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)

 

I See You

I want to
tell you
that I
see you.

You have
something
you want to
show us.

For a minute or
an hour or
a day
you were in
The Mystery,

and you found
Something.

It glows with
Divinity and
Holy
Beauty.

It’s a tune, or
a photograph, or
a sentence.
A dance step, or
a vision, and
you’ve painted it.

Something wriggling
with hilarity, or so
sensual you can’t
sit still.

The Creator of
All That Is
handed it
to you and
asked you to
show us.

That’s why
you’re here,
Silly!

Did you think
it was to
behave yourself?

(Photo by Darius Soodmand; Unsplash)

 

Shazam!

I was raised
in Sunday School
where we sang,
with our small
voices,

“One door, and
only one, and yet
its sides are
two.
I’m on the
Inside,
on which side
are You?”

Me Inside,
You Outside,
still haunts me.
A cursed bias
that resists
exorcism.

But I Am
tricking it into
serving me
as an Instigator
of Awareness.

When it shows
its ugly face
I smile at it
and say,

“Thank you for
reminding me
that those
divine beings
who surround
me

are neither In
nor Out.
They are simply
and eternally
the Beloved
Them.”

And, Shazam!
I am Back
Onstage in
The Mystery,

playing
my part
while you play
yours.

Bravo!

(Photo by Gage Walker; Unsplash)

 

Novel Lives

I’m walking
the dog
when I spot
him,
up ahead on
the path,

The Man
With Much
To Say
About Not Much
of Anything,

and now
I’ll need to
put an extra
twenty minutes
on the Walk Clock.

Then I remember
that I have begun
to believe that
he and
I and
you and
they
have all
lived many
lives,
enough to fill
dozens of those
novels I’m
pining to
read,
especially the
one waiting
for me
whenever I
figure out how
to slip past
The Man
With Much
To Say.

But now
he’s become
The Man of
Many Lives,

and that’s
a whole
different
Story.

(Photo by Caspar Rae; Unsplash)

 

Ads from Paradise

I was flipping
through the
Classified Ads
from Paradise
when I came
across this:

The Powers
That Be
are looking for
Volunteers,

for a demonstration
project to
exhibit the
devotion, the
adoration, the
billowing clouds of
love

The Creator-In-Chief
feels for Creation.

Applicants
should be
deeply flawed,
buried to
their necks
in self-doubt and
the conviction
that they are
fatally infected
with laziness, or
habitually
short-falling, or
unable to
overcome
multiplying variants of
self-inflicted
ineptitude.

I have already
submitted my
application –
I’m a shoo-in –
but I am
assured that
no one
will be turned
away.

I’m also told
that with
this demonstration
of the Divine
Embrace,

the Intention
is to overwhelm
any resistance
you may have
to being
celebrated for
being exactly
the Screw-Up
you are.

(Photo by Sergio Gonzalez; Unsplash)