And who’s to say
that Christ won’t come again
in a body
in that body
the one we’ve gotten used to
the one we have seen in paintings
and pictures
but not photographs
but instead of being born again unto a virgin
in a cowshed
or descending out of the sky
the Christ
the anointed one
comes again
for the first time
into your heart?
I mean
it was a surprise the first time
even then,
over 2000 years ago.
They expected a king.
They expected someone to lead them out
of slavery to the foreign army
to lead them back
to who they really were
as people
chosen by God.
Instead they got this guy
born illegitimately
born in poverty
raised in a nowhere backward town
who spoke of a different kind of
freedom, a different kind of return
to who they were.
It wasn’t a revolution
it wasn’t a rebellion.
He didn’t come to be a king
but to point them back
to the only King
they ever needed.
He wanted to lead them out
of slavery
not to the Romans
but thinking anybody
was over them
other than God.
Why can’t it be that
surprising again?
Why can’t it be that
the second coming
doesn’t happen
in the Holy Land
but in your heart
right where you are
right as you are
right now?
Monthly Archives: January 2019
The best gift – poem
If I had my way I’d be getting up around 10 with no alarm clock having drifted awake
resurfaced, like a deep-sea diver.
But instead I’ve pulled myself up (if not out) of bed sitting here, writing to clear my head to return me to the world of words, of thought, of physicality and away from the dreams that seem so real.
Maybe that is why I write after all not just in the morning not just in the mode of poems but everything, all the time.
Putting pen to paper, pulling words down from the air and making them sit and stay like dogs doing tricks is how I wake up every moment is how I come back into the present, the best gift of all.
Morning walk or not – poem
In this morning
this cold morning
the sky touched with the pink the color of rose petals,
of Magnolia blossoms just beginning
I wonder how long it will be
until the sun is awake before quarter till seven
the sky aglow with the sure quiet joy
of awakening.
Because until then
I will wonder how I could possibly have dragged myself out of bed
with time enough to go for a walk
before work,
even on a Saturday
those many months ago,
or so my journal says.
Because right now,
I can’t even imagine getting out of bed
at all
it is so cold and cave-like.
And so I sit here
and write a poem
instead.
And I think maybe this is a kind of walk,
too. Or maybe
I am fooling myself,
again.
Negative Role Model
NHe was walking away from it all. Walking away from the world that no longer even pretended to understand him.
He didn’t need them to agree. He wasn’t that vain. But he did need, (we all need), to be around people who at least understood what he said. For years they acted like they did, and it was enough. Years of acting added up, until he realized they were just faking it, just humoring him. Maybe they thought he was a genius and they didn’t want to let on how far behind they were. Maybe they didn’t care at all and were simply rude to everyone.
He didn’t know, or care, anymore. Wolfgang had been told he was special for years by his mother, but what did she know? She was his mother, so she was hardly objective. He was to fulfill all of her waylaid of plans, be all of who she was supposed to be but didn’t, or couldn’t, because of a myriad of reasons, some of which were probably valid.
Some probably weren’t, though. Some were very likely excuses fabricated to cover her own feelings, to blame others for things she chose not to admit were her own responsibility. She taught him well, but in reverse. He learned all of his skills by doing the opposite of her, since it hadn’t worked out for her. She was his negative role model.
His mother wasn’t bad, she just wasn’t great. She was a perfect example of what she was taught to be, overtly and covertly. She was submissive and passive. She bit her tongue. She never spoke up. She grinned and bared it until it ate her up from the inside, the slow ramshackle illness that manifested as high blood pressure and fibromyalgia for years. She rode that pity train for as long as she could, as far as it could go. Until one day she decided it wasn’t enough so she woke up with cancer. You always get what you want, especially if it is bad.
He was walking away from her madness, the madness of the culture he found himself in. It was time to retreat to the mountains, to the tower he’d read about in his studies. It was far enough away that he knew he wouldn’t be bothered unless he wanted to,. There were no roads, so all approach had to be by foot. There was a gate, but it was unguarded by anything he could see. This did not mean it was undefended, or vulnerable to entry from just anyone. A strong psi-wave push emanated from the moss green stones as he approached the gate. A lesser person would have turned aside, deeming the approach unworthy of attention.
The ramshackle tumble-down stones and the rusty dark gate spoke of inattention and lack of care. No treasures could be within. Yet he knew he was to push onward. This unassuming gate was a façade. It was real, of course, not an illusion. But he knew that it shielded what would lie beyond.
