The Price of Today’s Ride
Much of my spiritual awakening has been spent separating myself from the nightmare of the past, reassuring myself that in fact, it, the horror, is over. As my present has improved my reactions are still invested with, the hide or fly, coping of a child dealing with terror. Things get better yet barricades are erected, departing flights secured. Disengaging the clutch of fingers wrapped so tightly around the escape hatch takes a great deal of my short supply of faith and confidence. Laying down my anticipatory reluctance in favor of optimism has had the breathtaking feel of pain, though in fact it was only the separation from a poisonous crutch and the vacuum it creates. Allowing myself to see beauty at the same time as I deal with the truth of the past; standing in the full light of morning and not blocking out the brilliant ache of night is the outstanding gift my spiritual path affords me.
Open stored creativity
ECHOES OF ACTION
Squares of light outline a patchwork on walls and ceiling.
Ripples of water formed this ancient glass.
Three hundred years these waves have shone through those panes.
Three hundred years these waves have held,
Like stability in a world of change.
Looking through the window
The City rams life down it’s own throat.
The ripples are invisible,
Caressing currents imbed the glass
The wavelengths shining projections only with the street lights.
How much mundane activity is captured,
Only revealing itself surreptitiously.
What is not echoed from year to year comes to final rest.
My voice does not terminate at my mouth
How therefore can I consider a blunted end to my behavior?