"Music was my refuge.
I could crawl into the space
between the notes
and curl my back
against the loneliness."
- m. angelou
the days
were long when
she was
small
too much noise
for a heart that thrived
inside the stillness
of a softer light,
the filtered
lens of
dawn and dusk
a child that
longed for
the deckled edges
of a gentler
season,
the subtler notes of
poetry and
psalms,
the faded colors of
something
handled often
and so well-loved --
fabric frayed and
tears stained
with hope and sorrow,
comfort
and
sleep
she searched for
corners
where the gold
of lamplight
barely
reached -- yet
just
enough for
reading
Dickens and
James,
Austen and
Bronte
she sought the
strains of
DeBussy and
Barber,
leaned into the the
sorrowing
notes --
minor chords
that gave her space to
cry
fat, hot
tears that
would not come in the
bright company
of
a DJ's
choice --
the top ten
heard on
a summer's day
by the
neighborhood
pool
she found her
home in
snow falling on
still waters
a place
where
geese rose and
circled,
and
hungry
deer
tiptoed through
the pinions
as tenderly as
the
first notes
of
an adagio
for
strings
low,
sad,
and
sweet --
she
held
her breath
for this
was what she'd
waited
for
and she
curled herself
into that
quiet
moment of
grace
and the
tears
fell
as
soft
as
snow
"snow on snow
had fallen,
snow, on snow
on snow...”
~ c. rossetti
"all nature
teaches
God's love
to man..."
- m. b. eddy
i sit at your
feet
waiting
i need to know
how to
love
how to be as instant as
the chamomile
that raises her head
from the lifted
boot heel
and breathes a perfumed
sigh upon
its
retreating step
i ache to find the
place in me
that loves with the
devotion of
a dove,
and waits as patiently
as a frozen
river for
the sun's soft kiss
to waken her
each
spring
i curl myself against
the gnarled oak
and listen for her
guidance --
how to bend towards the light,
and lean into the wind.
how to not be so burdened
by the weight of
cold indifference,
or uprooted from her sense of
place
and purpose
when floods descend
and there is
nothing left to
hold her
here
i watch the eagle,
the heron,
the teal
fearless in their trust
that
unseen
thermals will lift them,
hold them,
raise them up
and i
pray my trust in
what I cannot
see is
greater than my
faith in
what seems so
solid,
and yet
promises nothing but
its history of
empty clay pots
filled with
disappointed
hopes
i turn my face to catch
the last ray of
sun before it descends
behind a western range
and discover that
i am not alone,
but surrounded by
a universe
bowed in worship,
all creation
seeking
His face,
hungering for His
message of
Love
"be
kind
to
one
another"
He
whispers
and
we sigh
in
unison
oh, yes
we
remember
to be kind
"Nature's
first and last lessons
teach man
to be kind...”
~ ibid.
“The gaps are the thing.
The gaps are the Spirit's one home,
the altitudes and latitudes
so dazzlingly spare and clean
that the spirit can discover itself
like a once-blind man unbound."
- Annie Dillard
I live
in the space
between
in the holy
gap
the crevice
filled only with
the promise
of
an earthbound
tear
finding its
sure release
between the here
and there
welling up
from the infinite
Unseen,
a wellspring of
hope
delivering
something I cannot
see,
but feel
the way the
blind hear the
sigh of a
single
rose
blooming
and the deaf
feel the pulsing of
tomorrow's
dawn as it rises
over crag and cliff to
greet
another day
I have made my
home in the space between
a once-upon-a-time
yesterday
and the
yet-to-be-seen
tomorrow
between now
and
then,
or
sometime when
a past forgotten
or
a future
imagined
I dwell in
this moment
only
I let it carry me
between,
above,
around,
below
whatever would
disturb
the stillness i breathe
as deeply as
an infant
in this
sanctuary of
trust
this is the space
where
i do not make choices
to
grow,
or wait,
or flow --
where
it is not in me to
reach,
or grasp,
or hold too tight
it is
here
that i
wait to feel
the
stirring of a silent
something
i cannot name
the
pull of the sun
upon a turning leaf,
the call to
go deeper
that
echoes in the
heart of every
root
seeking
her
anchor
the scent of water
piercing
the stone --
the
voice of
the turtle
calling me
home
"Tremble
thou earth
at the presence of the Lord;
which turned the
rock into standing water,
and the flint
into fountains
of
water...”
