...I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
(Rainer Maria Rilke)
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sweet Desire
Then John began once more. "And yet..." he said, "and yet, Father, I am terribly afraid. I am afraid that the things the Landlord really intends for me may be utterly unlike the things he has taught me to desire."
"They will be very unlike the things you imagine. But you already know that the objects which your desire imagines are always inadequate to that desire. Until you have it, you will not know what you wanted."
"I remember that Wisdom said that too. And I understand that. Perhaps what troubles me is a fear that my desires, after all you have said, do not really come from the Landlord - that there is some older and rival beauty in the world which the Landlord will not allow me to get. How can we prove that the Island comes from Him? Angular would say it did not."
"You have proved it for yourself. You have lived the proof. Has not every object which fancy and sense suggested for the desire proved a failure, confessed itself after trial, not to be what you wanted? Have you not found by elimination that this desire is the perilous siege in which only One can sit?"
"But then," said John, "the very quality of it is so - so unlike what we think of the Landlord. I will confess to you what I had hoped to keep secret. It has been with me almost a bodily desire. There have been times... I have felt the sweetness flow over from the soul into the body... pass through me head to foot. Its quite true, what the Clevers say. It is a thrill - a physical sensation."
"That is an old story. You must fear thrills but you must not fear then too much. It is only a foretaste of that which the real Desirable will be when you found it. I remember well what an old friend of mine in Medium Aevum once said to me - "Out of the soul's bliss, " he said, "there shall be flowing over into the flesh."
..."The visions," (John replied) "ever since the first one, have grown rarer, the desires fainter. I have been talking as if I still craved it, but I do not think I can find craving in my heart now at all.'
The old man sat still, nodding a little as before.
Suddenly John spoke again.
"Why should it wear out if it is from the Landlord? It doesn't last, you know? Isn't that which gives away the whole case?"
"Have you not heard men say, or have you forgotten, that it is like human love?" asked the hermit.
"What has that to do with it?"
"You would not ask if you had been married, or even if you had studied generations among the beasts. Do you not know how it is with love? First comes delight: then pain: then fruit. And then there is joy of the fruit but that is different again from the first delight. And mortal lovers must not try to remain at the first step: for lasting passion is the dream of a harlot and from it we wake in despair. You must not try to keep the raptures: they have done their work. Manna kept, is worms. But you are full of sleep and we had better talk no more."
...And at the very borders of sleep, John heard him begin to sing and this was the song:
My heart is empty. All the fountain that should run
With longing, are in me
Dried up. In all my countryside there is not one
That drips to find the sea.
I have no care for anything thy love can grant
Except the moment's vain
And hardly noticed filling of the moment's want
And to be free from pain.
Oh, thou that are unwearying, that dost neither sleep
Nor slumber, who didst take
All care for Lazarus in the careless tomb, oh keep
Watch for me till I wake.
If thou think of me what I cannot think, if thou
Desire for me what I
Cannot desire, my soul's interior Form, though now
Deep-buried, will not die
- No more than the insensible dropp'd seed which grows
Through winter ripe for birth
Because, while it forgets, the heaven remembering throws
Sweet influence still on earth,
- Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes
Still turning round the earth
The Pilgrim's Regress: Archetype and Ectype
"They will be very unlike the things you imagine. But you already know that the objects which your desire imagines are always inadequate to that desire. Until you have it, you will not know what you wanted."
"I remember that Wisdom said that too. And I understand that. Perhaps what troubles me is a fear that my desires, after all you have said, do not really come from the Landlord - that there is some older and rival beauty in the world which the Landlord will not allow me to get. How can we prove that the Island comes from Him? Angular would say it did not."
"You have proved it for yourself. You have lived the proof. Has not every object which fancy and sense suggested for the desire proved a failure, confessed itself after trial, not to be what you wanted? Have you not found by elimination that this desire is the perilous siege in which only One can sit?"
