For Better or Worse

I think you
should
begin the
New Year
with a
wedding.

There is
Someone
you may have
been
overlooking
who is perfect
for you,

in spite of
your all too
frequent
opinion that
they’re not
good enough.

Trust me
when I say
that your
spouse,
if you’re already
married,
will be delighted
by the prospect
of a beautiful
bigamy.

Take those
vows,
you know
the ones
I’m talking about:

For better
or worse,
richer
or poorer,
in sickness
or in health.

And here’s
the thing:

You won’t be
parted by
death.

Have fun
with it.
Elope!
Exchange gifts,
go on a two-week
honeymoon.

Begin 2022
with a
wedding.

Marry
your own
gorgeous
Self.

(Photo by James Coleman; Unsplash)

 

Illumination

Sometimes I feel
like the word
Love
is too often
used with the
imprecision of a
commonplace,
like “what
shall we have
for lunch?”

Then I remember
I know precisely
what I mean
when I say
I love
Redbone doing
“Come and Get Your Love”
to open
Guardians of the Galaxy.

Which, in turn,
makes me
rejoice
when
illumination dawns
that we are
eternal Emissaries
of The Creator,
divine Volunteers,

sent out to
play
the extreme
sports, and
practice
the precise arts,
of Loving
All That Is.

Wait.
Does that
make us
Guardians of the Galaxy?

 

Blasphemy

A crooner –
I think it’s
Johnny Mathis –
is telling me
it’s a Holy Night,
that a Saviour
was born.

I have no
agenda to
persuade you,
I’m just
musing,
but

I wonder
what I’m being
saved from.

Question:
If that ray
of sunlight
piercing the
glass icicles
on your
Christmas tree
could speak,

and announced
to you that
it was
The Sun,

would that be
blasphemy?

If I were
to tell you
that you are
as divine as
that Child,

your Birth
a ray of sunlight
every bit
as holy,

would that be
a sacrilege?

I Am
beginning to
believe
that He came
to make a
Believer
out of
you.

(Photo by Phil Hearing; Unsplash)

 

Intervention

Love may be
the ultimate
anti-depressant.

I’m not talking
about filling
a prescription for
hearts and flowers
or a gemstone.

I’m thinking of
remembering
a time when,
for a moment,
you considered
writing “Finis”
across your
manuscript,
if you get
my drift.

But someone’s
artful intervention,
probably by
benevolent
unintention,

sent you back
to the page,
so to speak,
with a small
smile and
a dose of
ideas for a
few more
paragraphs.

Here’s where
the anti-depressant
kicks in:

Consider writing
your paragraphs,
if you know
what I mean,
as another’s
artful intervention.

(Photo by Gianfranco Grenar; Unsplash)

 

Movie Lovers

I have
this idea
for a book.
Or, maybe
this note
will do.

In the book
we all come
from
a place
we’ve all
forgotten,

to make
a movie,
each of us,
from a
screenplay
of our own
creation.

Drama Queens
and Steve McQueens,
recovering addicts
and repentant thieves.
Home run hitters
and street saints,
mothers and fathers,
sisters and brothers,
preachers and painters,
nurses and Nureyevs.

Each with a
wild and gorgeous
arc of
redemption.

Sequels and prequels.

We’re movie lovers.

I’ve heard
there’s a
filmfest
in that place
we’re from,

and your
movie
will be viewed
by an audience
who
adores you.

(Photo by Myke Simon; Unsplash)

 

A Different Calculus

Thought Experiment:
(or, if You haven’t
taken root
in your
favorite end
of the couch,
consider an
actual
performance:)

Stand in
front of
your mirror
and observe
your Self
in there.

Except
that’s not
the You
that’s
actually You.

Imagine
stepping back
one more
degree of
Awareness,

such that
the You
that’s actually You
is observing You
observing You
in the
mirror.

Imagine
further that
anytime
You wish
You can be
Aware
of You
observing You
in this
mirror
we call
Earth.

I wonder if
this
Ultimate You
operates with
a different
calculus of
Fear and Love
than that
to which
You are
accustomed?

(Photo by Zachary Kadolph; Unsplash)

 

Imperfect Metaphors

A wise man
made a metaphor
in which he
imagined
Who We Are,
our I Am,
as a divine
and conscious
movie screen,

upon which
is projected
the Thoughts
and Things
we call our
Life.

His point
being that
Thoughts
and Things
and plots
and scripts
come and go,
but

Who We Are,
our I Am,
is as
eternal
as the
Creator’s
Consciousness,
of which
we are a
seamless
Part.

I was about
to dismiss
this image as
imperfect –
I Am
more than
a screen –

But
I remembered
how much
I love
a good movie.

(Photo by Zhifei Zhou; Unsplash)

 

Contours

You imagine
that you are
your body.

As if
you could be
contained
in a cranial
cavity
the size of a
small
muskmelon.

Then you
compound
the error
by comparing
the topography
of your skin
to other
skins,

as if
that was
anything other
than a
footnote
in the volumes
that would be
required to
comprehend
the eternity
that you contain,

as if
you can be
contained.

Consider
adopting a
meditation
practice
wherein your
intention is to
move your
awareness
outside your
muskmelon,
for just a few
moments,

and allow
your Self
to expand
along the
endless
contours of
your Soul.

(Photo by Omid Armin; Unsplash)

 

The Legal Definition of Love

I’m here to
stage a
courtroom scene.

You’ll play all
the roles.

Defendant,
Prosecuting Attorney,
(you’re a superstar
prosecutor),
Judge,
Jury.

There’s no defense
attorney.
You know damn well
you don’t
deserve one.
You’re guilty
as hell.

The Jury of
One Self
has been watching you.
You’ve seen
every move
you’ve made.

You think
you’ve hidden
every sin,
but the Jury
has already decided
there’s no
alibi.

You’ve already
sentenced your Self
to a life of
self doubt and
unending
apology.

You may even
have considered
the death penalty.

But the Director
has other plans
for you:

Some say
she’s divine.
She’s secretly
in love
with you,
and she can’t
keep quiet
about it for
another minute.

She instructs
the Jury to
pardon you.

You’re free
to go,
with one
condition:

She has a
stack of
scripts
a foot deep.

You star
in every one.
You’ll be called
The Beloved.

In every play
you’ll be asked
to show up
in courtrooms
everywhere
and drop
a beating heart
on the Scales of
Justice,
to tip them
over,
so the prisoners
go free.

(Photo by Avel Chuklanov; Unsplash)

 

Sacrament

If you consult
the arbiters of
parlance,
you will find
this
buried deep in
the layers of
meaning
assigned to
the word

Sacrament:

“Something
regarded as
possessing a
mysterious
significance.”

The arbiters
buried this
beneath
four layers
of fastidious
reverence for
“holy” and
“sacred” and
“consecrated” and
“extreme unction.”

I am hereby
putting these
officiants
on notice:

I solemnly swear
to do my
humble best
to make
my favorite
coffee cup
every bit the
sacrament
as any
white-linen-
covered
chalice.

Amen.

(Erleichda: Lighten up!
from Tom Robbins’ novel,
Jitterbug Perfume)