~ Psalms
"As the ruby
in the setting,
as the fruit
upon the tree,
as the wind blows
over the plains --
so are you to me..."
- k. bode
You are my love
You are the Love of my life
Yours is the first face I seek
when I wake in the morning
Yours is the first hand
upon my heart.
You are all that I have ever hoped for.
When I am empty,
Your love fills me with purpose
When I am full
You give me ways
to empty my soul
into the hands of the hungry,
the sorrowing,
the sick and weary --
so that I am ready
for more.
You are my
"safe place
to fall"
No one else
could ever really know the curves,
the rough places --
the crooked and straight,
the narrow and dark spaces
of my life
so well as You.
Our fit so perfect
that there are
no pressure points
to leave me aching
for relief.
When the world seems
to crash
in around the edges of my peace
and the demons scream
that I am
vulnerable and small,
You, and only You
whisper,
"you are stronger than diamonds,
brighter than reflected light,
larger
than the love
you think
you are longing for..."
You are
my every reason for taking
the next breath
my Cause for joy,
the only One who gives purpose
to my moments,
my minutes,
stacked -- one-by-one --
until they create
an hour,
a day,
a year....a life.
You are the place
I run to
but never from
My "Home away from home"
I
will
never leave
You are the voice I listen for
in the quiet of the morning
when I
am conscious of life,
but not yet aware of
colors,
people,
sounds,
my own skin.
You are my Life.
I am Your own.
We live in a dance of
Father and child,
Mind and idea,
Love and loved.
I love You with all my being.
I cannot live without Your love,
because you are all that is
or ever will be
You are
the I AM that I am.
You are the center of my
being,
my home,
my heaven within
...my God.
"Principle and
its idea
is one,
and this one
is God...”
~ Mary Baker Eddy
"Whatever it is
that lives,
a man,
a tree,
or a bird,
should be touched
gently...”
- e. goudge
bird and tree
if you
were a tree
i would build my nest in
that gentle crook
where your highest
branch
meets the core
of your trunk
I would feather it with
tinsel
from a Christmas tree
she
dragged to the curb
in her nightgown
on
January 2
while the
children
were
sleeping
I would find the auburn hair of
a young princess
and
weave it through
fragile walls
to give
it strength
hoping we
could be together
always
I would search the
landscape for
blades of soft grass and tender
fragrant herbs to
ease the tension in
your limbs
i would bring home
bits of
string and
glitter, a rainbow of
paper
and a sliver of the bluest
beach glass
showing you how
the world
is colored
i would rest in your arms
leaving only
in order
to find something
beautiful
i could bring back
to you
that in
your
immobility
we could
examine
it
together
there would be
nothing
between us but
this nest
something
that could not exist
without us
both
if i were a bird
i would
leave feathers behind
so that you would
feel my touch in
every
gust of wind,
every
soft breeze,
every
breath of
twilight's
hush
i would ache
until i returned
from
flight to
find your arms
unchanged
i would
be willing
to
give up
wings
to
stay here
in
the
safety
of
your
branches...
if we were
bird and tree
we would
know no
species,
genus
or
gender
we
would
know
we
belonged together
just
because
we shared
a nest
"...and on the
same branch,
bend...”
~ Mary Baker Eddy
"An
ordinary day
is,
perhaps,
the most holy
of all.”
