The Mind of a Poet
Poetry, for me, is a medium–much like paint or clay. It is a vehicle for making meaning. In previous posts, I have made references to my belief that our entire lives are both part of and the results of our personal processes for making meaning–for seeking significance, understanding, and progression. For those of us driven to attempt to write poetry, it is a part of the process of living, of understanding and processing our world, ourselves, our choices–our lives and the lives of others. Thus, any aspect of daily life is a likely topic out of which the elements of poetry can be pulled together to relate to other things. The tools of metaphor, simile, allegory, imagery, etc. can be brought to bear in regard to any part of daily life. My personal belief is that the images in the telling that are the most basic, the most common are the bones of the poems that walk the truest walk, that work the best. This particular poem is about learning to float. However, clearly, it is about much more than that. It was written after spending the week on Long Boat Key last Summer with my mother, my aunt and [one of her daughters] my cousin. My aunt never learned to swim and, part of the week, was spent with my cousin and I teaching my aunt to float. That process inspired this poem. I hope that it works well and that you enjoy it.
Learning To Float
If you give yourself
over to it, the salt water
will lift you up
and hold you,
floating:
liquid safety laps your ears,
your breasts, your knees; you are
suspended. Pelicans, sand pipers
and gulls swoop and dive
around you—this is
all there is.
If you give yourself
to the sway of it, the wind
will cleanse you, toss
your hair and wrap you
in an airy blanket:
your weight is lessened, the ground
is firmer as if your feet
are bare. You breathe; the leaves
seem to sing; crickets dance
around you—this is
all there is.
If you give yourself freedom
to step out, the way becomes
yours, not the path
of another, steps only you
can make:
hard stones, cracked shells are teachers;
changing waves, bringers of balance.
Others share, but cannot walk
your walk. Like tides, each step
increases you—this ground is
all there is.
If you let yourself
surrender, the love of others
will lift you up, wash you,
and hold you,
suspended:
your weight is lessened; the way
is as sure as your bare feet. You
may be shaken, but will not fall;
like your father’s arms, the universe
is all around you—this life is
all there is.
NOTE: This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.
The Mind of a Poet
Over the months that Scin and I have been reunited, I realized that my letters to her were slowly beginning to demonstrate a more poetic bent in the prose I present to her. These, of course, are letters I would not post here; they are ours alone. However, we both recognized that the content of many of them was likely worth saving as notes, ideas that could be utilized later for other things. I expect that most writers are like us–I suspect we all keep everything tucked away somewhere waiting for the perfect medium to transform it, to use it again in a new way. This week’s poem is one of those transformations. I am a firm believer that good ideas are worth keeping around; you never know when you might have inspiration to turn them into something else.
Elements
I am longing.
The fecund force that stands
trees tall and firm swells within,
raises me up like woody pulp
bursting forth to bear ripe fruit.
The red liquid burning center
at the earthen core stabilizing
our spinning world is my skin
set afire at the sound of your voice.
My body is the bone and muscle
of desire set in motion, driven
to reach for you like new branches
growing outward on the sunward side.
You call my name and I am all
the watery essence that sustains us;
I run down and down in endless
streams of vital, quenching wetness.
The air of wanting is my breath.
The voice of all ancient and lasting
love is the song lifted up when I
speak your name to the quiet night.
I am longing. I ache to be near you,
to wake beside you, my palm filled
by your breast, the scent of you still
on my skin in the morning sun.
I am the force that stands trees tall;
I am the red liquid burning center;
I am the bone and muscle of desire,
the ancient song speaking your name.
I am the woman who longs for you.
NOTE: This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.
Hump Day: Mid-week Musings
Well, yes; it is Thursday and not Wednesday. I am a day late posting this. I had some running around to do which will be clear if you read on. So, I’m sorry I am late. But, at least, I got this finished. I hope you all have a great rest of the week.
Family of Choice
There is an old saying that reminds us we can choose our friends, but we can’t choose our families. And, as we know, this is true; families are the results of genetic and environmental randomness. [At least, on the surface. There are many of us who believe that, metaphysically, there may be more to it than that—but, that’s another topic.] Sometimes, families work out well for all concerned; sometimes, they don’t. Those of us who are not heterosexual, in particular, often learn the hard way that we need to create a family of choice to supplement—if not replace—our family or origin. This is true, also, for other folks who are different in some way or other from the cultural and familial norm into which they were born.
