A Momentary Taste of Being

Human and Humane Sometimes in the face of such evil the only human response is apology, is listening to the stories you do not want to hear or believe and accepting them as part of the world you do not know and then making amends--truly setting things to rights, truly liberating the captive who has been so long languishing through a sin-- not commission, not truly omission, but complete inattention, indifference. It is indifference that robs us of any trace of humanity-- the willingness to allow things to be, so long as they don't affect me or mine. Indifference tamps down the cobbles with which hate paves the pathway to hell for all of us. Indifference is an invitation to inhumanity.

Standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth I think about the time my brother pulled the golden glass-domed clock from her desk and she cried and said because it wasn't cylindrical but more oval, the glass couldn't be replaced. And I felt her pain and said I'm sorry, and felt that moment that I was really talking to her wherever she might be, but she was for certain with me and without her I am not and then spoke the truth I saw "But you had some share of the blame-- putting a thirteen year old boy who wanted nothing more than to be left alone in charge of his little brothers." And I still love you.

I I had a sandwich there And read the window and bronze plaque but it was not Gorgonzola. II I passed the siren's tavern which I did not see and crossed quietly over the placid Liffey. III You would have laughed to see my thrill at finding old Tommy Moore and his once-urinal. IV Out past Dun Laoghaire where the chill North Sea meets the Forty Foot--the Martello Tower. V James Joyce hopscotched every brick in Dublin to celebrate the date of his love. VI Sirens and Cyclopes and Wandering Rocks all for a beer and some cheese. VII Breakfast kidneys and chemist and Leopold leaves Molly abed. VIII he thinks fine day for a funeral even if I flee and find my father. XI A fine edifice and fancy facade for mothering maters about to bear. X Ah rejoyce and rejoyce again that we readjoyce for doubling our Dublin. XI While just inside Stephen proves by algebra he is the ghost of his own father, ...

Did you hear me when I whispered your name to the dew that had not yet formed? When I stirred the clear water of a sticky stream and found in the eddies and whirls a language only I could read? I carried you like the single breath of an ancient bird preserved in lithographic limestone, like all the salt of the sea bound and floating.

I read a poem and set the book down in front of the fan that is never off and I let it turn a few pages before I pick it up and read another poem May Sarton "Salt Lick" and it's time to go to work so I close the book and write this poem.

Their majesties--three Sandhill Cranes, parents and a chick, step out to survey their domain, and pause their stately strut to nod (noblesse oblige) at doting subjects in their stopped cars.

When you look at the beautiful things of the world, what do you see? How do they speak? What language is whispered in your ear? How do you know the loveliness of the turquoise wave, of the pebbled shore, of a marble in a vacant park relaxing her robust nakedness against the manicured green?

Like the dragonfly trapped in my car I beat against the windshield uncomprehendingly seeking the light but barred from it by some barrier I cannot see. Sometimes flying the length of the window, sometimes perched an inch from freedom, ignoring the indraft. Oh for a Hand to guide me to open air!

How we feel Is an illusion we choose

Today I saw sea eagle piercing the blue sky silver glinting from his talons promises there will be a tomorrow.

Oh you splendid light that shines from within all things, do not hide from us who look, perhaps only time to time. It is true we spend more time looking at our own feet, listening to the dog or cat fight, running away and laughing like children who have just lit a paper bag on your porch. it is good for us that you are a song, the sun in the morning, a rainbow, a pair of Sandhill cranes and their young, the scent of jasmine, magnolia, vanilla, the ocean. In all things and being all things, you fly to us at the slightest nod at the smallest gesture you invite us to feast. And even when we pay no attention, You shine out of all things and sing the song of longing presence.

Don't look at me, there's nothing here to see-- look at Who loves me.

Today is a day for hearing. though I've set myself under the huge iron bell of the carillon on a festival day, still its clamor cannot drown out the whisper of Your love. No matter how I flee it, it rings in my head and my body takes Your sound and transforms it into light that though I try to trap it escapes me and blinds the world into new sight.

There are times, indeed most times, when I feel like a fake, an impostor, not entitled to the gifts you send, to the caresses you extend in return for my playing in the mud. I am a liar, a cheat, a false lover, a pretender--oh, I am every falseness all in one, from Trojan horse to human skeleton on the moon. And mysteriously, you seem to love me all the more for it, and throw out snares that draw me in again and again, and though I rip and turn away from your gossamer nets, still I long for their soft touch and come again to be ensnared. Stop playing! Take me because I cannot give myself.

It crossed my mind to buy yet another book until I stopped to count the ones I have. **** Have you thought how you litter Earth with poems like leaves from shaky fall trees **** I fall into these words time and time again **** In falling I fall in walking I walk. **** Options are very limited--so be who you are. **** Did you ask me because you wanted to know or because you needed to fill the empty air **** Your wounds are already healed if you would just stop re- opening them. **** Just listen with your other ear to what you say and hear it for the poison it is. **** Patience, kindness compassion, humility, I seem to run out of everything but words.

I tore it open and started to stuff it full of stories and string and whatever came to hand as I was casting about for yet more to fill its sucking unsoothable emptiness-- tales tragic and trivial, endless facts and recipes for foods no one would ever eat, murders and weddings and the vast silence the underlay the thunder of the pounding surf. And still there was no help for it-- each thing I stuffed in only made it emptier. Who knew that emptiness could grow bigger could consume everything? And yet the more I stuffed inside the less it contained worthy of note. Should I cease and sew it up? Should I cast it into the sea to see if it should be swallowed or more likely swallow the bitter salty sea and still be craving in its emptiness.

All the people that cannot be, but admire give pleasure to being me. 

You judge the oyster ugly and so do not discover the pearl within.

So long as I insist upon my own way everything is broken But then evening comes

We should start by understanding that this is impossible. We cannot create a sacred space because all spaces are already sacred. In their being they reflect their making and their maker. So now we understand our goal is different, what should we say? Living our sacred space. We choose to see that everything around us is a gift. Every person we meet is a gift, is a hammer to knock off the harsh corners, the uneven contours, to shape us to our mission. There is no such thing as an intrusion, as an obstruction. Every person is a lesson, is a challenge, is present to strengthen our ability to love, to transform us from potential to kinetic. Until we see this, we miss some of the sacred brought to us each day. In our hurry to accomplish we push aside possibility to pursue our own ephemeral agenda. Did cutting that person off in traffic really save that much time? Did letting the door slam behind us in the face of another really get us to where we were going fast...