- m. george
a widow,
a mother
gathering sticks,
one last meal
a fire
a cake
a cruse of oil
a hungry prophet
arrives
their last supper is shared
and a promise
is born
out of
an
ordinary
act of
kindness
two women
widowed
one the mother
of the other's
husband
unquestioned devotion,
"whither thou goest
I will go"
a journey shared,
gleaning,
caring,
a husband
a son
a grandson --
redemption
drawing water from
the well
she finds a thirsty
stranger
and does what women
do on ordinary days
she offers a cup
he offers her
living waters
and she
sees
herself made
new
in his
eyes
"is not this
the Christ?"
she asks
sisters,
their chores are
shared
until she drops her
apron to
listen
to the
honored guest,
freedom from the banal
comes with a cost
she knows
but
he tells the other
to let her
listen
and she
is
free
they come for
dinner on
an ordinary
day
but she has
more than fish and
loaves to
offer
this time --
an alabaster
box,
fragrant ointment,
humility,
hunger --
she wants
what her sister
now knows
how
to stop and let
the gift of grace
fall on her
shoulders like
soft rain
she lets it
soak into the
once
hard soil
of her
busy heart
and
something
starts to
grow and
bloom
a morning
dawns and she
is awake to perform
a simple
act of love,
spices for his
interment
a fragrant resting place
for one who'd
blessed her
life with
kindness,
dignity,
compassion
she
accompanies his
grieving mother to
a loved son's
sepulcher
with only this one simple
task
to bring something
lovely
to his grave
he calls her
by her
name,
"Mary,"
and the
world is
new
for all of
us
an extraordinary
moment,
on an
ordinary
day
"The grand
must stoop
to the
menial.”
~ Mary Baker Eddy
"back in the Middle Ages,
they burned
unruly women
at the stake.
And out of the ashes
of their bones and flesh
rose the Enlightenment.”
- l. harris
i can see
them
when I
close my eyes
women with
hearts so full of
hope,
and minds
trained
on something
larger than the
smallness of
a single
lifetime
their questions
wake me from
apathy
and wrest a
a sorry comfort
from my tightly
fisted hands
hands too
soft from
having
done
so little,
taken too few steps
towards the
edge of
reason,
whispered when the
call was to
sing out --
and sing
loudly
they are the mothers
whose voices
echo through
history
asking us to
rise
when our daughters
are denied
the right to
say
"no."
they are the fathers,
the sisters,
the suffragists,
the saints
whose ashes
fall softly
still
shattering
light into a
thousand
reminders that
women have
burned for less
than this
these are the women
whose names
are etched in
the once stony hearts of
those who'd
have kept God
a Father
only
These are those
whose dreams
burn on --
an
eternal flame,
a
self-perpetuating
pyre
of light
rising higher
and higher as
self is tossed
into Love's bonfire
built from
the
fallen
deadwood
of
cruel
sentiments
that
enslaved
and
withheld
once
a flickering
then a blazing
gathering hopes
calling for courage
beckoning us to take
our place
with
Hagar
and Ruth,
Boaz,
Deborah,
Abigail,
Mary of Bethany,
of Concord,
and of Magdalene,
Jesus,
Dorcas,
Joan d'arc
Artemesia Gentileschi
and
Lucy Stone,
Lucretia Mott and
Harriet Tubman,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
Frederick Douglas,
and Mathilda Joslyn Gage,
Eddy and
Anthony,
Martin,
Gloria,
Theresa,
Maya,
Betty,
Nelson,
Hillary...
and from the ashes,
yes --
from the soft white ash of
grace
a cloud of witnesses,
soft as
the wings of a
dove,
blankets the
earth in a mantle of freedom
and equality,
balance of power
and
parity of worth,
human rights
based not on the consent of
one in barely tolerant
deference
to the
lesser
others
but
in recognition of
a deeper,
profound,
fundamental
spiritual
wholeness --
the right
to know,
and claim
the
All-in-allness
of our
Father
God
who is
Mother
also --
masculine
and feminine
in each,
and all
ash,
softly rising
to become
as stars in
a constellation of
promise
lighting
the way
for our
daughters --
and
our
sons.