"But then," said John, "the very quality of it is so - so unlike what we think of the Landlord. I will confess to you what I had hoped to keep secret. It has been with me almost a bodily desire. There have been times... I have felt the sweetness flow over from the soul into the body... pass through me head to foot. Its quite true, what the Clevers say. It is a thrill - a physical sensation."
"That is an old story. You must fear thrills but you must not fear then too much. It is only a foretaste of that which the real Desirable will be when you found it. I remember well what an old friend of mine in Medium Aevum once said to me - "Out of the soul's bliss, " he said, "there shall be flowing over into the flesh."
..."The visions," (John replied) "ever since the first one, have grown rarer, the desires fainter. I have been talking as if I still craved it, but I do not think I can find craving in my heart now at all.'
The old man sat still, nodding a little as before.
Suddenly John spoke again.
"Why should it wear out if it is from the Landlord? It doesn't last, you know? Isn't that which gives away the whole case?"
"Have you not heard men say, or have you forgotten, that it is like human love?" asked the hermit.
"What has that to do with it?"
"You would not ask if you had been married, or even if you had studied generations among the beasts. Do you not know how it is with love? First comes delight: then pain: then fruit. And then there is joy of the fruit but that is different again from the first delight. And mortal lovers must not try to remain at the first step: for lasting passion is the dream of a harlot and from it we wake in despair. You must not try to keep the raptures: they have done their work. Manna kept, is worms. But you are full of sleep and we had better talk no more."
...And at the very borders of sleep, John heard him begin to sing and this was the song:
My heart is empty. All the fountain that should run
With longing, are in me
Dried up. In all my countryside there is not one
That drips to find the sea.
I have no care for anything thy love can grant
Except the moment's vain
And hardly noticed filling of the moment's want
And to be free from pain.
Oh, thou that are unwearying, that dost neither sleep
Nor slumber, who didst take
All care for Lazarus in the careless tomb, oh keep
Watch for me till I wake.
If thou think of me what I cannot think, if thou
Desire for me what I
Cannot desire, my soul's interior Form, though now
Deep-buried, will not die
- No more than the insensible dropp'd seed which grows
Through winter ripe for birth
Because, while it forgets, the heaven remembering throws
Sweet influence still on earth,
- Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes
Still turning round the earth
The Pilgrim's Regress: Archetype and Ectype
The Great Isolation
"Heaven," he went on, "lies hidden within all of us- here it lies hidden in me now, and if I will it, it will be revealed to me
to-morrow and for all time."
I looked at him; he was speaking with great emotion and gazing mysteriously at me, as if he were questioning me.
"And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our own sins, you were quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful
how you could comprehend it in all its significance at once. And in very truth, so soon as men understand that, the Kingdom of Heaven will be for them not a dream, but a living reality."
"And when," I cried out to him bitterly, "when will that come to pass? and will it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of
ours?"
"What then, you don't believe it," he said. "You preach it and don't believe it yourself. Believe me, this dream, as you call it,
will come to pass without doubt; it will come, but not now, for every process has its law. It's a spiritual, psychological process. To transform the world, to recreate it afresh, men must turn into another path psychologically. Until you have become really, in actual fact, a brother to everyone, brotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of scientific teaching, no kind of common interest, will ever teach men to share property and privileges with equal consideration for all.
Everyone will think his share too small and they will be always envying, complaining and attacking one another. You ask when it will come to pass; it will come to pass, but first we have to go though the period of isolation."
"What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him.
"Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age- it has not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For everyone strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how secure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to be found in social
solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will
suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But, until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love, that the great idea may not die."
From "THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV" by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, 1879.
to-morrow and for all time."
I looked at him; he was speaking with great emotion and gazing mysteriously at me, as if he were questioning me.
"And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our own sins, you were quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful
how you could comprehend it in all its significance at once. And in very truth, so soon as men understand that, the Kingdom of Heaven will be for them not a dream, but a living reality."