In many ways, I, personally, have been very lucky. My parents, overall, are and have been good parents and my brother and I are close. In addition, I have good relationships with most of my cousins, aunts and uncles, and extended family members. But, this was not the case with one of my mother’s sisters and her offspring. My aunt and her husband are fundamentalist Christians, fairly opinionated, and just plain quirky. The products of their joining aren’t much better. They had three children [a female and two males] who have grown into self-righteous, judgmental, entitled and—often—down right hateful people. Just so you know, however, they love God and are just following God’s law in their judgment and treatment of others. Especially me. From the time I was five or six, it was clear that I was different in many ways. I liked to draw. I was active and energetic, but could also get lost in some drawing, book or music. I liked to be alone as much as I liked to play hard. They did not get me. That was fine; I did not get them either. Over the years, we all sort of accepted that we would never have chosen each other.
After I came out, our amicable acceptance of each other become much less civil. About ten years ago, when our grandmother died of ALS, my cousins crossed a line; they moved from a more obvious expression of our mutual dislike and their conviction I am evil and going to hell to a very public shunning of me and punishment of my brother—after all, he had the sad lot of having been born into the same family as I. It is one thing to disrespect and shun me; it is quite another to mistreat my brother. I get my butch daddy back up about my baby brother. On the day of the funeral, the two male cousins noticed my brother and I walking toward the seats set aside for the grandchildren. The oldest, Kevin, rounded up all of his and his younger brother’s children, sat them in the remaining seats and made sure that my brother and I had nowhere to sit with the family. He and his brother stared at us as they protected their families from the queer cooties that might infect them. It was a gesture not lost on anyone there. It was humiliating and everything in me wanted to champion my brother. I wanted to kick some serious ugly-cousin ass.
But, I didn’t. I loved my grandmother and we were very close. I was also one of the few grandchildren who loved our grandfather and wasn’t afraid of him. [He could be a bit hard around the edges.] So, out of respect for my mother’s mother, I walked over to the side of the room and found some seats in the hallway designated to handle overflow. Three of our other cousins saw what happened, left their seats, and came to sit in the hall with us. These are wonderful women. They, of course, were born to my mother’s other sister—we are family, if you get my meaning. It was a beautiful moment. Our homophobic other cousins watched in horrified puzzlement. It was like walking in your first pride march and having your family fall into line with you. The girls might as well have grabbed up some swords from the isle of Lesbos and cut the dicks off of Kevin and Brian. They looked completely emasculated.
In the midst of all of that mess, there was another thing was both affronting and vindicating for me. A few weeks before she died, I had sent my grandmother a notebook I compiled of small drawings and poems I had created for her. When my brother and I saw her in the hospital, she had it with her on her nightstand. During the funeral, I became aware—through the tears and sense of loss—that the preacher was saying something about poems written by one of the grandchildren. As I mentioned, the evil male cousins have an evil sister. She fancies herself special and has a highly developed sense of entitlement. Apparently, she nosed around in grandma’s things and came across my poems. She then made copies for the aunts and uncles and the cousins. In addition, she provided the preacher with a copy so he could choose sections to read.
So, I am sitting there grieving the loss of my grandmother and realize that the preacher is talking about me and reading from my poems to her. My private words to her were being read at the funeral as tribute to my grandmother. I was a mess. I felt violated by my cousin. But I was also deeply moved that the preacher saw what I had written to her, recognized the descriptions of her as loving and appropriate, and felt we would all be lifted up by hearing some of those words. It was not his fault that I was not consulted. His reading of my words to her was a kind and beautiful thing. So, now, my hateful cousins were looking over at me sitting in my outcast seat, surrounded by love and acceptance. There we were in solidarity—arms across shoulders, hands linked, joined in grief and affection, each remembering our grandmother in our own ways as the preacher read small celebrations of her written by the black sheep, dyke granddaughter. As they glared at us, you could see their confused recognition that it was not me or my brother who had been exiled. They were in exile, in more ways than one, and were there of their own choosing.
I think of this now because my cousin, Kevin, went into the hospital Wednesday morning after suffering a massive heart attack. He is in a hospital about 30 miles away from me. As I write this, we are not sure he will live. Besides us, he is the only member of the family who lives in the south. The rest of the family, including his parents, all live in Indiana and Ohio. At the very same time, the father of one of my closest and dearest friends is in the hospital under similar and very severe circumstances.
So, you may wonder, where am I in all of this. Well, I am with my friend who is like a sister to me and whose father is like an uncle in my family of choice. I took her kids to daycare and will pick them up today while she waits as her father has surgery. I will help with the kids and I will be around for her. My friend. My sister of choice. I will not be at the hospital with my cousin. I’m sure he doesn’t want me there any more than I want to go. It would not serve anything good for me to be there. Still, I find myself kind of sad that things are as they are. He is an ass; but, he is my cousin. He is family. And, it would be nice if we had been able to have the kind of relationship I have with my other cousins.