"Prayer,
watching, and working,
combined with
self-immolation,
are God's gracious means
for accomplishing
whatever has been done
for the Christianization
and health of
mankind.”
~ Mary Baker G. Eddy
"God
doesn't want
your careful virtue,
He wants
your reckless generosity.”
- f. spufford
i walked
this world so
carefully
every i
dotted
every t
crossed
every moment of my
living
wrapped in
white linen
and tied
with a
bow
carefully,
oh so
carefully,
I navigated the
darkness,
traversed the
chasm,
found my way from
"i don't know"
to
self-certainty
with the deftness of
a sherpa
each footstep placed
with precision,
each fingerpost
adroitly
found
my focus on the
goal,
the summit,
the celebration at the
top
to reach the
moment of having
done it all
just
right
those carefully plotted moments,
a series of well-planned
moves that led
to...
what
checkmate?
but this is not
a game of
winners and losers,
of haves and have nots,
of wanting and getting,
of trying too hard
or not hard enough
to be
something we
think is
good,
better,
best
it is not a competition,
an accomplishment,
an outcome,
or something to
conquer and
possess
this is a journey,
a conversation,
a mission,
a purpose,
a shared vision
unfolding out from
the beating of
hearts,
the cry of the
collective
this is not a
solo performance
but a choir of angels
A convergence of
voices,
the raising of roofs,
the lifting of spirits,
the filling of bellies
the healing of
hearts
a divine imperative
to reach out from the
center and
find there is no circumference
no mine and yours,
no ours and theirs --
just the reckless flow of
love
a flood of generosity
that spills our banks
and carves new
contours on the
landscape of our
souls
there is nothing careful
about
virtue
virtue is a force,
a power,
a rushing,
reckless
dance towards
one another
the skipping of
a heartbeat,
the headlong act of
giving your last
farthing,
flinging yourself
from the summit of self-absorption
into the
abyss of
grace
and from this
flailing,
trusting
place of open arms
and willing hands,
I see that once-sought
summit
clearly
and
I
know that
this
is where
I belong
falling
falling
to my knees
for Him
and for
His...
"“O my God,
teach me to be generous,
to serve You
as you deserve to be served,
to give without counting the cost,
to fight without fear of being wounded,
to work without seeking rest,
and to spend myself
without expecting any reward
but the knowledge
that I am
doing your holy will.
Amen”
~ Ignatius of Loyola
"The human mind
is not a factor..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
What does freedom
look like
when you are
no longer
bound to
your
once-upon-a-time
beliefs
about
your life,
the
worn-out cliches
of someone else's story
about you,
the
fairy tale dreams
you recited
to yourself
- like empty mantras -
from beneath the covers,
long into the
darkness,
when
the world
was fast
asleep...
Can we ever,
is it possible --
for us
to walk
beyond the
chains of
thinking,
wondering,
worrying
if we might
just
be
the
product of
our own
worst
choices,
or
worse yet,
our own
best
thinking?
You are not
the outcome,
the offspring,
the effect
of
someone,
anyone
else's
rejection, neglect
abuse
abandonment...
or even,
their
love
you are
the breath of
Spirit
upon
an aspen leaf,
a drop of
holy water
on the tongue of
a saint,
the whisper of
forgiveness,
the sweetest song
to a mother
who
never meant
to
cause her
child's
tears
true
freedom
is to live
without want,
without
need,
without
feeling
the dull ache
of thinking
there
might just be
something more...
it is
to
live
fully
within the
space of
having all,
in the
Allness
of
our
singular
relationship with Him.
it is
to be at peace
to be at home
to find heaven
in
a
closet,
a sepulchre,
a cell,
a cocoon,
a prayer....
"I
and my Father
are
one."
~ Jesus
"Books
are the quietist,
and most constant
of friends..."