(Written mid June 2018)
The Right Direction
Beyond that door lay the only one who could help her, but she
no longer had the strength to call out.
Her savior, unknown, unseen, could be anyone – any gender,
any age. S/he would have the answer to her question, and it would be the right
one. Sure, certain, unflinchingly right, no doubt about it. S/he would know
right from the heart how to answer any question of hers.
The only problem is that she didn’t even know the question.
How could she, in a place and time that yelled all the answers 24/7 via TV,
computer, video chat – all the screens. Their eyes took it all in, flooding the
brain with ersatz knowledge, Tinseltown hopes, particleboard homes. Nothing was
real, not here, not now.
It was as if the whole world had gone crazy, had started with
the joy juice and never quit. Maybe they were crazy – or maybe they were
addicted. Maybe there was hope if only they quit – but quit what? Their drug of
choice was distraction, in the form of anything visual, anything flickering on
their screens. Stillness was rejected. Flat was out. The dancing shadows that
played before their eyes hypnotized and bewildered and beguiled. They were told
that new ways were better, that they needed to give up their old ways. Flip
phones were passé. Only losers and old people used those.
Now, only those who were computer illiterate were safe from
the octopus tendril fog that wormed its way into their brains via their eyes.
She wasn’t computer illiterate by any stretch, but her poor
eyesight had saved her. She too had been sucked in, like all the rest of her
generation. The strain to her eyes had let her know that she needed to make a
change. Somehow the hours she lost watching auto play videos wasn’t the turning
point. It felt like being stoned, so it was familiar. It was only later, when
she’d made an intention, an escape plan, that she had the perspective to see
what had happened to her. It was then that she truly woke up.
She tried to call out to the one behind the door, that door, the only door that mattered now. She had learned of it from a book, that ancient technology shunned by her peers. She had returned to the library, searching for meaning or entertainment after her self-imposed detoxification from the news and views, the mindless visual chatter, the one-way train wreck that was the computer screen.
There was no answer. She checked her book again, that book, the one in the thick red and gold cover. She sought out those books, the ones that had been rebound in simple yet understatedly beautiful bindings. These books had stood the test of time. They were so valuable that the library kept them for longer than they would normally last by putting them through the Perma-Bound process. It saved books that would be too expensive to replace with a new copy. Those were the kinds of books you needed now – the ones that were out of print, written before the possession of people’s minds by the screens.
Deep in her heart she knew there would be others who would awaken. Would it be enough? Would there finally come a time when people would properly name this time of mental and vital darkness, the dull lethargy that took over? Those in the Dark Ages didn’t know that was what they were in until afterwards, when the Renaissance, the rebirth, happened. This would be similar, she knew.
Again she knocked and again there was no answer. Perhaps this was a test, to see if she was sincere. It wouldn’t do to have someone find the secret only to turn it against itself. But those who were asleep, who had been lost to the mind fog brought on by electronic infection wouldn’t be standing here before this door. Maybe this was a way to think of it – as a virus. Videos and memes went “viral” after all. So maybe it was truer than they knew. She didn’t have time to think about that now. There were so many other ideas jockeying for position.
She considered whether she should sit by the door in the meantime and think, or go for a walk. If she sat by the door it might be opened, rewarding her for her patience. That quality was in short supply these days, and being able to sit still without an electronic babysitter was a sign you had shaken off the shackles.
But she’d always thought better when she was walking. “Solvitur ambulando” was the motto of a book she’d read when she first began to wake up, to realize her enslavement. “It is solved by walking”. But what is it? How could you know you found the answer when you don’t even know the question?
And that was why she was there. She needed to know what to do next. Her life was a blank slate now – no map, no direction. All roads seemed clear. So which one to take? As she walked, she understood that was the answer. There were no hints as to which way to go because all were valid as long as her heart was set in the right direction.
(Written early June, 2018)
Siamese souls
And then he reached the end of his quest. He hadn’t thought
it was going to be this soon. Not like it had been fast, by any means. It has
been years he’d trod the path before him, years of loneliness and darkness.
Often the only light he had to go by was in his heart, that still small voice
that urged him on when the world said it was pointless to go on – pointless,
and worse. He’d been mocked by family and friends alike. But now he was here.
