( I had written. . . )  I really need some one to listen to my words and consider them and tell me there is rest and love and ultimate design in all this.  That I can look at the morning and not feel it will be snatched by high noon.  That I can walk through the day, at ease with my surroundings and not feel the butterflies nesting in my gut.

I want not to feel Emerson’s under-riding bitterness trying to make good out of despair, (or is it my despair I read into it?) which borders on the arms flailing and saying, what is the use?

I want to be the one who looks and does not wonder at the immense goodness and does not feel it is a throw of the dice.  Make sense?  I want to make sense.  I want to make a whole lot of sense.  I want to rid myself of the feeling that I make no difference while I make a difference.  I want to know that my order in this particular place is of importance in a world of no order.

I want to know that my attempt at understanding is noted in a world of innocents playing with rotten toys.  I want to stop hurting.  I want, I want.  What  I want is a must be in this natural existence and what is needed to maintain equilibrium in this precise classroom.  Nature requires it.  It means I love my Earth enough to hold on to her tightly.

(This could have been written yesterday and I suppose it was since all time is simultaneous.  But I was just 52 and struggling with the injustices and insults of the world I saw centered.  It was a silent struggle as most inner journeys are when commitments and conscience are shouldered.  We don’t know it is a journey nor are we aware of options.  For some, there are no options;  life simply Is.)

I Come Bearing Gifts. . .

I come bearing gifts,
an open heart,
an open mind
and open arms.

Love is the currency
used to procure these.
Yours given unsparingly
and mine given
in gratitude

for the constancy of a similar heart.

(this poem was a Given at same time as the above was written.)