"And when," I cried out to him bitterly, "when will that come to pass? and will it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of
ours?"
"What then, you don't believe it," he said. "You preach it and don't believe it yourself. Believe me, this dream, as you call it,
will come to pass without doubt; it will come, but not now, for every process has its law. It's a spiritual, psychological process. To transform the world, to recreate it afresh, men must turn into another path psychologically. Until you have become really, in actual fact, a brother to everyone, brotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of scientific teaching, no kind of common interest, will ever teach men to share property and privileges with equal consideration for all.
Everyone will think his share too small and they will be always envying, complaining and attacking one another. You ask when it will come to pass; it will come to pass, but first we have to go though the period of isolation."
"What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him.
"Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age- it has not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For everyone strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how secure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to be found in social
solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will
suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But, until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love, that the great idea may not die."
From "THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV" by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, 1879.
Scars
Initially posted Aug 27, 2008
Scars do heal but long after the searing pain, it leaves its perpetual mark.
Wounded once, the wounds heal.
And again.
And again the wounds heal.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Yes, wounds heal.
Yet together, the scars trace the imprint of the kiss of pain.
The cuts are the staves for a bitter song,
the blood, the notes of a dissonant symphony.
One heals.
One moves on.
But one does not remain untouched.
Every scar,
Every blow,
Every scourge,
Every mark left by the pressing of Love's scathing lips
kills a little part of one's self.
the kill is slow.
the march of the execution is paced.
Larghissimo.
Why do you boast your wounds, O Christ?
Why, enthroned in heavenly glory, are your scars the rubies of your victory?
Pain is your kiss.
The Cross is your embrace.
Why is the bitter cup the price of love?
Why is your Way a rendezvous with lady pain?
The winds pick up the silent cry and echo it into eternity
Eternity which emptied itself
lying
crawling on the ground like a worm
crushed under the gibbet
staring at me eye to eye
heart to heart
alone with the alone
emptied with the empty
He who cursed loneliness
has blessed my solitude
with his embrace
All else surround,
peering but not entering
the heart remains a garden enclosed
wrapped by the black of night
watched by the moon awaiting Sabbath rest
wrestling,
praying,
groaning...
anticipating
eagerly hoping
watching
its lamp almost drained of oil...
waiting
waiting
waiting...
unlamented
save his own tears
scarred by a searing emptiness...
In soledad vivia,
y en soldedad ha puesto ya su nido
y en soledad la guia
a solas so querido
tambien en soledad de amore herido
She lived in solitude,
and now in solitude has built her nest;
and in solitude he guides her,
he alone, who also bears
in solitude the wound of love.
(The Spiritual Canticle, St. John of the Cross)
Scars do heal but long after the searing pain, it leaves its perpetual mark.
Wounded once, the wounds heal.
And again.
And again the wounds heal.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Yes, wounds heal.
Yet together, the scars trace the imprint of the kiss of pain.
The cuts are the staves for a bitter song,
the blood, the notes of a dissonant symphony.
One heals.
One moves on.
But one does not remain untouched.
Every scar,
Every blow,
Every scourge,
Every mark left by the pressing of Love's scathing lips
kills a little part of one's self.
the kill is slow.
the march of the execution is paced.
Larghissimo.
Why do you boast your wounds, O Christ?
Why, enthroned in heavenly glory, are your scars the rubies of your victory?
Pain is your kiss.
The Cross is your embrace.
Why is the bitter cup the price of love?
Why is your Way a rendezvous with lady pain?
The winds pick up the silent cry and echo it into eternity
Eternity which emptied itself
lying
crawling on the ground like a worm
crushed under the gibbet
staring at me eye to eye
heart to heart
alone with the alone
emptied with the empty
He who cursed loneliness
has blessed my solitude
with his embrace
All else surround,
peering but not entering
the heart remains a garden enclosed
wrapped by the black of night
watched by the moon awaiting Sabbath rest
wrestling,
praying,
groaning...
anticipating
eagerly hoping
watching
its lamp almost drained of oil...
waiting
waiting
waiting...
unlamented
save his own tears
scarred by a searing emptiness...
