever she finds
her magic mirrors
and sees reflections
and hears voices
that seem to make life
not shiny enough
or make the neighbors
gossip and point
and now
all I have to remember
remember her by
Mom’s true self
is my own grief
when she casts with
such impunity
and purpose
like a professional
to make me the object
of all that she despises
in her imagination
inside of herself

I left her
in Southgate
a rose dahlia
she had something
on her mind
something
to keep
the Missouri moon
rose o’er me
a lantern
in the sky
telling me secrets
that she
couldn’t speak
isn’t it ironic
mortal men
find her brilliant
as reflection
of the sun
but just as
morning beckons
she weeps
like Mara
whose waters
we cannot drink
Missouri moon
caress my face
mediatrix
to mitigate
a divide
Missouri moon
I beg you
guide me home
for I still sense
paradox
only you
can guide me
to a journey
without grief


https://youtu.be/iEDusVxVKbA

candlelight
lend me your mystery
draw me into the night
that I might discover
something more

more than the shadows
that vague and opaque
that hunt and haunt
my loose-latched
front door

and make my footing
unsure
as I step out
in a fog-like cloak
of non disclosure

instead of transparency
the wraith wants to
mark my death
and make sure
my stories aren’t told

like a cold, old lady
who sweeps puzzle pieces
under the rug
without me asking
from my kitchen floor

candlelight
oh beautiful,
magical candlelight

that’s not the cleansing
that I’m looking for
but it’s getting simpler
now

for I sense you’re a portal
my knowing,
my door,
my non material
that’s nonetheless more secure

as you lend me your flame
and close tightly behind me
to make my heart pulsate
like you

in discovering that more
in what you illumine
that clear and that brilliant
beyond mask, doors and floors

the sharp white and black
that’s not stale or despondent
it’s like an outline of tree limbs
cutting up through to the sky

and beyond time as if
we could reach heaven’s height
in humble candlelight
and reverse alchemy

I know you can take me there
with outstretched arms
and the face in whose eyes
I look upon

as they reflect my own
that I’ve never seen before
oh candlelight,
that contains all mysteries

wake me up with kind smile
and words from that mystery
that lies right before me
tonight

At ninety
the wicked stepmother
returns
bringing with her delusions
fueled on Fox News,
white bread
and mayonnaise
I can see it in her eyes
right before
she turns
unable to manage
her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and for my refusing
to choke
on the color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my water bottle
for what else is there
to hold onto
when you want to wash
something other
than color off your skin
like a virus
she’d like to pass on
through generational channels
does she really imagine
peace is made
chewing with mouths open
excusing ourselves
in the Lord
she says it’s not just the skin
don’t you know
it’s their culture
and they should be used
to uncharitable remarks
by now,
anyhow
she adds that his mother
must be rolling over
in her grave
I say perhaps
perhaps that’s true
Mom
because after all
I don’t think racists
get to go to heaven
and I squirt her
with water
just the side of her face
don’t you know
because she tries to fling
her dinner plate
at me
of chicken salad
on baby spinach
with those little, tiny
mandarin oranges
that came in the can
with the pull back ring
but it’s too late
anyway
and it comes flying
at me
across my kitchen table

 

her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and refusing to choke
on the skin color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my water bottle
tightly
for what else is there
to hold onto
and clutch
when  you want to scream
and wash something
other than color
from your skin
like a virus
passed unwittingly
from one generation
to the next
did she really think
we would eat
with our mouths open
our unkindness

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good food
of good words
of sunshine
and rain

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good laughter
of good song
of activity
and repose

none of this
is charity measured
but abundance itself
and sweet gratitude
for the self
and the other

for in the end
we are all the parent
we are all the voice
much like the God
who brought us here

and in the end
we are all the love
much like the joy
and potent wisdom
that keeps the world kind

Reluctant,
he slows down
like a well seasoned Friday
approaching
that event horizon

where time cannot touch us
we sit at the edge and wait
for time to also slow
for on this side
time cannot really stop

by the light of the moon
there’s a shack
or a house, or a hut, or a lake
it’s wherever the lovers meet
in their imagined reality

can they see them? I think not
can they hear them?
I say what for?
come with me, my friend, he says
quietly opening her door

can I think it, like a shore?
an idea written inside of a notebook
can I be it, like a book
an idea written inside of her head?

sweet ghost, you are mine I know
elusive in your transparentness