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May 20, 2016

On looking at the stars,
or chasing the shooting glimpse of glory-
not insisting on the pit of buttercup,
because all the oceans gleam in mystery.
not least, being captured by God-

in other words, what happens on nights alone.

_

that maybe there are certain things i need to reconcile, or at least explore. perhaps poring over headstones turns up fresh clues, rewalking old paths make some headway into the new. I don’t think it could hurt anyway.

because when my ship sank i clung to the lifeboat and demanded its sailor for compensation. when the plane took me away from the gates i hid my face on the folding tray and dazed in the night silence. when the phone calls wouldn’t come i fell to the ground and screamed. everything i did all my patterns was a settlement.

i’ve done passive, i’ve done angry, i’ve thrown pity parties for one then was the first to cast a stone. i’ve huffed and i’ve puffed and i’ve blown my whole house down. there is no one who has been more badly behaved than i.

but none of this is worth its time.

broken systems are all i’ve been digging, bible predicted that years ago, thousands of years ago.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Wild Geese, Mary Oliver

I confess: sometimes it shoves me right in the chest. Old photos are the biggest trigger. Times like these I would give anything to return to the freely self-centered, self-seeking past. I wish I believed I do not have to be good, that I subscribed to a less glorious Majesty.

But if I am not good for Christ, there is no where else I can go. Although- my broken cisterns beckon with their sweet-smelling foulness, and I struggle.

What is my place in the family of things; where can I go, and what do I do? I was so sure a few years ago. Now my house of cards have tumbled down and I’m sitting with kings and queens, aces and jacks scattered around my lap but it’s a mahjong table I’ve found myself at. I’m not too keen on this new game.

I find myself cooking indian dishes, dreaming of the past, grudging my present. and future. Words help me order my mess and see how much nonsense I leave to trip over.

There was a space of a couple of years where my feet were standing pretty firm. But it seems that was just a ledge before the next climb.

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