Unauthorized Biographies

I wonder if
we pay too much attention to
unauthorized biographies of
the billowing clouds of

Love

that blow out of
The Mystery,
luminescent showers of
adoration and
Creation,
bathed in
The Light of
the Eternal Embrace of
All That Is.

Rows of books,
bold to pronounce
names …
“God,” for example …
eager to assign
“He,” occasionally “She,”
with no apparent
authority.

But the chapter
stuck in my craw
this church-going Sunday morning,
like an unexpected
pebble in my
chocolate eclair,

is a Missing Chapter:

The one where
God created
Laughter and
standup comics.

(Photo by Christian Buehner; UnSplash)

 

The Science of It

Put on Your
lab coat and
run this experiment:

Choose an object,
perhaps the cluster of
tulips Your
neighbor brought,
or
Your Persian
kitty pal
draped across
the back of
Your couch,
or
the watercolor
rendering of
a hummingbird
poised in flight,
or
The One
sitting
across from You,
immersed in Her
book about
gardening . . .

Now,
turn on an imaginary
hose made of
hollow dandelion stems and
connected to Your
beating heart,

but filled with
sweet Syrup de
Amor.

Start showering
the Object of
Your Attention.

Make it mushy and
maudlin and
mawkish and
even a little
melancholy.

Let it be
in your imagination
for the moment,
but pile it on,

shimmery and
sun-drenched and
startling in its
ferocity.

Now for
The Science
of it:

Where did it
come from,
this Gusher?

It’s a Mystery,
isn’t it?

 

I Miss My Dog

Yesterday Luna
went Home.

I miss Her,
the way I had to
step over Her
to get to the couch,
the way She used to
greet me at the door
with a slipper,
then had to be
reminded to
bring me the other one.
The way She
scratched up the
front door from
rearing up to peer
out the window,
frantic with Joy
that we were
coming up the
front steps.

I miss my dog.

(Photo by Sue Christenson Gillard)

 

Road Maps and Love Letters

You don’t need
a road map to
find Your way into
The Mystery.

The Mystery being
that Being of
Love and Light
that Poets and Priests
stumble and dance and
whirl and argue
around and about
until, exhausted,
they settle on calling
“God” or some feeble
variation thereof,
when they
stamp out their
Holy Books and
print their
road maps.

The road maps
you don’t need
because You are
native to
The Mystery,
already there,
and have been
since The Mystery
burst into
a billion fractals
of the Light,
including You.

That is not to say
there isn’t
unfathomable Beauty
in those paintings and
photographs and
music and dance and
storyteller’s
luminous arts
that flow from
The Mystery
like an avalanche of
Love Letters
toppled from piles
penned by
The Mystery,
Who has nothing
better to do.

(Photo by Ranurte; UnSplash)

 

Prodigal Therapy

This didn’t make it
into the Bible, but
the Prodigal Son
became a Family
Therapist.

Remember him?
The delinquent
who demanded his
inheritance and
used it
to finance the
careers of a
motley crew of
hookers and drug dealers?

Then he crawled home
and begged Daddy
to let him sleep
in a corner of
the servants’ quarters,
probably on a pile
of his filthy work clothes,
from his last job
shoveling pig shit.

But Daddy said
NO!

And made him
take a bath
so he could wear
a brand new
party robe,
then put a ring
on his finger
and wrote him
a big check,
restoring his
squandered inheritance.

Then the kid was
the Guest of Honor
at a party to
show off his
new robe and
practice being
happy again.

Okay,
I’m not sure
the boy hung out
a shingle to practice
Family Therapy,

but I like to
imagine his
first session
with a despairing
father,
wondering what
consequences
should be paid
by his rebellious,
but equally despairing
son.

(Photo by Nik Shuliahin; UnSplash)