What Have You Done? (understanding)
They will ask, what have you done with your life and in truth I will answer.
I have alibied and done laundry for a world so soiled that even bleach couldn’t reach. I have waited for the winter snows to cover the debris to give surcease to eyes that tire. I will say to understand is harder to live with than not to understand. For to understand one sees the child in the bigger body struggling to be understood.
Waiting, just waiting for arms to lift the weeping child in love to comfort, to support and to assuage what doubts overwhelm. The Master said suffer the little children and he mortgaged his life for eternity to give them the love they yearned. Understanding takes away the right to vent, the right to rage and the anger to strike whenever and whatever is in the way of one’s path.
Understanding urges protection for the psyche clinging to the grandfather god who has one’s good as the only good necessary at this moment. His hand is on my shoulder she says, refusing to think why 6 million Jews went unprotected. To not understand justifies one’s behavior to anger, to war and to smash in sight what one feels an obstacle to one’s right to live. To not understand keeps one’s focus on one’s despair.
The day comes when creeping into one’s darkness will be a link to light that beckons. It will be the beginning of a journey and it will happen because to continue with the wreckage of the previous way is unthinkable. Some will call it salvation and it is. Some will call it evolution and it is. Some will call it reclaiming one’s divinity, one’s heritage and it is.
It is with utmost concern that we get on with the journey. Universal well being, many worlds, hinge on our stewardship of this planet. Our neighbors may not be quite so understanding of the child who refuses to grow up.
King To Pauper. . .
Rendering itself useless now,
the elements of Nature
first borne by Man to work for him
have gone rabid.
But in wisdom still,
the moon continues to pull
the ocean by great force and
gently lays the rolling waves
on windswept sand, clearing man’s debris.
The wind, if amortized, would harness
its power to push the plow.
And sun, first born of woman
would gladly warm the earth’s chilled bones
and never cast a shadow.
The earth would form the nested nettle
where foot transgressed,
with pleasure support
the frame of man forever.
Air in bunches note
the going in and coming out of men
and upholds their stance, untiringly;
gladly yielding itself to noble ends.
to the beggar’s position
of that which man himself created,
the Art is lost and in its stead
small triumphs rise.
Birth and death are Nature’s saviors
preventing man from raping her in anger.