Stop

You must
stop
lying to
your Self.

You must
stop
telling
your Self

You’re not
Who
You want to
be.

You are
already
Everything
You want to
be.

You just need
a place to
experience it.

That’s Why
You’re Here.

You’ve been
lied to.

They meant
well, but

You’ve been
lied to

by anyone
who has
told You

You’re not
Who
You want to
be.

You are
already
Everything
You want to
be.

(Photo by Janko Ferlic; UnSplash)

 

Lifetime Guarantee

Do you understand
The Gift
you’ve been given?

Let’s begin with
how you have
no beginning and
no end.

Let’s take a look
at the warranty
tattooed on
your Soul,
when you drifted
out of the
Mystery to
take on that
body,
the one you
chose –
it was no
accident.

“Guaranteed
to be loved.”

In spite of,
perhaps because of,

your highwire
acts of foolishness,
your defiance
of the adoration
that beckons you
with the
Magic Arts
of Creation,
your occasional
rages of
fearfulness and
doom.

A Guarantee is a
Guarantee.

Consider a possible
Adventure –
perhaps across
lifetimes, if
you need them –

wherein you
wrap your Self
in that Lifetime
Guarantee,

then step
back out on that
highwire,
this time with
a circus act that
defies gravity
with laughter,
that tightropes
over fear
with brazen
affection.

(Photo by Casey Horner; UnSplash)

 

The Method

I’m not a pro,
and maybe I’ve
misconstrued,

but I understand
there’s a Method
of acting wherein
the actor becomes
the character
they’ve chosen to
inhabit.

That sounds
exhilirating!
Perhaps for
my next
performance
I’ll become
a man who
mows his lawn
on schedule and
is handy with a
hammer and
power saw,
a man who prefers
a tent and campfire to
a slightly shabby
B&B overlooking
Bourbon Street.

But not this time around.

Whether I audition
for the part of a
sexy singer-songwriter,
or get to play
quarterback,
or CEO,
or prima ballerina,

I will live the part,
yet

I will remember,
as the sun rises,
and I’m getting into
costume,

that my Method
must embrace
my Soul,
the One that is
forever beloved
by The Love that
applauds that
I Am.

(Photo by Laura Marques; UnSplash)

 

You

If you knew
the You that is You
is all the You
You will ever be,
always has been,
and always will be:

Would it make a difference?

By “always has been”
I mean
always,
as in there was
no beginning.

By “always will be”
I mean
there will be
no ending.

By “You,”
I mean
the Loving Consciousness
that formed You …

Wait . . .

There was no beginning . . .

That Loving Consciousness –
let’s just call it Love –
forms You.
Now.
There’s no
past tense
when that
wasn’t so.

If that’s true:
Does it make
a difference to
You?

Is there anything
You still need
to be,
anything
You still need
to have,
that isn’t already
You?

Now . . .

Is there something
You want to
create?

Perhaps a
character
You’d like to
play
for awhile?

A dramedy
You’d like to
perform?

A hero You’d
like to
inhabit?

To demonstrate
how far You can
expand
the boundary of
Love?

Go for it.

(Photo by Sid Leigh; UnSplash)

 

Jeebus

I am sitting on
the end of the couch,
where the pillows
have been arranged
to resemble a
recliner.

It’s my Holy of Holies.

Only it’s turning
into quicksand, as
I sink into a
tar pit of pity
for my underachieving
Self.

As I’m about to
go under,
there’s a bustling,
as my Imaginary Friend,
Jeebus,
appears.

(If you don’t have
an Imaginary Friend
I can hook you up.)

“Dude,” he says,
“this is beyond pathos.
I’m here for an
intervention.”

I’m surprised he
doesn’t tire of
this routine,
but he’s a gamer.

“I’ve got something
for you,” and
he pulls a little box
from his imaginary
pocket.

He pops it open
to reveal a tiny,
twinkly obelisk.

“This is designed
to broadcast
Magic Moments,”
he announces
in a magic moment
sort of incantation.

“Really,” I say,
rolling my eyes,
“that’s a clichè.”

“I could make it
more poetic, I
suppose,” he says,
rolling his eyes
right back at me.
“Do you like
‘ephemera?’”

“Whatever,” I sigh.

“Here’s the thing,”
he says,
“what’s magical
about it is,
for one moment
you can be
Who you want
to be, and,
if you like,
it will keep broadcasting,
one Magic Moment
at-a-time.”

And then he was
gone,
but the obelisk
remained.

If I pay attention,
maybe I can
get used to
living,
one Magic Moment
at-a-time.

That Jeebus
is such an
ephemera.

(Photo by Matt Palmer; UnSplash)

 

Return To Sender

Early on
I was instructed to
“give my life to
the Lord.”

I did my best –
the way I wrapped it
may have been
a little sloppy,
I was just a kid –
but I sent it
First Class.

