Paradox

There was a
deep thinker
named Zeno,
who loved to
ponder his
paradoxes.

“What if,”
he surmised,
“it’s impossible
to get there
from here,

because no
matter
how far
you think
you have gotten,
when you reach
the halfway
point
there will always
be a similar
distance
remaining?

Always.

Into eternity.

You will never
get there.”

What if,
I surmise,
we’ve been
bamboozled
by a thousand
Zenos
into believing

there’s
somewhere
else
we must be,
or some One
else
we must be,

and we’ll never
get there
from here?

What if
we’re already
there,
the One
we’ve always
been?

 

Running Amok

Let your
Imagination
run amok and
see yourself
getting that
audience with
The Creator
(she/he, her/him)
you’ve been
longing for.

There’s time for
one question and
you’ve brought
The One
you were taught,
from childhood,
to ask.
Every minute of
every day.

“Creator,
what is
Your Will
for my
life?”

After She
stops laughing,
She grabs your
gaze
and says to you,
Her voice dripping
all over Her desk
with
adoration for
You:

“Silly One,
I love the hell
out of You,
but you have it
bass-ackwards.
The Question is
What Do You
Long To Do With
Your Self?

All I ask
is that it be
something that
will show
the rest of us
there is
no end in sight
to expanding
the borders of
The Kingdom
of Love.

Let your
Imagination
run amok.”

(Photo by Jamaal Cooks; UnSplash)

 

Round Table

Somewhere
in The Mystery
there’s a
round table,
in a coffeeshop,
or a pub,
if you prefer,

with a motley
mix of
soulful Ones
taking up
the seats.

They’ve been
meeting here
for millennia,
to swap
escapades of
love
and adventures
concocted from
joy and untamed
creativity.

There are some
loose rules:
Talk of guilt or
shame or
adverse
comparisons
cannot be taken
seriously,
but may be
made the
butt of
madcap jokes,
if done with
proper
loving disdain.

The group
has anointed
a scribe,
whose task it is
to send
the best ideas,
via overnight
dream mail,
to their favorite
earthbound souls.
You’ve probably
received
one or two.

I almost forgot
the best part:

It’s possible,
if you’re paying
attention,
if you lay aside
that guilt and
shame, and
those laughable
comparisons,
to join them.

There’s a seat
at the table
for you.

(Photo by Rok Zabukovec; UnSplash)

 

Backstage

Sometimes
when I encounter
You

I like to
Imagine

how long
it has taken
You
to prepare to
play the
Character
that is
You.

It’s a mystery,
The Mystery.

Sometimes
we get lucky,
by meditating, or
finding the perfect
woodland trail, or
the perfect
coffeeshop,

and we are
allowed
Backstage,

where we see
the costumes
and the sets and
the props
being spun
out of light,

and we feel
the Love
that creates
the Art
that forms
the Stagecraft

that has
produced this
Scene
where I encounter
You.

(Photo by Bennoptic; UnSplash)

 

Extreme Sport

I’ve heard
this human life
described as an
extreme sport,

but, instead of
hurtling down a
mountain goat
footpath on a
bicycle, or
diving from a
mile high pinnacle
with nothing but
a pair of gossamer
bat wings,

the challenge is
to face off
with the most
dire of human
dilemmas,
armed with
nothing but
Lovecraft.

This sport is
so sought
that souls are
lined up
around the block,
waiting for the
perfect
conception,
chosen by them
for the perfect
cellular fit,
soul to body.

But what of
this Craft of
Love?

What are its
tools?

And therein
lies the
the joy of it.

One soul chooses
hammer and nails,
another a
surgeon’s kit.
But just as well
an artist’s brush,
or a poet’s pen,
or a farmer’s
scattered seeds.

It’s up to you,
but here’s a thought:

Before you choose,
consider wandering
the aisles of a
shop in
the Heart of
The Mystery,
and don’t
settle
until you find
the perfect
tools.

(Photo by Jonathan Francis; UnSplash)

 

Dear Jon


Dear Jonathan Edwards –
may I call you Jon? –
It has come
to my attention
that on or about
July 8, 1741,
in Enfield, Connecticut,
you preached
a sermon called
Sinners In the Hands of
An Angry God.

Some have called it
the Dawn of
The First
Great Awakening.

I am calling it
The Great
Slander.

I am backdating
this letter to
July 4, 1741,
to allow a fews days
for delivery,
and to celebrate
my growing
Independence from the
cockamamie notion that
God is angry
with his/her
(it defies pronouns)

Beloved
Adored
Cherished
Endeared
Ones.

Not even with you,
in spite of your
Great
Besmirch!

Nevertheless,
in hopes of
precluding the
Puritan Stain
upon
the Beauty of
All That Is,

I must ask you to
Cease and Desist
from preaching
the Libel of an
angry
God.

 

Lit

It’s Sunday Morning
and The Spirit of
All That Is
moves in me.

I must have
seated myself
on the Holy End
of The Couch.

A homily of
Imagination
is forming itself
into Words.

I Imagine
The Big Bang of
Love
that formed us
as an
Explosion of
Light
from a
Flame
ignited in
The Void.

In turn
igniting
a trillion
candles,

a trillion
Soul Blazes
that consume
one candle,
then leap to
another and
another,
as The Light
glows deeper
into
The Void.

On The Couch
I ask myself:

How could I
have ever
believed I
could ever
be separated
from
The Light?

(Photo by Chris Rhoades; UnSplash)

 

Recipes

I want to
talk about
Love,
but it lies
flat
on the page
like a dry cookie
someone left out
on a platter
a day or so ago.

Then I start
musing
about how I am
beginning to
understand –
no, strike that –
beginning to
feel
how we’ve been
defrauded
by the misguided
theology –
even the
admirably resilient
atheists
among us –
the
You-Are-Broken-and-Need-Repair
mantra

that blinds us
to our
luminous,
mysterious,
fresh confection
of a Soul,
baked to perfection
by our
Being.

Maybe Love
is when I
tell you
I would love
to know the
recipe of
your Soul.

(Photo by Sharon McCutcheon; UnSplash)

 

The Therapeutic Couch

I am moved
to offer you
my unlicensed
therapeutic practice.

You seem
every bit as
anxious as I am,
and this
sometimes works
for me.

The only thing
you’ll need is a
therapeutic couch.
The one you sit on
to binge watch
reruns of Seinfeld or
the Simpsons
will be fine.
Maybe use an
extra cushion
and something
to prop your feet on.
Dim the lights
a little.

Now lean back,
try to stay
awake.

Or not.
I’m not charging
by the hour.

Imagine
a curtain descends,
deep blue,
embroidered with
twinkling lights
strung
in the shape
of a midnight
starscape.

Leave your body
on the couch
and part the curtains.

As you move
through them,
you are met by
beings who
are made of
Light,
who embrace you.

You realize that
before this
moment
your ideas about
love
have been
woefully inadequate.

They remind you
that your Mission,
as you chose
to accept it,

when you first
came into
your body
from behind
the Curtain,

was to smuggle
large quantities
of that love,
in every available
pocket,
wherever your fancy
takes you.

Now, back through
the curtain and
finish watching
Homer or Jerry.

I’ve found
this helps me
feel
a little less
anxious.

(Photo by Kam Idris; UnSplash)