Shining Spirit

And so it comes to this.
The measure of one’s dignity,
a cardboard box, two apples,
a potato and an exit sign
above the door?

Where is the mind that conceived
such indignity?  Where the soul,
the heart that considers
humiliation a virtue,
indecency a benevolent gift?

And where do they fit in on humanity’s
scale of values, these Left-Overs who
hold the cardboard box, who wait
their turn to say “Please, sir, may
I have some more”?  Oh, Oliver,
wake me from this black dream
of unspeakable insult.

Perhaps one day another
generation will wonder about
the monuments erected to the
Left-Overs, the platformed towers
that save us from “the tired,
the poor, the huddled masses
yearning to breathe free”.

The lamp flickers beside the
golden door.

Along the river path
toward the close of day,
long shadows and a soft west wind
restore my senses.

In the distance, cars line up
dutifully at a crowded intersection
where impatient drivers, tired
from the day’s encounters,
remain motionless
counting the cycles of a traffic signal.
Hands grip steering wheels ever more
tightly as the third light sequence
moves toward four.

The pathway casually follows the
river’s intentions, welcoming young parents
maneuvering a bright blue stroller.
Walkers, hand in hand, laugh for all to hear
as they cross a narrow wooden foot bridge.
Gliding silently in the distance,
cyclists lean their sleek machines
into a sweeping turn.
A gray dove leaps from her perch leaving
in her trail that unique wing song
as she rises to the highest
branch of a mesquite tree.

But it’s the shadows that suggest
a peaceful ending to the day.
How do they do it?
How do simple shadows redefine the moment?
What magic do they possess that restructures
this day of tedious turmoil,
turning it into a palatable memory?

Were it not for long shadows
on the river path,
the day’s troubles would
turn back the night covers,
tuck me into bed and
whisper a melody of dissonant, sleepless
sounds in my ear.

Ah, but those lengthening shadows
reach out like an old friend
offering a long-awaited embrace.
Along the river path, walking
with the evening breeze at my back,
I discover once again a feeling of sacred wholeness.
I am restored,
renewed,
resurrected.

It appears in the deepest moment of sleep,
when darkness offers fertile ground for
the birth of dreams.  Against the backdrop
of the black curtain, a ribbon of soft light
falls and rises on an undetectable breeze.

Like the tail of a kite, it soars, dives, and rises
again, leaving a faint trail of sparkling dust
in its traveled path.  Perfect sleep is to
rest under the blanket of the warm light,
beneath the luminous canopy.

With the eye of my heart, I watch the
light stream summersault and
fall gently toward my face.
Closer, until with the delicacy of a weightless
feather, it rests on my forehead.

As sleep releases my hand, I wake slowly to
ripples of dawn’s light dancing on the shadowy
ceiling.  I am vaguely conscious of the night’s
visitation.  For a very brief moment, perhaps
as long as a breath, I wonder at the meaning
of it all.

Then, from a far corner of my waking mind
a newly formed awareness emerges, a
faint revealing beginning to find its definition,
discovering its substance.
In that numinous moment, there is
birthed into consciousness an Idea,
the sacred accomplishment of the human
mind touched by the animated
Light of Creativity.  All living beings,
all inanimate residents of the universe,
raise a symphony of joy for the
precious creation.

Some friends and I were talking recently about the documented disappearance of people from the pews of so many churches.  Maybe the following represents a reason for some segment of that exodus.

I went to church the other day,
I haven’t been in years,
and what I saw
and what I heard
proclaimed in ancient song and word
reduced my heart to tears.

A man stood up to sermonize,
his words had quite a sting.
He said all people everywhere
were rotten to the core
and then proclaimed that all of us
deserved the Devil’s door!

We sang old songs from 1910,
all made it very clear
that I’m a worm,
my fate is sealed,
my long-term future’s now confirmed.
No joy in what’s revealed.

I never knew how bad I was
until I went to church.
I thought my life was pretty good;
I helped the down and out,
made generous gifts to those in need;
my actions were devout.

But now I know I’m bound for hell,
one-way ticket waiting.
Departure day is marked in red,
my destination’s dead ahead
because, in truth, I don’t adhere
to dogmas that they hold so dear.
The danger I’m creating!

So now I guess my days are done
within those sacred walls.
I went to hear some hopeful news,
but now I find that I must choose
to sacrifice my common sense,
agree to all that they dispense,
a price I cannot pay.

Someday perhaps I’ll try again.
I don’t know where.  I can’t say when.
But surely there is hope somewhere,
a welcome hand, a place to share
the ups and downs of daily life,
a place in which my pain and strife
can finally be released.