- c.w. eliot
when I
was a girl
my days were filled with
counting the seconds
between
the last line read,
and the
next paragraph
waiting
to be discovered
i lived between the covers of
countless
bindings,
slipped between the
pages of
Dickens
and Bronte,
Little Women
and
Nancy Drew's
yellow roadster
i'd hear the forecast of
rain -- the promise
dark clouds,
a soft drumming,
lamplight midday
and I'd rush through my
chores towards an afternoon
of characters that
leapt off the pages and
into my heart
Jane,
Jo,
Heathcliff,
George and Bess
Hannah Gruen
and always
the inimitable
Madame Defarge
knitting in the corner
while Mr. Darcy
waits
for Emma to
come to her senses on
page 148
my childhood was spent in
places I'd never find on
a map
and friends I'd never
have to tea
I'd weep
when a dark horse
without hope
won her steeplechase
and attend weddings from within
my nest under the
upper bunk
I lived for Saturdays at
the library,
and dreamed in
stacks of books with
spines that
crackle with age
and are perfumed with the
touch of other
hands
with a book
in my hands
on a rainy day,
I am
still
a
girl
"She is
too fond of
books..."
~ Louisa May Alcott
"Pilgrim
on earth,
home and heaven
are
within thee..."
- P. M.
there is
a vast yawning
that opens within us
it pulls us
and claims us
and calls us,
“come home..."
it beckons
"come in..."
where your
teardrops are sacred,
where silence is
golden,
and you are
His own.
slip deeper,
and deeper
beneath all the churning
let deepness engulf
you
let His will be done.
for this is your
country,
your kingdom,
your homeland,
the place where you know
you are never
alone.
yes, there's a vast
yawning,
a chasm within you
an ache,
and a hunger
to know and
be known
“come in
and be silent”
it call from the stillness
come in and
allow Me to
call you My own
there is
a vast yawning,
a depth you
can’t fathom,
a refuge,
a quiet,
a rest,
and
a
home
"come in
and find comfort,
come in and find shelter,
come in
and find peace
in your
heart that's
His
home.
"...stranger,
thou art the guest
of God."
~ Mary Baker Eddy
"A great sanity,
a mighty something
buried in the depths of the unseen,
has wrought a resurrection
among you,
and has leapt into living love.
What is this something,
this phoenix fire,
this pillar by day,
kindling,
guiding,
and guarding
your way?"
- Mary Baker Eddy
I am a
nestling,
a Phoenix,
a sweet
something
emerging,
emerging,
emerging...
never born
and never dying
only self-immolation
and resurrection
self-immolation
and resurrection
self-immolation and
resurrection,
resurrection,
resurrection...
over, and over,
and over
again...
and again..
but, I am ready.
Sometimes it is the
heart that burns,
white hot and
fervent...
smiling,
eager for the resurrection
and sometimes
it is the body...
the body of selfish desires,
the body of spectred dreams,
the body of wants and woes,
sorrows and imaginings
I am not afraid
of the
immolation
bring it on...
but
I
refuse to
live in the vestibule of
in between,
the space
where the ego
still stands
pained
by the
letting go
I welcome the
Phoenix fire,
let it burn
thoroughly,
fervently,
hot and
scrupulously --
an
all-consuming
incineration of
whatever would
keep me from
loving without reason,
unconditionally,
and with abandon
Let its flames engulf
the me,
the my,
the mine
of
success...
and failure,
of what I think I've earned...
and what I'll
never be...
let the veneer,
the scarred paint,
the flash of self
blister and
peel
in the
heat of unselfed
loving...
I am weary of
carrying around
the
not quite
incinerated ashes
of resistance,
the almost immolated shards
of sharpness and arrogance,
the pulverized
still peppered
with bits of bone
and broken incisors,
the bitter fragments of
all
that once
gnashed and gnawed
at the details of
who's to blame,
of he said/she said,
of human choices made,
and what went wrong...
a limboed
state of
regret and pride,
of what we wanted,
or
what could have been...
I want
no, more!
