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)

 

Gifts

The Light
that spun us
from Its luminous
Heart
and set us
free,
in hope that
we would
bear our Light
as a Gift
to every
creature;

seemed amused
this morning
when I reviewed,
for the
thousand-and-first
time,
my lack of
qualifications and
my multitudinous
failures,

and reminded me
that as
entertaining
as the review of
my obvious
unsuitability
might be,

if I could
put it aside for
long enough to
hand deliver a
Gift or two,

if, say,
I was able
to stage even
a tiny
demonstration of
the Light of
loving another as
I love myself,

the subject of
my unsuitability for
Gift giving
would probably
never
come up.

(Photo by Freestocks; UnSplash)

 

Light

If you knew
your Soul
was made of
Light
and could never be
extinguished;

If you knew
your Body
was a Player’s
costume,

chosen for
its perfect
fit for your
Soul;

When you
got that
perfect part
you auditioned for,

because no one
can play it
like you
can play it;

If the Director
sat you down,
looked you
in the eye
and said,

“You’re hitting
it out of the
ballpark every
single night
out there.
You’re a natural,
just being
You.”

Could you lose
some of that
stage fright?
Could you
play You right
over the top?

When the curtain
drops on the
last show, and
you come onstage for
that little curtsy, and
after the
cast party,

take some time
to catch your
breath, but
wait till you
see what’s up
next for You.

You’ll love it.

(Photo by Nathan Reboucas; UnSplash)

 

Moving Day

After a year
of frequent visits to
The Mystery,
Indolent Coffee in
The Coffee Shops of Mystery,
hanging out in the
Speakeasy,
having my
Epiphany On Aisle 6,

I want to move in.

I want to live in
The Mystery,
surrounded by
offbeats and
quirketude,
weirdos and
Imaginary Friends.

I’m told I must
pass through a
bullshit detector,
and I won’t
be allowed
more than a
small carry-in
with my
3-ring notebook
and a pen.
I may be strip
searched
to find
contraband,
like
To Do Lists and
self doubt.

I’m ready
to go.

If you’re
in there,
I’ll look you up.

2.22.22

Moving Day.

(Photo by Remi Skatulski; UnSplash)

 

Meditation

I’m told
my meditative
position is
important, so
I carefully
arrange the
couch cushions
when I sit down,
especially the
extra pillow
behind my
shoulders
and the one
for leaning
my head back.
I cross my legs,
knee over knee.
Ahhhhh……….

Next I
remind myself
that I am not
my unfinished
tasks,
nor am I
the freezing
weather coming
next week.
I’m not
the inevitable
wind gusts
that bend
the tall cedars
within striking
distance of
our house,
nor am I
those tangles
in the web
of cherished
connections
that are never
fully unraveled.

I am not
the conflicting
How To Do
Your Life
Instructions
that scroll endlessly
down
all my screens.

I Am
What Is Aware of
What I Am Not,
Aware that I Am
Safe
and Forever Loved,
Aware that
You are Aware,
Safe
and Forever Loved.

(Photo by Vinicius “AMNX” Amano; UnSplash)