( 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
for the constancy of a similar heart.
(this poem was a Given at same time as the above was written.)