In soledad vivia,
y en soldedad ha puesto ya su nido
y en soledad la guia
a solas so querido
tambien en soledad de amore herido
She lived in solitude,
and now in solitude has built her nest;
and in solitude he guides her,
he alone, who also bears
in solitude the wound of love.
(The Spiritual Canticle, St. John of the Cross)
Monday, October 19, 2009
Love and Grief - the lesson of the storm
"Love is a unifying virtue which takes upon itself the torments of its beloved Lord. It is a fire reaching through to the inmost soul. It transforms the lover into the one loved. More deeply, love intermingles with grief, and grief with love, and a certain blending of love and grief occurs. They become so united that we can no longer distinguish love from grief nor grief from love. Thus the loving heart rejoices in its sorrow and exults in its grieving love." (St. Paul of the Cross)
This was the Second Reading for the Office of Readings today on this Feast of St. Paul of the Cross. I thought it was a fitting introduction as I enter into the Consecration Novena. In fact, it was when this 'disease' of the heart, this wound of love, surfaced in my life that it ushered in these dark clouds that hovered over the horizon. I am uncertain as to precisely when or how these threatening clouds formed. All I knew was that I was facing a dilemma too big for me to comprehend, too overwhelming. Thus, it was on Oct 28, 2000 that I consecrated myself to Mary most Holy begging her that these clouds not mar the future that lies ahead, that the darkness it brings not overpower the light that has kindled in my heart since my earliest days.
Nine years have passed since that one October evening and the clouds are still pouring their rain although beyond shines the Eternal Sun. The sun's rays have penetrated the clouds but they are still hovering and now, I walk about looking at its aftermath.
A terrible storm has just passed
with several destructive waves
now it seems to have abated
but even now, I'm not sure if it is fully over
It may never be over,
perhaps more clouds are on the way
But now, enough rain has abated
and enough rays have shone through
to look about and see
see the aftermath of the frightening storm
Everywhere there are ruins
And it becomes too overwhelming in the face of it all
I can't fully make sense of it all
though a part of me can't help but confess
The clouds came under the rule of the Eternal Sun
They came with their evil terror
yet their waters became the cleansing flood of baptism
Where sin abounds, grace does all the more abide.
As I enter these holy days of the Novena
I look around,
I look and am struck with wonder
It is the dynamics of Redemption at play
before my very eyes...
This was the Second Reading for the Office of Readings today on this Feast of St. Paul of the Cross. I thought it was a fitting introduction as I enter into the Consecration Novena. In fact, it was when this 'disease' of the heart, this wound of love, surfaced in my life that it ushered in these dark clouds that hovered over the horizon. I am uncertain as to precisely when or how these threatening clouds formed. All I knew was that I was facing a dilemma too big for me to comprehend, too overwhelming. Thus, it was on Oct 28, 2000 that I consecrated myself to Mary most Holy begging her that these clouds not mar the future that lies ahead, that the darkness it brings not overpower the light that has kindled in my heart since my earliest days.
Nine years have passed since that one October evening and the clouds are still pouring their rain although beyond shines the Eternal Sun. The sun's rays have penetrated the clouds but they are still hovering and now, I walk about looking at its aftermath.
A terrible storm has just passed
with several destructive waves
now it seems to have abated
but even now, I'm not sure if it is fully over
It may never be over,
perhaps more clouds are on the way
But now, enough rain has abated
and enough rays have shone through
to look about and see
see the aftermath of the frightening storm
Everywhere there are ruins
And it becomes too overwhelming in the face of it all
I can't fully make sense of it all
though a part of me can't help but confess
The clouds came under the rule of the Eternal Sun
They came with their evil terror
yet their waters became the cleansing flood of baptism
Where sin abounds, grace does all the more abide.