It won’t be in the church, I guess;
there’s nothing there to feed my quest.
I’ll wander off, just like the rest,
and find my hope
elsewhere.

A 50-foot tall Eucalyptus tree was felled this morning in my neighborhood.  It was necessary but painful.

When morning comes
death will be close behind.
The brown metal gate will open
to allow killing machines
access to the one who waits,
clothed in soft green raiment,
looking down upon the
gathering company and
their death devices.

He has stood proudly
for many years,
sapling to soaring giant
who offers thoughtful rest
to all who sit at his feet
in the generous gift of shade.

Owl, a nightly visitor,
watches with the stars.
Songbirds, nestled in his arms,
prepare their morning concert
while dusky green leaves wave
at the moon.

Peaceful elegance fills
the world.

Yet morning’s inevitability brings
sounds of whirring blades and
muted voices approaching
to pronounce the last blessing
before the first cut.

Now he will return to the earth
like all living things,
perhaps to return another day
with gifts of shade and
shelter and sacred beauty.

Scattered among all the days of responsibilities
and rationality are exquisite moments when
priorities pale in the revealing of the obvious,
the taken for granted.

I look at the contours of your hand, a life story
told by lines that trace years of sacrifice,
memories in the flesh marks of selfless
giving, a simple band of commitment, now
worn by time but cherished for so long.
And I know.

The look of wonder in your eyes when the
late afternoon sun electrifies the mountains,
a recognition of the glowing sacredness
painted in burning orange and soft purple.
And I understand.

The deep concern in your face when illness
stalks a loved one or pain invades the life
of a friend or mercy is denied the helpless,
charity betrayed by greed.
And I realize.

Your unfailing kindness to the unkind,
acceptance of others who aggravate or
annoy, the ease of your “hello”, the
fullness of your presence even in
momentary encounters.
And I recognize.

In these remarkable moments, briefly
focused, graciously given, I am embraced
by the unmistakable Presence of Love.

And I am grateful.

A faint whisper floats in the enveloping darkness,
“Morning comes.  Light is arriving.”

The words are gentle and soft,
the texture of cloud or fine mist after
a summer rain.  More than announcement,
the alluring words proclaim sacred benediction
as Night dons his black cloak, looks once more
upon Sleep’s handiwork, then moves toward
the faint appearing of Light.

Darkness to light.  Sleep to waking.
I am awed by the hope of transformation:
violence to peace, fear to trust,
shallow reality to deep consciousness.

I dream that all words spoken in the dawning day
will be reconciling, that hands extended
to all creatures will bear gifts of grace,
that caring hearts will recognize sacredness
borne in all beings.

On the edge of sleep and waking,
the thin place between two worlds,
I sense a gentle tug on the warm covers,
a signal that life awaits.
“Rise, child.  Light calls your name.”

My wake up alarm, the announcement
of another day’s arriving, is the sound of
shuffling steps along the tile hallway.
Slippered feet sliding across the
hard stone surface.  Little steps in
the darkness, cautious but relentless.
A sound like sandpaper on hard wood or
whispers of steam escaping from the radiator.

Abruptly the shuffling ceases,
silence consumes the sleeping house.
I know what’s coming next.  Lie still,
maybe she’ll leave me alone.  Tense,
teasing moments pass.  Then from
the blackness, a cold wet nose
nudges against my unwelcoming hand.

I feign sleep but with no success.
Two large brown eyes are mere inches
away, staring.  Steely laser beams
riveted on my forehead.  I wait.
The eyes wait.  I roll to the other
side of the bed.  The lasers shuffle
after me and lock on again.  I surrender.
Throwing back the covers,
I reluctantly set my feet on the cold floor
and we shuffle off into the day together.

Good morning, Maggie.
Good dog.

I rest tonight in confident hope

That dawn will announce new
life throughout creation.

That all worry and fearful thoughts
will be surrendered to the sound
of Love’s heart beating in the
darkness.

That the last vision before sleep will
be the nearness of Love remembered
in the faces of those I cherish.

That all prayers whispered as night
descends will be gathered into the
Sacred Spirit pulsing through the
universe.

That night will silently slip away
as morning light softens the
edges of her black cape.

I welcome darkness, old friend,
who gently tucks me into the
embrace of the Mystery beyond
explanation or understanding.

I sleep in trust to awake
in gratitude.

In the new day, may I see the Artist’s hand in
the most common sights.

May I find rest in still waters, my soul’s
restoring by the grace of Love.

May quiet ripples sing to my heart.  May
I know peace, and in the knowing, impart
it freely.

May it be so.