St. Francis, I Loveth Thee, But…

Lord, I pray that you will make me an instrument of your peace

even though Jesus said sometimes there would not be peace, but a sword.

 

I’d like to sow love

but my fear drives me to defend against what you hate.

 

If I could pardon, I would, and be pardoned;

But after I died, I might not still know

how to get along with others.

 

I’d love for you to give me faith in place of doubt,

as doubt has been the mechanism of fear

which has been the driving force for me to try to be good

so that I won’t be consigned to eternal torture.

 

If you could replace my despair with hope,

I would still know that

for everyone,

life is being prophetically preached as getting much worse

in a literal way

before it gets better.

 

If your light could be shined into the darkness,

there is not a better time than the always now.

 

And I feel I cannot change

a part of my being that you put into place

which is so much a part of your empathy for those who are not special;

You’ve given me the Spirit of Sadness that supersedes the joy in the feeling

of getting mine.

 

For I do not want to be consoled out of caring for the unimportant,

the ones who can’t call themselves a man-made label,

but who possibly know your Spirit anyway.

For there is no ego in Christ,

and His generosity of heart does not require puffing up,

only Love.

 

I will not be understood. I mirror you in that.

 

I will not say flowery words that preach to the choir

to receive the seal of approval from the many.

 

I will give to whom I give, without speaking of it.

 

I will ask you to pardon me when I complain because dying hurts,

or I can’t understand others.

Help me to make you happy and to bring joy

in the uniquely peculiar way you have bestowed on me;

I ask you to help me forgive myself and others

when we enjoy our false feelings of competition

as if in some race to be the best over being loving.

 

If I have trouble loving rightly,

help me to see what love there is in me and you together.

 

If each person knew the joy of existing in love

they would never leave it.

Therefore, since the potential and seed-planted desire of all your creation

is to intrinsically experience the high of love,

help me to see all my brothers and sisters

as operating in only the highest degree of love

that they can in this moment

even if it is mainly out of self-preservation.

From this perspective, most are operating

from the highest level capable

in the cumulative consciousness.

 

Help me to be part of a shift that helps the collective move forward.

 

Help me to have empathy for those

who are seemingly tethered to the generalized quality of this mirage,

and for the areas of my life

where I am blind to it myself.

 

Help me to care for the collective wholeness, even as I know

I have to account for my individual self.

Correcting in self

Loving toward others

May it be so.

All or Nothing Thinking – Comedy Monologues

I started meditating in the mornings because studies show that it helps clear the mind and improves focus. Well, I didn’t want to do just any old meditation. I wanted results fast. So I started a meditation that encouraged me to get into full pretzel lotus position as soon as possible. I thought if I could just get someone to sprinkle a little salt on top, someone might eat me and put me out of my misery.

This should have been effective because, instead of letting my mind race, I stretched myself beyond my limits. I gave myself something to think about, since it hurt like Hell!

The pain got so bad that I had to make an appointment with my psychiatrist. “Everything was going pretty well up to this point,” I pointed out.

“Meditation is supposed to be peaceful, a stress reliever, not torture,” she replied.

“No pain, no gain,” I said, miserably.

“That doesn’t apply to self-care,” she said. “We don’t call it self-abuse, for a reason.”

“Look,” I said, “I know it seems like I’ve been going for all-or-nothing here. I was just trying to get my brain focused by stressing it out, along with my body, so that when I’m done, every cell in me would think that regular life is a piece of cake.”

She looked at me like I had my eyeballs in my ears. “I’ll tell you what,” she countered, “If you’ll stop trying so hard to change yourself quickly, which has practically made you kill yourself with meditation, I won’t have try to warn you against extremes. Deal?”

“Deal,” I answered.

I walked out with plans to train for my first pentathlon, as soon as possible.

 

 

 

 

 

How I Treat My Body

How I treat my Body is how I treat the world;

Forgiving of my belly folds, which are the proof of carrying, nurturing, and developing my babies;

Understanding of my upper arms and wrinkled elbows, too much skin from my ancestral DNA; my mother is in my arms;

Empathy for a back that does not flex without feeling pain, representing all the times I have bent my learning in a painful direction, but am still able to stand aligned;

For a right leg that is shorter than the left, which is just asking for time and patience to stretch enough to catch up;

For downward-turned shadows on the face, that because of gravity, cause me to consciously focus on building my smile muscles;

And the right and left arms that for 15 years have gradually and steadily borne the discomfort that comes with the unnatural position required to play the violin;

For the brain that has recovered so many times through pharmaceutical intrusion and accidental neural-pathway forming of dead-end roads;

And the heart that with the center of my chest has held the tension of the realization that back-tracking those roads is a journey fraught with dangerous turns that appear out of nowhere;

For the hands that have typed or written my journey into a record so that I may find my way out;

And the hair that has acclimated to many dye jobs so that there is one thing that allows me to not just accept what is;

For the Body that needs loving kindness, the Body that is all members, and for those cells that are believed  to somehow exist outside;

The way I treat my body is the way I treat the world

Never Again

I poured out my heart

to the wall

and laughed with false jovial glee

at my own nervousness,

disclaiming my pain

in my aim to please;

The magnifying glass

test tubes and beakers

all bubbled and broke with questions

as my pain was dissected,

(with smoked salmon on the side)

A beige blandness

shining as bright as the white of your eyes

covered me with your ashes;

never again

The City of Ransomed Souls

When pleasing Wrathful God

ye bear with patience

all cleansing of thine holy place

yea, holy of holies,

ye are called

 

Ye shall be

like a camel

unburdening thyself

of thy smallness,

accommodating

thy passage

through the eye of the needle

into the welcoming

Holy Gate’s

City Arms

 

Their alabaster sheen

unveiling

a face too bright yet to see

without blinking

 

Yes,

Ye shall accomodate

as if by a thread

though the opening into your self

is an ego-based blessing

 

Ye shall be qualified to enter

into

the city of ransomed souls