As I enter these holy days of the Novena
I look around,
I look and am struck with wonder
It is the dynamics of Redemption at play
before my very eyes...
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Do You Love Me?
(Composed February 14, 2005 - how fitting...)
Do you truly love me more than these? (John 21:15)
Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time:
How deeply penetrating are these words.
The more you ask, the more revealing they become.
Yes, Lord, I love you. You know that I love you.
But do I love you completely?
Do I love you first?
I have other loves.
I love my life.
I love myself.
I love my family, my friends.
What about those loves, Lord?
Do I love you more than them?
Perhaps I don’t.
My heart is conflicted. I want my eyes to stay fixed on you but I can’t help but also fix them on myself, on my wounds, on my burdens, and from there, fix them on to others, to whom my interaction with them is the root is these wounds and struggles.
After these gazes, it is then that my eyes are fixed on you, a cry for help, for salvation, for hope.
Such is the direction of my gaze and hence, the direction of my love.
They begin from within and then look outward and from outward, upward.
Lord, you know all things
This was Peter’s response and I make it my own.
You know all things; you know why I am in this state.
It is perhaps that my gaze finds it final rest in you, since you alone can make sense of my confusion.
But you ask for more.
Not only must you be the end, you must be the beginning.
My love must begin with you and from you, to myself then to others.
From others, then it must return to you.
You know all things, Lord, and I don’t.
Yet I cannot in my own weakness shift my focus from myself to you.
I must begin with myself.
I cannot begin anywhere else.
And in this is rooted my weakness: that I trust myself more than I trust you.
My own actions betray my speaking, for though I don’t know and understand all things and you do, yet I trust myself more than you do.
You are dangerous, Lord.
You are dangerous because you are holy.
You are dangerous in that if I go your way, it would mean abandoning my own will and my own trust and placing myself in the hands of another.
And this is beyond my security.
This places me in the realm of danger.
And I am afraid.
With love comes trust and with trust is love.
So the question becomes, Can I trust you more than I trust myself?
I want to draw near but not too close, because if I do, I might lose myself, I might lose control and if I lose control, I fear that worst, utter chaos and even death itself.
But that is what you ask of me.
You know my own insecurities. Where is your compassion.
Is it here? Perhaps it is rooted in that very word.
Cum-passio: you suffer with me. This is your great claim.
Not only are you with me, not only are you watching me.
You suffer with me.
You sense and feel in the very heart of your being that which burdens and breaks my heart.
So what if you suffer with me?
Then I am not alone.
You have always suffered with me.
You know all things, you know my weaknesses, you see my conflicting heart, you see how I want to draw so near to you and run so far from you.
You are safe yet dangerous.
And yet, through my cascading emotions, you stayed.
You stayed, suffering with me through my fluctuating states.
You have shown yourself faithful and with faithfulness comes love
Faithfulness is the ground for trust.
And so you ask again,
Do you truly love me?
Can you trust me?
To shift my focus from myself to you would thus mean to shift my focus from my weakness to your faithfulness, from my doubt to your love.
Can I love you more than these?
I’m afraid to say I want to.
What will happen with my life?
What will happen to my relationships with others?
When you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go
Why would I follow you if you will bring me to where I don’t want to go?
I will go to where I am afraid?
I will go to where I am hurting?
Why?
Because that’s where you went.
That’s where you are.
By your Cross, by you went to where I am hurting, you went to where I am afraid.
Why would I want to follow you there?
Because that is where I am.
I cannot see it, I cannot accept it.
But if my focus begins with my fear and my shames, with my sadness and my hurt, it is because that’s where I am. I cannot be anywhere else.
I can block it out.
I can make myself believe that I’m not there.
I can think I’m running away from it
But if my focus always begins there, then in reality, I have never left.
I am steeped in my fears, in my shames.
And it is there where I am conversing with you?!?!
I have never left even though I thought I did
And you have never left even though I thought you did!
