Frantic for Change.

Change me! Can’t you see I need help?!

It’s about get manic and it won’t matter who’s hearing me after that.

I tried, everything, man..

That funny building on Sunset Blvd.
The cathedral place…
The temple with the returning multiple lives…
And almost half the aisle of the self-help, love-in-error, live-on-tofu bull*** at Barnes and Noble.
Nothing’s working!

And I’m the only one who can see it.
If I could show you the voodoo of my insides, you would run from streaming truth that
I AM NOT WELL.

My email is bloated with
Every imaginable “Thought of the Day” and
Spiritual “Walk in your Customized Light,” fortune cookie craziness that I can get my hands on.
I could fill a festival tent with candles, incense, crystals, beads, stones and wood.
I’d make a killing if ebay posted second-hand souls
Oh, excuse me, “previously owned.”

I turned up the volume on the inner INNER peace.
And THAT noise was worse than the outside, bubblegum nonsense on the magazines and videos.
I even went to the sacred grounds,
Backpacking in my healing journal
Humming mantra, chant and breathing
Across the paths of the prophets…
I got the hiccups.
And I had to start that hike
ALL the way from the beginning.

I’m tired. I’ve gone everywhere from urban jungle meditation to mental warring in Serenity Hills.
No bell and dragon
Cap and tunic can ring and clothe me in peace.
I feel the thorn of uncertainty in my sleep.
If I die tonight, would THAT be relief?
I re-coded the entire inventory in my warehouse of positive mental attitude.
Barcodes for beauty-in-a-box still come up short.

I’m scared.
Something’s wrong and nothing’s changing. I’m a machine that won’t shut down.
My anxiety has a perpetual generator fueled by exhaustion.
My only renewable resource is
My own misery.
No one understands me and burying me isn’t good enough.

I know there’s something more.
Where the musicians get their ideas
Where the painter mixes color
Where they store the children’s laughter
Where the old, married couples go to retire
Where the seas and trees get their orders
Where the mountains and plains learn their borders
Where the poets scribe instruction
Where the tender learn seduction
Where the rainbows get their direction
Where soulmate’s touch is perfect affection
It has to all come from somewhere…right?

I think, if I have that, I would stop
Vomiting the contradictions
Gagging on the half-truth
If somebody would feed it to me whole
I’d swallow the sunshine message
Like a sweet summer orange
I’d spend the rest of my days
Digesting the Light.

I COULD CHANGE.
If someone could just read it to me,
I … just … might.

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They said I was brave…But what was the other choice?

In the courts, in the pavilion

In the courts, in the pavilion

in the center with my God

Behind the gate, as His daughter

Sings and sighs, with letters and

chatters to her Father.

I am telling Him stories

and He listens patiently

Allowing my laughter and

Amazement fill His room.

He talks with me  in a steady

gentle voice called Forgiveness

and wipes away my tears with Grace.

I contend.

He corrects me in His Mercy

and I sit up to play a new song for Him.

 

My Beloved – Contemplation of Honor

My Beloved,

Is it passing your belief that God led me to cross the ocean at such a young age, to expose me to the love and art of sound that you know so well?
Was it only the angel’s clumsy coincidence that I swim through turbulence, only to immerse in books and stories that equal my conversation with you now?
Even recently, do you overlook the orchestrating of the Great Conductor, who removed things that served as my distraction, only so I could focus on our own wandering thoughts?
Have I come so far, to be devoured for one weekend and be delayed in time?

Would I wait, Beloved, until your work produces enough satisfactory paperwork for you to file? Would you wait, Beloved, until I am equipped to make the same drive you do?
All the while, are we busying ourselves with sensibility, and sacrificing the life that is “ours?”

How much longer do we have?
How many points do we each need to earn?
How much of each other’s cares must we take seriously, before we act?
Have I already made the promise and not told you?
Am I so foolish or faithful to do so?

What is Honor to me, Beloved? Or status? Or title?
Haven’t I grown beyond that?
Haven’t I grown to fill it?
What are presents and rings, flowers and chocolates, that show me my importance?
Would it be knowing you breathe deeply in the night and your knowing that I wake slowly in the morning?

What have I to study but righteousness?
What have I to sing but patience?
What have I to plant but devotion?
What have I to write but love?
What have I to listen to but your promise?

You choose how to honor me.

Lovingly,
M

[Originally written 7, September 2009]

I Used To Take Walks With My Father

I used to take walks with my father.

It was an uninterrupted time.
Before emails and cell phones and separation.
Before complicated conversations, more than 3,000miles apart
About how next year is a better time to come and visit.

He would hold my hand, around the block.
Cherry Street, where it curves, and we pass by the neighbor’s home with the high gate.
The dogs hear us chatting and they’d bark
Then my soul felt like it was in danger.
Because I was six.

I would keep walking with my father
Who held my hand and kept his stride.
He’d walk me past the gate, with the barking dogs
And talk to me through the noise.
Sometimes I couldn’t understand him
But I always knew his voice was there.

Our conversation would change after the gate.
After the barking dogs, we had to talk about something new.
Tangent and unrelated, but still very important.
I would hear the crickets again
Singing from the thickness of the untamed grass
Those sounds could only reach my ears a certain way
Because I was at the height and age to listen.

He smoked in the evenings
With cigarette in farthest hand
I can’t remember if the smoke ever reached me
Anything on the other side of him
Couldn’t hurt me
He might have even paused on his answers, to exhale
But it’s hard to notice that when you’re next to a moving tower.

It was easier to love my father because
He didn’t correct me.
I didn’t have to grow up under his rules
Our only restriction was distance, occasional pride and politics
Would my decisions have been different
If we walked a few more times
And I told him new stories
Through the noise of dogs in my adolescence?

Maybe it is better we fell short
That I don’t have opportunity to outgrow the evening walks
Avoiding the charge-off, that it was a waste of time and breath
And step and wisdom
I’d rather have memories cut off at six
Than extend them with images of my trying to escape his presence at sixteen.

Now that I’m older
Walks are still special
Uninterrupted talking time
To stay close to the ground, every step a clearing experience.
Maybe it’s because I’m a Virgo or some earth sign explanation.
Maybe because it’s a time I can talk to God
And still feel like I’m going somewhere.
I mold this to my understanding
That this fragmented memoir
Is infused with love and acceptance

Because I am at the strength and age to write it.

“My heart is inditing a good matter: I speak of the things which I have made touching the king: my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” Psalm 45:1