Improvising With a Light Saber

Before you left
Home –
by Home I mean
your Place on
Boulevard de Cosmos –
you auditioned to
play a Part
in this Theater of
Bittersweet Conundrums,
wherein you have
a single
Stage Direction:

Improvise scenes, from
barren and blasphemous to
bodacious and beautiful,
in which Love –
by Love I mean
that Potion
boiling in a
Cauldron in
The Mystery,
a drop of which
will sprout roses
from a rock, or
turn a festering
wound into a
Tattoo of Incendiary
Gorgeousness –

scenes in which
you wield a
Light Saber,
dipped in Love,
in the face of
Death,
whatever costume
it’s wearing.

Question:

Have you grown
weary,
convinced you’re
not up to
this Role of a
Lifetime?
Painfully aware of
all your missed
cues and
butchered lines?

I’ve heard
the Director
thinks otherwise,
and your audience is
rapt.

There’s no script here,
Brando,
we’re improvising.

And we’ve got
light years to
get it right.

(Photo by Tobias Cornille; UnSplash)

 

Don’t Deny a Thing

You may awaken
one morning
to find your
front lawn
occupied by
demonstrators,
marching around
on long
green unmowed
grass, carrying
signs:

“Even Narcissists
Need To Do
Yardwork,” and
“Sloth Is a
Cardinal Sin,” and
“Your Wife
Deserves Better.”

You may cower
beneath your
pillow,
hoping a few
more minutes of
somnolence
will take the
sharp edge
off the
shame,

or maybe you
cobble together
a sign of
your own,
with duct tape and
cardboard:

“I promise
to be better
tomorrow.”

Or maybe you
panic plot an
exit strategy,
to a place
where no one
knows you.

Maybe, just maybe,
consider this:

Put on a robe,
walk outside,
smile at your accusers.

Invite them
in for a cup of
tea and some of
those chocolate chip
cookies.

Sit with them
awhile,
chat them up.

Don’t deny
a thing.

You may find
them to be
quite harmless
after awhile.

After all,
you’re made of
starlight and
eternity,
you’ve got a
fan club of
angels.

Why are you
worried about
a few protesters?

 

Witness Protection Program

Suppose you have
witnessed the
explosion of
light
that big banged
the whirling worlds
and multifarious
luminosities
into expressions of
your Being.

Suppose you have
witnessed the
weaving of Being
into generations
of breath taking
exhalations of
incandescent
Beauty.

Suppose, after
All That,
you desired to
plummet from
those declarations
of the Divine

into this humbling
habituation
that nevertheless
delights us
grinning
hangdog
humans,

eager to
play our
Lovepower
games
against the
imagined
Darkpower,

the better
to scatter
the Light about
on the Earth.

I suppose, after
witnessing
All That,
you might
need some sort of
Witness Protection Program,
to hide your True
Identity.

I’ve seen your
clever disguise,
and I love it!

But I know
Who You
Are.

(Photo by Mika Baumeister; UnSplash)

 

You Know Who You Are

You know
who you are:
you imagine
that Jesus is
watching you,

that He sees
you when
you fail,
for the
hundredth time,
to Do
the Right Thing.

You’re decades
old and you
still can’t
get it right.

You still waste
Time and Money,
and the neighbors
still purse
their lips and
shake their
heads at
your filthy
car
and your
unmowed lawn.

You still
speak
when silence
would be
golden,
stand mute
when the
least you
could do
is say
something,
anything,
just so we know
you haven’t
fallen asleep
at the wheel.

You imagine
that Jesus is
watching you,
building a case
out of your
ineptitude and
selfishness,
not to
mention your
sloth.

I know it is
written:
Jesus wept.

But when He
sees you,
Jesus laughs
and pulls you
close.

(Photo by Hermes Rivera; UnSplash)

 

The Cave

I can’t believe
it has taken
three-score-and-ten
years to
find
the entrance
to the Cave
that contains
The Treasure.

I suppose it’s
the darkness,
but lately
a Light
has been
glimmering.

It’s the pure Light
of Being, of
I Am,
which turns out
to Be
the only Light
I need.

It has shone
forever,
and can never
be extinguished.

From what I
can now see,
the Cave
is filled with
everything I’ve
avoided, resisted, denied;
put off to vague
and lazy
tomorrows
I hoped would
never come.