It finally happened. He expected it on a more auspicious day than a Tuesday,
but who was he to question? He was finally here. He paused before the ornate
doorway, and admired the crenelations on the archway and the wrought iron
fixtures on the door. Should he say the blessing now, or after he crossed the
threshold? When could he say he’d truly arrived? Perhaps twice was better. He
fished around in his satchel and located his notebook to find the words for the
prayer. He’d been through three such journals in this journey and mailed the
full ones back to himself. He felt an odd sense of otherness the first time he
wrote his own name on a parcel. He wouldn’t be there to receive it. Or
would he?
What would it be like to be in more than one place at a time?
Ben had known all his young life that this was his destiny, to discover the
space between the atoms, to transcend the limits of the merely physical. Some
people were astronauts, exploring outer space. He was a psychonaut. His
unexplored territory was inside himself.
It had all begun when he was four. On a return trip from
Christmas in Florida with his parents, everything stopped near exit 66 on I-75.
He didn’t see it coming. How could he? He was safely (or so they thought)
strapped into his car seat. He could see nothing of the danger ahead. His view was
filled with his favorite bear and a collection of books. He was a great reader
for his age. His parents, both scientists at the university, doted on him and
read to him every day. He cherish the books he’d been given as gifts as well.
He equated books with love.
All he knew then was that day they were going, and then they
weren’t. Suddenly he was out of his body, floating around in the car as a
spirit. His body was too damaged by the crash to return. If he’d been read any
faith stories he would have known where to go, but his parents had no truck
with such foolishness. Religion wasn’t logical, and as scientists they couldn’t
be bothered to waste their time on myths. So he did the next best thing. Like a
scared puppy, he retreated to the only safe place he knew – his mother.
He’d been apart from her for four years now, but he had no other
choice. She was alive. Her injuries were slight. This couldn’t be said of his
father. One look in his eyes and Ben knew that ship had sailed. Sure, he still
could have stepped into that body, but he didn’t know that, and time was in
short supply. He had to choose soon or find himself without a choice.
So he slipped back inside his mother, returned to the first
home he’d known in this dimension, this place of noise and sound and touch and
bright colors and busyness.
The return was easier than the exit. A sidestep, a little
bend, and there he was, back inside, but seeing the world through her eyes,
hearing the world through her ears. It was odd, this other way, this borrowed
way. Now he began to understand her anxiety, for she had forgotten how to see
the world of spirit. Maybe that was why she’d become a scientist, forever
needing to prove the unprovable instead of simply believing.
After the accident, his mother felt the usual grief for her
husband‘s death, but very little for his. Grief being a new and unexpected
feeling for her, she had no way to know what to experience. She chalked up her
low affect to many things – his young age, her energy spent on her own recovery,
the sudden reversion of all household duties to her. It was more difficult to
go from a couple to a single then she had expected, and her grief for her only
child got folded up within that period. Or so she thought.
Because he was there, alongside her. He was within her, part
of her. He was four, and 28th at the same time. Over the years, he grew along
with her, and she with him.
That was why now, 15 years later, he was walking the pilgrim’s
path. She was 43 now, and remarried. He was 19, and still partnered with her,
sort of a Siamese soul. He was the one who had eased her back towards the faith
of her childhood, the faith she’d abandoned. He was the reason they were
walking the Camino now.
To her mind, the God of her ancestors had abandoned her, but
it was the other way around. She didn’t understand that faith is a lot like any
other skill. You get out of it what you put in. But her anger and questions at
the unfairness of the accident (and her ghost son’s persistence) edged her back
over the threshold of her parents worship hall..
That first time, she simply let the familiar chants watch
over her as she sobbed quietly in the back pew. She left before anyone could
ask her what was wrong, because she knew the answer would take too long. So she
went to the library instead, reading all she could about faith, and God, and spirituality,
preferring the safety and anonymity of books over the intimacy of public
worship. Over time, she learned of a pilgrimage that took a month of walking.
People went on it to find answers, or release their grief, or find a new
direction for life. All of that sounded ideal for her. So she left on a summer
break from the university, grateful to not have to use vacation time, but more
grateful to be able to leave in a way that she didn’t have to answer her
coworker’s questions. “Where are you going?” “Why?” “A
pilgrimage? I didn’t think you were religious.” She could hear the questions
already, and already she knew she didn’t have the answers. Sure she knew where
she was going, but why? And she didn’t think she was religious either, but here
she was. All she knew was that if she had to face these questions, she might
lose her nerve and that was the last thing she wanted. So a week after final
exams, she was standing at the airport, a plane ticket to Bilbao and a bus map
to Pamplona in her hand, kissing her new husband goodbye for a month.
