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Listen. I want to tell you something. This morning is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris, peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say, wake up, open your eyes, there's a snow-covered road ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen. Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies, tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song. I can't tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves' green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals' red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic. And then it blooms again. - Barbara Crooker
Things don't happen for a reason Sweet child No Life doesn't need a reason For happening It simply blooms forth With breathtaking chaos Rains down on you With senseless beauty And immeasurable heartache You can make up stories If you like About why things happen The way that they happened You can close one eye and squint To make up patterns You can tell stories of Tragedy Or perfection Curses Or blessings Or you can simply stand naked in The rain You can realize nothing Will ever really make sense Not if you're really honest Not if you're truly listening Nothing happens for a reason Yes, this is the truth This is it There is nothing else But your own heart Plunging Into reality Your own heart Drinking down The eruption of stars That is this radical emergence Of soul in body Of breath meeting sky Maybe There is nothing else to look for Maybe it didn't work out for the best Maybe it isn't an unfortunate mess Maybe no great spirit is helping Anything go your way Maybe Just maybe Life unfolds Relentlessly With no holy plan Maybe It is sacred Just as it is Its power and innocence Require no justification Its perfection requires no meaning Maybe nothing Means anything Other than what the Rose Means When it blooms It means Here I am Here I am Here I am Here I am - Maya Luna
This week's blog is dedicated to my dad who died September 21, 2012. Dr. Rev. Samuel F. Rowen was a Presbyterian minister who frequently ended his sermons with a highly inappropriate joke and then this poem. Your anger is holy. Your grief is pure. Step quietly out of your shadow like a panther who leaves no tracks. Let your fierceness fertilize the void. Fling generous curses into musky voluptuous furrows so that fiery petals of inexpressible bliss spring up for no reason in the forest of your nerves. Be what happens in tombs and bridal chambers, among lovers and mushrooms. Let your bruises ripen into juice. Keep rooting down until you touch your vacuous core. Precious the dung. Sacred the manure flower. This is the only way up to the Rose. -Alfred LaMotte |
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