(sometimes in the midst of memories, I need to be reminded of what mattered most. And if I need this, perhaps a reader does also. The memory is now fresh for me. I appreciate the chance for reprinting a favorite one.)
After having been told a zillion times that no one would want my head, I have decided that I truly would not want anyone else’s head either. Because then I would not see the world that I love the way I do. I would not see the pine trickle of a branch pulling itself courageously out of the trunk of the tree amidst a half dozen other twigs and marvel at the beauty of it. Or hear the young grandmother puzzle at the toddler wondering why is this child so angry? And another placid? And see the connections in all bornings from their source already bent. Chance, you think? My head tells me of no coincidences.
Understandably there are some who prefer to think everything is newly chaste. But each of us has a history and life is a gift given. It is with hope that we uncover its gems. And profit from its lessons.
If You Can Bear The Truth. . .
If they should ever ask you
from where comes this knowledge
and you can bear the truth, tell them.
It was written in the stars that I saw
with inner vision, shining exuberantly
with a vitality that bears description.
It was hung and dried by a sun that had
dried my ancestor’s tears
for a million centuries.
The lyrics have pressed my ears
in moans that I find unbearable.
Does not everyone hear the cries?
If they should ask you,
tell them this.
It is the music of celebration,
when one, even one is freed from
a lifetime of servitude to anguish
clogging the throat.
This music is heard down long lines
of generations and will be mated
in their genes. They will glory in
their freedom and they will live forever.
So if they ask you and you can
bear the truth, tell them.
It was taught by my Spirit
spilling into my heart with no reprieve
and into my mind with no relief.
It is a lifetime of no alibis and
a coping system diffused.
My teacher has no name,
still the imprint is within my genes,
implanted within my ancestor’s memories,
resting within me.
They do not rest while I cannot.
My songs continue, if only for me.
Enough it is for me to break the waves.
John Stanley Hallissey