My worst fear is right before my face.
You put me right before my own presence
And it’s an ugly presence.
I’m not afraid because I may be in a living nightmare,
I’m afraid because I already am!
This is where you want me to glorify you?
Where I am afraid and I am ashamed?
This is where your glory dwells.
The ugliness of my fears and shames is drowned in the beauty of your faithfulness
You overcome my own insecurities and find me right where I hide myself afraid of being hurt yet desperately hoping to be found.
True love banishes fear.
Follow me!
From here, you want to lift me up.
But I won’t let you because I trust myself more than you.
Can I follow you?
It will not depend on my weakness but on your strength.
Do you truly love me more than these? (John 21:15)
Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time:
How deeply penetrating are these words.
The more you ask, the more revealing they become.
Yes, Lord, I love you. You know that I love you.
But do I love you completely?
Do I love you first?
I have other loves.
I love my life.
I love myself.
I love my family, my friends.
What about those loves, Lord?
Do I love you more than them?
Perhaps I don’t.
My heart is conflicted. I want my eyes to stay fixed on you but I can’t help but also fix them on myself, on my wounds, on my burdens, and from there, fix them on to others, to whom my interaction with them is the root is these wounds and struggles.
After these gazes, it is then that my eyes are fixed on you, a cry for help, for salvation, for hope.
Such is the direction of my gaze and hence, the direction of my love.
They begin from within and then look outward and from outward, upward.
Lord, you know all things
This was Peter’s response and I make it my own.
You know all things; you know why I am in this state.
It is perhaps that my gaze finds it final rest in you, since you alone can make sense of my confusion.
But you ask for more.
Not only must you be the end, you must be the beginning.
My love must begin with you and from you, to myself then to others.
From others, then it must return to you.
You know all things, Lord, and I don’t.
Yet I cannot in my own weakness shift my focus from myself to you.
I must begin with myself.
I cannot begin anywhere else.
And in this is rooted my weakness: that I trust myself more than I trust you.
My own actions betray my speaking, for though I don’t know and understand all things and you do, yet I trust myself more than you do.
You are dangerous, Lord.
You are dangerous because you are holy.
You are dangerous in that if I go your way, it would mean abandoning my own will and my own trust and placing myself in the hands of another.
And this is beyond my security.
This places me in the realm of danger.
And I am afraid.
With love comes trust and with trust is love.
So the question becomes, Can I trust you more than I trust myself?
I want to draw near but not too close, because if I do, I might lose myself, I might lose control and if I lose control, I fear that worst, utter chaos and even death itself.
But that is what you ask of me.
You know my own insecurities. Where is your compassion.
Is it here? Perhaps it is rooted in that very word.
Cum-passio: you suffer with me. This is your great claim.
Not only are you with me, not only are you watching me.
You suffer with me.
You sense and feel in the very heart of your being that which burdens and breaks my heart.
So what if you suffer with me?
Then I am not alone.
You have always suffered with me.
You know all things, you know my weaknesses, you see my conflicting heart, you see how I want to draw so near to you and run so far from you.
You are safe yet dangerous.
And yet, through my cascading emotions, you stayed.
You stayed, suffering with me through my fluctuating states.
You have shown yourself faithful and with faithfulness comes love
Faithfulness is the ground for trust.
And so you ask again,
Do you truly love me?
Can you trust me?
To shift my focus from myself to you would thus mean to shift my focus from my weakness to your faithfulness, from my doubt to your love.
Can I love you more than these?
I’m afraid to say I want to.
What will happen with my life?
What will happen to my relationships with others?
When you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go
Why would I follow you if you will bring me to where I don’t want to go?
I will go to where I am afraid?
I will go to where I am hurting?
Why?
Because that’s where you went.
That’s where you are.
By your Cross, by you went to where I am hurting, you went to where I am afraid.
Why would I want to follow you there?
Because that is where I am.