And now it was almost over. They were about to walk through
the door – that door, the one where countless thousands of other pilgrims had
trod.
And then it happened. He felt the shift when both her feet
had crossed the threshold, when she felt the sudden but soft awareness of his
presence within her. Quietly, calmly, she knew she was not alone, knew who was
with her. It was a gift she’d not even dared to ask for – not even known it was
possible. She made her way, (they made their way), to a nearby pew and quietly begin
to sob tears of relief, and joy, and hope for the future. They had a lot of
catching up to do.
Consumerism is the new religion
Consumerism is the religion of the world.
It is destroying the planet.
It is the antichrist
– the opposite of life-giving, of healing, of resurrection.
It is about trust in yourself,
not sharing, greed.
It creates war and poverty.
It builds present presents and walls.
Time to cast out this false God
this idol of “you deserve it”
this spirit of “me first” and to hell with everybody else.
It pits person against person,
creating nations that war against each other
blinding us to our true nature
of oneness of unity,
that we are all in this together on this life-raft we call Earth
and if we don’t pull together we’ll discover
to our horror
there is no planet B.
Instead of trying to Terraform Mars
why don’t we re-form Terra
(which is the old name for Earth)?
Imagine
I
Imagine:
The Church no longer has a “worship service”.
Instead, service to people is its worship.
Imagine all that money and time spent on feeding the hungry, healing the sick, housing the homeless – instead of hymnals, a band, a podcast, a live-streaming service, etc.
Imagine:
a world where we are
no longer divided by money,
where all people are seen as equal.
Imagine:
Keeping Christmas in your heart all year long.
Not the commercial Christmas, but the real one.
Imagine:
If Christians were known for their love.
We must be the change we wish to see in the world.
And I don’t mean any of that “love the sinner, hate the sin” business because Jesus never said anything like that. Just love people, and let God take care of the rest. Love heals people.
It is time to stop, period.
I don’t understand the necessity for products to prolong sex after it is necessary. We have prescriptions for men and women to make it possible for them to be sexually active after they are able to have children. Viagra for men, and pills and creams for women are intended to prolong something that has no need. It has turned something normal into something abnormal.
This ad keeps coming up on my home page. It is impossible to ignore. It takes up half the page.
I clicked on it to show you this –
It is “used in women after menopause to treat moderate to severe pain during sexual intercourse caused by changed in and around the vagina that happen with menopause.”
There is no need for this. Menopause isn’t a disease.
It is time to learn other ways to be intimate. Try talking. Try playing board games. Try going on vacation together. Use a different part of your body to connect with your mate – your heart.
This obsession with sex as the only way to connect is what has lead to the disturbing amount of unwanted pregnancies, abortion, and child abuse and neglect, among other avoidable tragedies. Imagine how our world would look if we focused our energy and time towards something meaningful instead.
Jesus on the side of the road
And then there was the time
Jesus walked up to the man
on the corner.
You know the one.
The guy with the cardboard sign
that says
“Homeless. Please help.”
Or “Will work for food.”
And Jesus
(well not really that Jesus,
but a Jesus,
like a Santa Claus,
someone
who is said
“yes, I’ll take on that role”
walks right up, not even in a car
like everybody else in a hurry
on their way to their job,
or the Kroger,
or Starbucks
but never here,
always on the move –
that Jesus walks right up
and sees the man on the corner
the leper, the blind man, the lost sheep
and looks him in the eyes and says
”Hey.
What do you need?”
And he says
money,
or home,
or a job,
but really he’s saying
Healing.
Freedom.
Grace.
He’s saying he needs to be
released from this prison
without bars
he found himself in,
or maybe locked himself in.
He
forgets.
And Jesus reaches out a hand and says
do you believe you can be healed
(do you think there is hope for you
or have you given up already)
and the man hears the music beneath the words,
sees the light peeking out from the clouds
that have rained on his parade
for so long he wonders
why he keeps showing up
and thinks
maybe,
today is the day
that I no longer have to define myself
as homeless,
or chronically ill,
or abused by my parents,
or widowed
but instead
as a precious child
of God
chosen, and loved, and whole.
And the healing happens,
right there on that corner,
with
all those cars rushing by.
And then Jesus disappears,
this latter-day Jesus,
this vagabond messiah
and the man
is still there,
on the side of the road,
still homeless,
still divorced,
still without a job,
but now he’s awake
and he thinks
is this what healing looks like?
betsybeadhead 
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