Art Supplies

I stood
at the entry to
The Mystery,

basking in the
Light of the
Eternal Present,

where I have
no beginning,
no end,
and I’m forever
safe.

I looked around and
rejoiced in
the freedom
of knowing
there is no
past here.
It’s vanished.
It doesn’t exist.

Nor can I
lay my hands on
the Future.
It’s nowhere
to be found.

I’m free.

But then
I noticed
this moment
seems to be
predicted by that
last moment,
even though
it’s gone.

I saw my
freedom
being arrested by
my past.

Just then
my mirror
image
emerged from
somewhere in
The Mystery.

“Come inside,”
I said to
my Self.

“We sell
art supplies
in here.

“Let’s see what
you might be able
to do with that
next moment,
and the
next one,
and the
one after that.”

 

Patchwork

There are,
at least,
a thousand-and-one
ideas,
from at least
a thousand-and-one
places,
about how
You should
be You.

So, will You
patch together,
with spit and
bubblegum,
a patchwork
You,

in order to
make happy
those
thousand-and-one
idea spewers,

as if You
owe them
a debt, or
to avoid their
ridicule, or
dodge their
displeasure, or

to placate
the relentless
demons of
shame and guilt
with whatever
must be
sacrificed of
Your For Real
Self?

Or will You be
Who You Are.
Now.
In this instant.

(Photo by Volha Milovich; UnSplash)

 

Couch Potato

You’ve been thinking
you’re not where
you should be.

You’ve been
afraid
you’re lost,
overwhelmed,
anchored to that
couch by terminal
sloth
and fatal
procrastination.

What if
where you are,
right now,
is a portal to
The Mystery?

Where the
Magic
inflates your
Soul with
Joy
captured from
the laughing
breath
of a circus tent
full of
children.

Where you are,
right now.

What if fear of
where you are
is fermenting
more fear
by the gallon?

What if love
of exactly
where you are
is what opens
the door to
where you
should go
next?

 

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)