I cannot see it, I cannot accept it.
But if my focus begins with my fear and my shames, with my sadness and my hurt, it is because that’s where I am. I cannot be anywhere else.
I can block it out.
I can make myself believe that I’m not there.
I can think I’m running away from it
But if my focus always begins there, then in reality, I have never left.
I am steeped in my fears, in my shames.
And it is there where I am conversing with you?!?!
I have never left even though I thought I did
And you have never left even though I thought you did!
My worst fear is right before my face.
You put me right before my own presence
And it’s an ugly presence.
I’m not afraid because I may be in a living nightmare,
I’m afraid because I already am!
This is where you want me to glorify you?
Where I am afraid and I am ashamed?
This is where your glory dwells.
The ugliness of my fears and shames is drowned in the beauty of your faithfulness
You overcome my own insecurities and find me right where I hide myself afraid of being hurt yet desperately hoping to be found.
True love banishes fear.
Follow me!
From here, you want to lift me up.
But I won’t let you because I trust myself more than you.
Can I follow you?
It will not depend on my weakness but on your strength.
Crumbs
(Composed Aug 22, 2005)
The beggar dogs eat the crumbs that is left on the master’s table (Mat 15:27)
Solitary soul in exile, wandering the vast desert
the wilderness of the unkown,
of questions and doubtsfears and shames,
hopes and dreamsdreams
THe desert of God’s refinement
Here he wanders,
a deeply seated loneliness penetrating itself to the corecore
Desiring simply this:
Love
To love and to be loved
to be accepted as he is and to be aknowledged
He is reduced to a beggar off to chase the illusions of a false hope
and sitting by suppliant of people’s affection
He owns the leftovers
the dog that eats the crumbs that fall from the masters’ table.
no soul has shown him much affection
little endearment
their offered time are the crumbs of the times well spent
among things truly loved and cherished
he recieves no particular attention
cast off to the shadows
until one has pity and offers him what is left of their attention
what is left of their affection
he is not a priority
simply a commodity
this is the life of a beggar
a slave to the images,
bound by the passions
his sole comforter to numb the fatal pain of loneliness
who shall ransom his life
sold to the merchants who care no less for him
the object of pity and derision
of misunderstanding and judgment
when beneath it alllies a heart broken,
seeking to find its place in this world?
the eyes and hearts of those who once cared for him
are now fixed on other matters
and all he receives from them are the leftovers of their time and love
Thank you
THanks for the crumbs,
the leftovers befitting a base beggar
no more than a dog begging off the streets
filling himself with the reremains of the feast
yet never a member of it
It is he that must bow to their will
It is the dog that must lower its head at the masters’ bidding
Turn your wheel, o fate
smile upon this hound or shall he also be the object of your morsels…
The beggar dogs eat the crumbs that is left on the master’s table (Mat 15:27)
Solitary soul in exile, wandering the vast desert
the wilderness of the unkown,
of questions and doubtsfears and shames,
hopes and dreamsdreams
THe desert of God’s refinement
Here he wanders,
a deeply seated loneliness penetrating itself to the corecore
Desiring simply this:
Love
To love and to be loved
to be accepted as he is and to be aknowledged
He is reduced to a beggar off to chase the illusions of a false hope
and sitting by suppliant of people’s affection
He owns the leftovers
the dog that eats the crumbs that fall from the masters’ table.
no soul has shown him much affection
little endearment
their offered time are the crumbs of the times well spent
among things truly loved and cherished
he recieves no particular attention
cast off to the shadows
until one has pity and offers him what is left of their attention
what is left of their affection
he is not a priority
simply a commodity
this is the life of a beggar
a slave to the images,
bound by the passions
his sole comforter to numb the fatal pain of loneliness
who shall ransom his life
sold to the merchants who care no less for him
the object of pity and derision
of misunderstanding and judgment
when beneath it alllies a heart broken,
seeking to find its place in this world?