I am beginning
to believe that
if I shine the
Light of Being
on the contents of
the Cave,

if I pull them
out into
the gleam of
Love,
for Being
exactly what
they are,

I may discover
they are
the stuff of
Art.

(Photo by Bruno Van der Kraan; UnSplash)

 

Thwarted

The Plan was
Perfect.

First, a Walk
in The Enchanted
Forest.
Then, a Visit
to an Artfully
Notorious Nursery.
With the Third and
Final Act a
Table for Two
at a Coffeeshop
that might,
with a twist of
The Imagination,
be a portal to
The Mystery.

But The Plan
vanished in
a puff of
exhaust smoke
when the Forest
was overrun
with carloads of
overrunners.

Thwarted!

The Nursery seemed
suddenly bereft of its
beguilements
until I
remembered:

A Wise One
said:
“If The Plan
comes to What Is
Naught,
embrace
What Is.”

I assented,
and The Mystery
returned my
Embrace.

Every green and
budded thing,
every vine and branch,
in that
Notorious Nursery,
pulled me in
close, and
whispered Secrets,
as if we were
Lovers.

Even stacks
of cardboard flats
seemed artfully
arranged by
Michelangelo.

When we
departed with
great gratitude,

and travelled
on to the
Coffeeshop of
Mystery,

we were already
swimming in it.

(Photo by Annie Spratt; UnSplash)

 

Laughing

If you know
there is a
Supreme
Benevolence
inhabiting
every precious
Soul,

no matter how
disfigured by
the rigors of
choosing
to be
Human,

you will also
know how
superfluous
and laughably
useless are
your judgments,

whether of
your own
pearl without price
Self,
or that Other
whose price is
beyond rubies.

There is no
Judge,
no Jury,
they are
figments
of imaginations
gone awry,
overwhelmed
perhaps,
by the
freedom
built into
our divine
natures.

But let your
imagination be
captured,
for a
moment,
by this
conjecture:

What if
Judgment
is the mortal
enemy of
human
connection,
indeed
connection
with any
living thing?

What limits
to the
creativity of
infinite
connections
would remain,
if you allow
the Supreme
Benevolence
to laugh
away your
Judgments?

(Photo by Mieke Campbell; Unsplash)

 

Old White Dog

You keep trying
to measure your
Self.

As if you were
ordering a
replacement,
only this time
not your
Self.

Better productivity
numbers,
more travel
miles,
better ratio of
outdoors to
indoors,
less accumulated
stuff,
more fitness,
less sitness,
taller,
leaner,
better dressed
for success, and
younger.

But let’s see
what else
has been
replaced,
along with
your
Self.

Wait.

Where’s that
old white
dog
that was
here a few
minutes ago?

(Photo by Marek Szturc; UnSplash)

 

Persona Grata

You can trust
the You that is
You.

I’m not talking
about the
Persona
you’ve been
assembling
from other
people’s
blueprints,

beginning with
your parents,
who may not
have known
you arrived
from Eternity,
already
perfect,
where you’ll
return
when that
Persona
has served
you
and is ready
to be laid
down with
love and great
affection.

So, beware
trusting the
blueprints –
they’re endless –
and don’t fret
too much about
construction
flaws.

It turns out
you’re in the
Cast of Characters
in a dramedy,
part farce,
part tragedy,
all masterpiece,

and the flaws
just keep the
audience guessing
about what
will happen
next.

So, keep it
Real.

Trust
the You that is
You.

(Photo by Carles Rabada; UnSplash)

 

Believe It

You can’t believe
You’re beloved,
can You,

after all You’ve
done and
failed to do?

Adored, cherished,
even though
the list of Your
lazy lapses
would occupy
a dozen chapters
in a Dostoevsky
novel, and
a recitation of Your
secret sins
would have its
own shelf
in the Library
of Congress.

You can’t believe,
can You,
that there
are legions
of angels
assigned
to guard
every footstep,

even though
You often
choose to
give them
the slip.

You insist
that Your
record will
haunt You
all Your days,
but You’re
the only one
carrying a copy
around in Your
back pocket,
constantly
pulling it out
for Your
incessant
review.

You can’t believe
You’re beloved,
can You?

But You
couldn’t take
the measure
of that love
even if You
tried to
comprehend it
every day of
Your forever
life.

(Photo by Julia Kadel; UnSplash)