I long for,
I ache to know
the
complete
dissolution of
the veiled ego,
the clouded past,
the "what never was"
and is
no
longer,
and really
shouldn't be...
I can do this,
I know I can
I can walk so fully into the
fire
that there is nothing
left
to carry back out
but the gold,
the silver,
the whatever is essential,
eternal,
what lives beyond and
never dies
no rust...
no dross...
no smell of fire...
just a sweet nestling me
as pure
as the
"form of the fourth"*
There is no flickering ember of
the past's tinseled
moments of selfish
indulgence and accomplishment,
the genetic grime
of dark alleys
filled with ghosts
and
sorrows waiting
to pull me down,
down,
down,
and yet
still further
down....
no bits and pieces of
another time,
a former me,
a maybe him,
or "what if her"
left to cling
to new
downy feathers,
soft and wet
as we
emerge from the
clean, white
ash of
this
God-stoked
Phoenix
pyre.
Just dust and
ash...
fine as silt
to soften the journey
like a powdery
Colorado
snowfall...
just a dusting,
quickly blown away by
Spirit --
Pneuma's
fresh winds of
I am --
now,
always
now.
yes,
I am!
I am
innocent,
pure,
good,
willing,
open,
eager,
unsullied,
sweet,
gentle,
kind,
new
I am
the I AM
that never was a
"was"
and seeks no promise
of
who
she
will be.
But sings the
sweet silver
song of
I am,
I am,
I am,
I am
all that
the
I AM
that
is
today,
right now,
in this moment
of grace...
"here am I,
send me..."
"It is unity,
the bond of perfectness,
the thousandfold expansion
that will engirdle the world,
— unity,
which unfolds the thought
most within us
into the greater
and better,
the sum of all reality
and good."
~ ibid.
"The ideal of God
is no longer impersonated
as a waif or
wanderer..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
I did not
know where I belonged
or if there was
a place on earth for children
who had broken hearts and
shattered trust
I could not
fathom a place where
those who were
not loved
would feel safe
from the
hands of predators and
the leering
eyes of
those who'd lost a
love for
innocence
I walked close to walls and
never slept,
held my breath during long
nights of ticking clocks
and creaking floors
hoping that
the monsters in the closet
would be too tired
to whisper
secrets worse than
nightmares
until a fragment of
Truth
unlocked the door to
a kingdom
with air so rarified and
pure that
demons cannot breathe
there
and monsters wither
in the light
you do not live in
the world it
promised
you live in the
space where
God and men do
meet,
you live in a kingdom
undivided,
inviolate,
a place where
you can close your eyes
and rest your hopes
upon
His Love...
in this place
there
is
only
peace...
rest sweet
child
rest,
rest,
rest...
"For in Him
we live,
and move,
and have our being.”
~ Paul
"For as the earth
bringest
forth
her bud..."
- Isaiah
oh mother
earth
pregnant with
seed
and bud
and full-blown
rose
your rich
dark
loamy soil
a womb for what
we forget
predates us in His
line of
creation
your heart,
like hers,
does not wait for
symbol sun,
or child's voice to
radiate a love
that warms
and
holds
and
heals...
you do not
say
"only when I feel the
heat of orb or
hand,
or cradled head"
will I rise and
nurture,
bring forth and
delight
you carry within
you the
true light,
the
light of Love
so certain
in the sure glow of
what is
the unshakable Truth that
all is
His
and you are
but
the incubus of
Her Self-expression,
a divine imperative
to
Be
and so you
rest beneath a blanket of
snow,
never ceasing to
hold bud and blossom
in the
soft embrace of
your ever-conscious
vision
transfixed on
wholeness,
perfection,
beauty,
potential,
worth
just as he
never forgot that in
the summer of his
growing
there was also
the
autumn of his
glory,
and the
springtide of
his
rising...
for
us
"the earth
is full
of Thy
riches..."
~ Psalms
"Love never fails."
- I Corinthians
How is this
possible?
