There never was a day when you did not cry

Yeah, deep down inside.

Underneath the laughter and sarcasm and glances,

You’d find your soul weeping and thrashing about

Looking deep down inside

Looking for hope and meaning and purpose

When everything. Everyone around you said there wasn’t.

And you came to believe them.

There was no future.

Was.

 

But now. Now you see that today is your future.

For today was tomorrow. And yet, here you are.

Standing smack dab in the middle of it all.

Head swirling. Soul teeming with

Regret.

That you didn’t live yesterday in light of today.

You twittered it away longing for your status to be liked.

And silence.

A thumb to the eye.

 

No. There never was a day you found solace and contentment because you failed to stare the now in the face and say “Thank you.”

 

Today you have the moment to live in the future. To pour it out and spend it all for tomorrow will be today.

And today will only matter in light of today that is yet to be.

Don’t waste this moment. Don’t wish away this moment.

Right now is your siren call to live.

To a life of purpose. But it comes tomorrow.

Stop whining and wishing. Take up your mantle–whatever it may be–and wave it like a banner

Declaring who you are and that you have come to live.

 

For there never was a day that did not matter.

There never was a day that compared to today.

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First Sunday of Lent 2018 – a poem

Walking in the woods one groggy and misty morning,
I happened upon a crossroad not seen before
I had walked this path before
Perhaps the ivy had covered the cross
Perhaps the mildewing leaves
Perhaps my preoccupied thoughts of grandeur and worry and pain and listlessness

Just the same—

It stared at me.

 

This cross
road

 

No, it beckoned me these two paths that split from my routine path
It called my name to travel to the left
The narrow path
But should I go to the right?
What should I do?
So I sat and thought and worried and reasoned.

I closed my eyes.
Held my breath.
And ran to the left.
I ran.
I sprinted.
I stumbled.
I fell.

Looking up I see a chasm.
A cave.
A dwelling in the side of the hill.
I descend to its darkness and gasp for fear

I descend. Into the darkness. Into the wonder. Into the pain. Into the mire. Into the pit.

There’s a strangeness here. A comforting strangeness.
As though this is my home and yet a place I have not visited before.
A place where no light was left on to lead me.
A place where my heart yearned to go.
Like the smell of hot chili on a cold night. Or baked apple pie on the window sill.
But I find dead men’s bones who have ventured here before.

Still.
In the stillness.
In the death.
I find a comfort.
I find the soil breaking forth with light and heat and life.
As a stalk of wheat pushing through the soil.

To this I was called.
This beckoning.
Like a Father soothing the fear and a mother wiping the tears.
I weep.
Not like an uncontrollable sobbing.
But definitely not contrived.
A deep hurt. A deep cut. To the bone.
Dividing marrow and sinew and ligament and soul.

Breaking.
In the breaking.
In the pain.
I find a healing.
I find the roots of joy spreading deep in the earth with grace and peace and resolve.

This chasm and pit and pain and remorse
For what I have done
For that I have left undone
This darkness.
This emptiness is where I find the filling.

The Spirit welling up from within and spilling without
—Without me
In spite of me

In my death, there is my life
In my pain, there is my solace
In my hurt. Darkness. Chasm.
Therein the deep wells of my Maker.

No amount of trite answers
Superficial balm
Earthly comforts
These cannot stave the pain of the hunger I have longed to fill

 

It is in the emptiness that I am full.


NOTE: For some reason WordPress doesn’t transfer the spacing of the lines. I believe this conveys my intention better. So here is a .pdf of the poem. I hope it blesses you.

First Sunday of Lent 2018

Broken In The Fall

Image result for cliffs of dover

From the cleft of the rock
I fell
Fast and hard
Yet it was a drifting.
A floating
Gravity of self-sufficient pride and curiosity
Believing I knew.
I could not be told.
Because I would not listen

For your finger had pushed me out.
You said it was coming.
You warned me and
yet I challenged you to your core.
To my rotten core

For my own good the free falling made me scream.
Made me weep.
Yet you did not listen to my cries for help.
For I had not hit the wounding bottom of my puffed up pretense and pugnacious presumption. As the puffs of breath held me down.

They made me weep.

It was after I hit the rocks.
It was after my ribs were broken.
It was after my bloodied nose could breathe.
That my swollen eyes could see.

The wine press of your wrath squeezed my life.
It killed me on the tree.
It marked me five times over with indelible scars
That were not
Mine.

 

Infirm Firmament

We are but a breath
Gone as quickly as our names are spoken
expired as – soon – as our own is gone
utterances in the night that are soon broken

We are but a mist
Though thick in the night
is chased away at the dawning of the heat
Gone forever from our own sight

darkness

Millions upon myriads of mists before
countless cajillions to follow
Just the same, unchanging, yet passing all semblance of the firm
yes.

An infirm
An infirmity

yet

A sickness that kills to life.
Mortality is not a close, but an opening to the true and beautiful and real
The firmament is clouds and nitrogen and oxygen and that which we cannot grasp
Yet it’s firmness is taken to lungs and moves the trees and moves the people

That which is ephemeral is eternal

That which is eternal is seen in part

But we see the part and take for the whole
Selling our souls for the tripe soup
Giving our firmament for the frail
This is not all there is
Our temporality beckons us to not waste the breath
It reminds us that breathing is what we are

Plant your feet on the ground and know that flesh will give way to new flesh
Rock and vale and cloud and mountain will not tumble
They will grow
They will stay
As we pass away under the mists of life
As our memory slips from our partners in life
Our children’s children will faintly remember as a water color faded on the parchment

Don’t spend your breath for that which passes away
Speak it with confession and live forever
Not on clouds
But in the world. The real to come.