I was told
the Lord would
take care of
everything,
in exchange for
my obedience.

I confess
there have been times
I’ve been,
to say the least,
puzzled by the
outcomes of this
micro-management,
but I chalked it up to
my obviously inadequate
obedience.

Awhile back
a package was
delivered –
all I saw was a flutter
of wings.

The label said,
“Return to Sender.”
Inside was a message:

“We’ve been trying to
give your Life
back to you
for decades, but

you seem to
have been
hiding.

We love you
and your good
intentions,
but you were meant
to have
your Life.

No worries.
You’ve got some
years left.

There’s no end
of adventures:
Funny ones,
scary ones,
some that will
leave you breathless,
with your viscera
overflowing with
euphoria.
But you’ll need to
take your Life back.

We hope you’ll
forgive us for
having a bit of
fun
watching you
try to be
obedient.

All our love.”

(Photo by Kira Aufderheide; UnSplash)

 

God’s Will

I allowed my Self
to be put into
an invisible cage
called God’s Will.

I was told that
all I needed
to do was
explore its
contours and
I would understand
all I needed
to know.

But mostly
I huddled
in place.

It was invisible,
and I feared
to walk where
I couldn’t see.

But I could
read books,
tossed into The Cage
by kind passersby,

I could see
dancers
in the distance,
hear rhythm and
blues being
thrummed by
wild fingers,
standup comics
set up microphones
somewhere just
outside The Cage, and
there were Saturday
Movie Matinees
projected on those
invisible walls.

One day I
arose and started to
walk,

feeling for bars,
so I’d know
just how far
God wanted me
to go.

It’s been
a few years now,
and I just
keep walking.

I’m beginning to
think it may be
safe

to start running,
or even try
flying.

(Photo by Ye Jinghan; UnSplash)

 

Bucket List

I daydreamed
a different idea
for a Bucket List,
wherein there are
multiple buckets,

each containing
Intentions to
Act on Desires
nurtured by an
Imagination
custom designed for
me.

(You have one, too.)

There’s a bucket for
Good Works,
there’s a bucket for
Play,
a bucket for
Work
I can’t seem to
shirk.

There’s a bucket marked
“Divine,”
and one marked
“Just for Fun,”

a bucket for
Giving
and one for
Receiving.

I thought of
dividing them
further,

the Holy Ones
on the right,
the mundane or
simply pleasurable
on the left,
beginning with
the obvious:

Giving
on the Right,
Receiving
on the Left.
Heavenly
on the Right,
Earthly
on the Left.

But then my
Imagination
was overcome by
a Vision,

of an Angel
dispatched to
apprehend me.

“My friend,” said
The Messenger,

“You’re wasting precious
Time to Play.”

Then she laughed,
and proceeded to
kick my buckets
until everything was

One Holy Mess.

(Photo by Ella Ivanescu; UnSplash)

 

Staying Indoors

It began
innocently enough.

I was helpless,
being rolled around
in a stroller,
drooling all over
my little bib and tucker.

But before I end up,
seventy years later,
being rolled around
in a stroller,
drooling all over
my little bib and tucker,

I want to figure out
why I’m still letting
the grownups
tell me Who I Am.

“You’re such a good
little reader, but
you shouldn’t
read that;

be a good boy,
and give your heart
to Jesus;

don’t touch that,
or I’ll get my
stick.

Everybody loves
that movie,
what’s wrong
with you?

Why are you still
inside, Stevie?
Go outside and play.

What do you mean,
you’re not coming?
The whole neighborhood
will be there.”

Meanwhile,
my Maker
finds ways to
remind me that

the thing about
being offspring of
The Divine is
you are

cherished,
adored,
beloved,

even when
you stay indoors
to read that book
you’re not supposed
to read.

(Photo by Josh Applegate; UnSplash)

 

Bemusement

In a sloppy slough of
self-abnegation and
despond,
no doubt conspired
by some
rabid variant of
narcissism,

I was regaling
my Beloved
with a recitation
of the myriad
means and manners
of my slippery
sloth and crafty
procrastination,

comparing my Self,
disfavorably,
to my industrious
manly neighbors,
flashing their tools
and implements of
homey improvements.

She reminded me
that my constant
comparisons
have their roots in
junior high school
behavior,
and I wound down
my self-involved
mumblings,
with apologies.

This morning
I watched my skillful
neighbor
drive away for his
morning coffee,

and wondered
what demons of
self-doubt
assault him,
or harass the friendly
craftsman
across the street?

Perhaps I could
invite them,
in a manner
I have yet to
devise,

to take a plunge
with me
into the bottomless
ocean of
exuberant Love
we forget that
surrounds us, and

drowns
our foolish
comparings
in waves of
bemusement.

(Photo by Alevision-co; UnSplash)