"i have a little book..."

 

i have a little book;

its soft leather cover is love-worn,

its margins are filled with pencilled notes,

its smyth-sewn pages hang by a thread;

it is my most precious companion...

"standing in the fire..."

 

stephen, 

joan of arc, 

shadrach, 

meshach, 

abednego, 

the form of the forth, 

me...

and you.  

here we stand

willing to know 

the gold

of our essential 

being

not

the vehicle

of a birth narrative, 

or the detritus

of human history

but

the simple Truth

that 

I 

am... 

I am

that I am. 

this is all that

is left 

when I allow 

myself to stand 

in the fire 

of God's 

purifying love. 

God's love 

does not leave me 

naked and exposed 

by truth, 

but unencumbered 

and revealed. 

All 

the tattered stories 

burned away, 

and no 

scorched flesh

no smell of smoke, 

no blurred 

vision

remain. 

I am clothed 

in light,

embodied song, 

the form of 

the forth. 

my footsteps 

free 

of self 

stories. 

Not to walk

or wander in personal 

circles, or historic cycles. 

But to dance

with innocent, 

childlike

 joy.  

"beneath it all…"

underneath
the words that rise and fall,

that lift themselves over stones,
and around half-exposed boulders

there is the log
once standing.

the detritus from
last year's sudden storm
the flooding of tears
the rush of anger
now buried in the silt and sorrow
of an unhealed heart

this is the poet's
secret salve
the bitter herb tied up
with a satin ribbon and
hung upon the door

this is the garnet ink
once flowing through the chambers
of a hopeful heart
now spilled upon the page
in words that few will
see for what they are

the beautiful shards
that catch the light, the
minor chords which
weep from Barber's strings,
the clean sweep of a river
after the storm,
after the silence,
after he leaves...

"a simple nest…"

 she built
a simple nest
for her dreams
out of memories - some
held dear, and some not so

from the flotsam
and jetsam of an almost childhood,
the sparkle
and rust
and bits of wisdom
clutched for a while in tiny hands
and an untouched mind
before left
strewn in the wake
of another move
another town

but also from
the small scraps
of pale blue ribbon,
the poetry written on napkins,
the forever kind of love
of motherhood, and
girls on horses
that filled her heart
with hope...

"behind cornflower eyes.."

 
she
was such a little thing.

all sharp elbows,
pale hair, and cornflower eyes

her smile was open and fearless,
her look direct and trusting

I search for answers, and
she stares back at me from beyond
the deckled edges
of an old photograph,

and I begin to remember
how it felt to be her...

"the song of the Wind…"

 to hear
the song of the Wind,
you must
be still,
bid all mental chatter
cease,
and let the mechanism of modernity
be hushed

then,
trees become cellos,
the lake an oboe,
the dry winter grass
a section of strings,
our house a harp,

and the Wind -
a many-fingered Artist
calls forth
Her symphony
from nature's waiting instruments

while the sheets
and pillowslips dance
along a chorus line
of twine
strung
between two hearts...



[photoart by Jaime Heiden Photography]

"the girl who ran away…"

 this
was the river
that taught me
to cast my line
further
than I could see,

this
was the town
where girlhood dreams
came true,
and where
I would - too soon - discover
that I had
so much more to learn
about being
the kind of woman
I wanted to be,

and not the girl
who ran away...



[photo by Steve Chitwood]

"bring yourself home…"

 no lost innocence, 
lost purpose,
or joy
no lost promise,
or misplaced inspiration

leave those 90 and 9
ruminative
habits,
frustrating
self-certainties,
and rut-weary
opinions

about who you think you
have become

behind

walk
away from
the
wet-wool
heaviness
of what you think
you've sacrificed
in order to have it all

the accumulated
growth,
the un-sheared
resentments,
the matted-down and
patted-down

the price
you think
you've paid
for the life you
now live

rest from those
patterns of
walking back
and forth,
back and forth -
grazing along the same path

until the fresh grass is
gone and all that's
left is stubble -
the scrub-worn
and weary

the over-grazed ground
of what you've always done

go and find
the once-known
and new-bourne

seek the ever-innocent

search the forgotten places,
the child-like nooks and crannies

let yourself be
found,
carried,
washed clean

bring your lamb-self
home -

and rejoice...



[photoart by the extraordinary Jamie Heiden]

"roots entwined…."

 

we existed
on our own island

sisters
leaning into one another,
reaching for our dreams,
living with roots entwined,
and branches curled
like fingers
as we braided each other's hair
in the moonlight…”



[photo art: the extraordinary Jamie Heiden Photography 2014]

"the weight of stillness…"

 "be still..."
- Psalms

She comes to me in the night
like a young maiden in moccasins
tiptoeing silently over soft pine needles
i must be perfectly still
to hear Her soft touch
against the earth

to feel the weight
of Her message
on my heart…

"feel Her
presence in the
whispering woods....”

~ Samuel

"being drawn…"

 "through the scent of water
it will bud,
and bring forth boughs
like a plant.."
- Job

my leaves seek the Sun
my roots reach toward Water,
i yield to the Wind,
i search out
the deepest places of the earth

i have no self-volition
i am drawn into shape
by Her
Irresistible
hand ...

"Yea,
I have loved thee
with an everlasting love:
therefore
with lovingkindness
have I drawn thee....”

~ Jeremiah



[artwork: Jamie Heiden Photography]

"Music was my refuge..."

 "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 creation bowed in worship..."

 "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 space between.."

 “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 wind blows o'er the plains..."

 "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

"we shared a nest..."

 "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

"on an ordinary day..."

 "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

"soft as ash..."

"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

"a reckless generosity..."

"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

"beyond the chains of thinking..."

"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

"to live between the covers..."

"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

"there is a vast yawning..."

"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 Phoenix fledgling..."

"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.