the eyes and hearts of those who once cared for him
are now fixed on other matters
and all he receives from them are the leftovers of their time and love
Thank you
THanks for the crumbs,
the leftovers befitting a base beggar
no more than a dog begging off the streets
filling himself with the reremains of the feast
yet never a member of it
It is he that must bow to their will
It is the dog that must lower its head at the masters’ bidding
Turn your wheel, o fate
smile upon this hound or shall he also be the object of your morsels…
Untitled
(Composed June 27, 2005)
No effort tried
Drained of strength and inspiration
Paralyzed in speaking his voice
Truth cannot escape his crippled tongue
And so he is misunderstood
Self-inflicting pain over pain
Misery over misery
From one burden to another
Drained of strength
So hurt he can but close himself, the walls rise higher and higher
So leave him be
A fast for sorrow
The company of so many friends
Yet still walking in solitude
The perpetual cry, Why?
No faith, no hope, no love
His only cry to heaven,
The archer his missed his mark
He seems to always miss his mark
And frustration builds on frustration
Fuels fear and shame
On what foundation must his life be built?
A simple concept so difficult to understand
What is the choice of honor?
Where is the path to peace?
Strong One, so inspiring, where are you?
For this dying soul, held in the eternal pieta
Longs for your light
For he but circles around the mocking darkness
Whose wings ache to fly
Over the dark clouds on to where the horizons are bright with promise
Tuned to the songs of ancient heroes
And longing to dance in the rhythm of brave hearts
to soar on the bright smiling warmth of the light
this is his hope..
a hope to be raised above the threatening storm
where the light of truth has overcome the darkness of confusion
for now, he cannot see past the tempest
tossed and turned about by the forceful waves
in a frustrating fluctuate of thoughts and moods
Comforter, come with your comfort
Lord over the flood, whose brazen feet run swift over the storm
Save this dying archer
Seek his heart that seeks your truth
You who understand, allow him to be understood
And more so, allow him to understand
Ephphatha
Let his mouth be opened, let his ears be unlocked
And he shall sing your praise
On your strength he stands
That the good fight may be his
To win race and to keep the faith…
And attain that crown and joy so long desired by this edgy heart
And find refuge in the land of rest
Amen
No effort tried
Drained of strength and inspiration
Paralyzed in speaking his voice
Truth cannot escape his crippled tongue
And so he is misunderstood
Self-inflicting pain over pain
Misery over misery
From one burden to another
Drained of strength
So hurt he can but close himself, the walls rise higher and higher
So leave him be
A fast for sorrow
The company of so many friends
Yet still walking in solitude
The perpetual cry, Why?
No faith, no hope, no love
His only cry to heaven,
The archer his missed his mark
He seems to always miss his mark
And frustration builds on frustration
Fuels fear and shame
On what foundation must his life be built?
A simple concept so difficult to understand
What is the choice of honor?
Where is the path to peace?
Strong One, so inspiring, where are you?
For this dying soul, held in the eternal pieta
Longs for your light
For he but circles around the mocking darkness
Whose wings ache to fly
Over the dark clouds on to where the horizons are bright with promise
Tuned to the songs of ancient heroes
And longing to dance in the rhythm of brave hearts
to soar on the bright smiling warmth of the light
this is his hope..
a hope to be raised above the threatening storm
where the light of truth has overcome the darkness of confusion
for now, he cannot see past the tempest
tossed and turned about by the forceful waves
in a frustrating fluctuate of thoughts and moods
Comforter, come with your comfort
Lord over the flood, whose brazen feet run swift over the storm
Save this dying archer
Seek his heart that seeks your truth
You who understand, allow him to be understood
And more so, allow him to understand
Ephphatha
Let his mouth be opened, let his ears be unlocked
And he shall sing your praise
On your strength he stands
That the good fight may be his
To win race and to keep the faith…
And attain that crown and joy so long desired by this edgy heart
And find refuge in the land of rest
Amen
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