Are you telling me that
when I love
I will always
get what I want,
what I need,
what I
deserve?
No,
what I am saying
is that when you love
you have no wants,
you have no needs,
you have no expectations
of what you deserve
from someone,
or
something
else.
You are full...
of Love.
Love never fails
to delight,
to demand your best,
to require the extra mile,
unflinching faith,
unfailing hope...
In this,
that there
is a Love never fails to
breathe life into
your heart and
resurrect your hopes
true Love
is all about the
act of loving
and nothing
can deprive you of
fulfilling this --
your
mission and
purpose --
to love
No one can stop you
from loving
who,
and what,
you love
They can stop themselves
from returning
your love,
but that is not
your business...
that is theirs.
We are
each filled with the
power to love
not
the
hunger to
be the
object of
the loving.
we are
completely fulfilled
just in the loving,
not by how it is received,
or reciprocated.
If success is measured
by the doing,
the being,
the living and breathing of
itself
then "to love"
is
enough.
It is
empowering,
rewarding,
satisfying...
it is more
than
enough
for you
to know
why the
caged bird
sings,
a mother
watches
at the window
long into
the night,
a Master
served,
a King
marched,
and the sun never
asks
the earth
to say
thank you
it is enough
to shine,
to watch,
to serve,
to march,
to sing,
to write,
to love...
"...Love cannot be
deprived of
its manifestation
or object."
~ Mary Baker Eddy
"I will walk
within my house
with a
perfect
heart."
- Psalms
I cannot
promise
that I will never
make
mistakes or
fumble when I am
afraid,
but this I
vow
I will make my
heart a temple,
a manger,
a simple cabin in
the woods,
a grand palace,
a novitiates
cell
for You
here is where I will
worship
and serve
this is the sanctuary
where all my
devotion lies
waiting for Your calling,
eager to be sent,
whispering,
"here am I,
send me..."
into the deep
silence of
a wordless prayer
I will no longer
pace the rooftop
or march with armies,
stalk an
enemy
or meander with
friends
I will not run
from
Your voice,
or skulk
in despair
my heart is
Your kingdom
my heart is
Your palace,
Your banquet room,
Your council chamber,
Your throne
here You
alone
are
Sovereign
and I...
I am
Your liege,
Your handmaiden,
Your servant
and squire
I will walk within
my house,
my consciousness of
Your Love...
with a perfect heart --
a heart made
perfect
by
You
"...and I will
dwell in the house,
the consciousness of Love,
forever."
~ Mary Baker Eddy
"...And Jesus went forth
and was moved with compassion
toward them..."
- Matthew
Master,
where are you
going?
The synagogue is in
the other direction
the rabbi is waiting for
us and
you have a message
to deliver
Master,
don't go over there
they are
sick,
halt,
bowed together,
taken with fever,
they are
frightened,
frantic,
their children are hungry,
their eyes are
dull,
blind,
voices
mute,
all
waiting for the
moving of
the water,
they are
leprous as snow,
twisted with palsy,
foreigners,
angry,
weeping,
unlearned,
hopeless
strangers
not like you,
not like us
in fact,
some of them are
even
sinners...
Master,
Master...
the Pharisees,
the Sadducees,
the scribes and priests
the rabbis,
for goodness sake,
the rabbis
are gathered
in the
temple
they are all waiting
for you
they want to
ask you questions
finally,
finally...
there, you can teach
there, you can preach
there, right there
in the temple
you can sit with
the elders and
share your
thoughts
don't let the
masses throng you,
wrinkle your robes,
trample the hem of your garment
don't expose yourself
keep yourself
free of
contagion,
infestation,
complication,
fear,
doubt...
the rabbis know the scripture
they've read the prophecy
of your coming,
they are waiting...
Master,
where are you going?
where am
I going?
why,
toward
them
of
course
my heart
is moving
toward
them
toward
them,
toward
them...
"...and he healed
their sick."
~ ibid.