But, that is not the case. We would never have chosen each other. And, knowing that makes it easy to choose to be close to home where I can be supportive and helpful to my friend. I’ll be here with my family of choice. As I said, I am lucky. My family of choice includes my parents, my brother, and some really wonderful people who are not the blood of my blood, but might as well be. I choose all of them. And, I am all the better for it.
The Mind of a Poet
To those of you who read me fairly regularly, I must apologize for failing to post any poetry for the past couple of weeks. I did not post any the last week I was with Scin and then, I was swamped after I got back. I had not written anything new, nor had I taken the time to search existing poems for the right one to post. I am sorry I have been lax in my work. I am trying to get back on track with writing and choosing posts. And, this week’s selection is a new poem. I hope you like it.
Evening Fire
It is dusk. The evening cry
of dove song moans beneath
the chatter of other birds, distant
traffic, scattered muffled voices.
The air smells of fresh-cut grass,
a promise of coming rain as well.
I think of you in this stillness.
Today, the irises began to bud.
A rabbit sits still in the yard
nibbling at a patch of clover.
Dry, cured wood burns slowly
easing the chill with hot embers
glowing deep red, bright orange.
I long for you in this gloaming.
I will sit with the falling night
like a friend, tend the fire as it fades
to slumber and tomorrow I will build
another—the fire without as the fire
within, the pit high with dry tender,
flame alight with wanting—a burning
beacon to light your way home again.
NOTE: This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.
Hump Day: Mid-week Musings
Where You Least Expect It…
More than once, I have discussed some of the issues, frustrations and complications of reinventing myself in my mid-forties and career shopping in this strange and delicate economy. Meanwhile, each week I have continued my basic routine: daily searches of job boards, City and County jobs, postings in the local paper, etc.; completing job applications; and, running myself ragged trying to work at whatever odd landscaping jobs I can get. I am sure many of you know that serious job hunting is, itself, a full-time job. Trying work at something in the process can be overwhelming. Oddly, I think the manual labor has actually kept me from becoming completely exhausted. I know that it definitely has kept me from coming unglued as I fret over securing a living wage before I run out of all my savings and lose my house. I have been going at this pace for over two years…and without much light at the end of the tunnel showing itself.
Each week, I have faithfully applied for an average of six jobs. It is often more like nine or ten in a week. Sometimes, I apply for several in one day. Often this is the case as, most days, there are not a lot of jobs that I could actually apply for with any credibility or hope. I usually apply for jobs that are applicable to my skill sets and overall experience–in other words, management jobs, non-profit or other program directorships, human resources related jobs…or, just plain retail, low-level management jobs. This week–Monday, in fact–I branched out and applied for a job that is not at all related to anything I have ever done. It is a job I have actually thought about for a long time. You know, the “wouldn’t-it-be-groovy-if,” kind of job. I applied on a kind of lark. Oh, what the hell?…why not?
You see, I have been going about this thing in a very methodical and practical way for a long time. Applying for things for which, either, I have previous related experience or for which I have similar skill sets and which I could quickly learn. For example, at the end of last week, I even applied for a job with the local Employment Security Commission. This is a State position. They wanted someone with either social work or counseling experience [that’s me], or staffing experience with a focus on hiring and interviewing [again, that’s me]. I thought this was perfect since I have both sets of skills and experience. The folks at the ESC thought it was a great idea for me to apply–who better to assist others with finding a job than a person who has all the required skill sets and has been job hunting for over two years? The application deadline was last Friday. I have not heard a word from them. This is the case with most of the jobs for which I apply.
So, Monday when I saw this other job, I was intrigued. It is a fitness trainer position with a local center that has its own training program and trainer certification process. For some time now, I have thought that it would be really neat if I could somehow become certified and work as a fitness trainer. Afterall, I was a good counselor largely because I am really good at empowering and motivating people. And, I love to work out. I could spend my whole day in a gym and be in hog heaven. But, I had no real way of becoming certified and I figured I should focus on what I know and apply for things similar to what I have done.
For some reason, however, when I saw the ad in the paper, I could not pass it up. So, I hammered out a cover letter and emailed it along with my resume to the email provided in the posting. It was not much more than an hour later when my cell phone rang. The guy was calling to set up an interview with me! He was even calling on the same day I applied! I nearly fell down into the pile of river rock I had been arranging. I have applied and applied for countless jobs for which I am either over-qualified or perfectly suited to and I have not had so much as a phone interview in months. Then, the job I apply for largely for shits and giggles turns out to be the one for which I am going to interview. Go figure. Or, as my mom would say: who would have thunk it?
While, all along, I have had faith that things will work out, for the first time in some long months now, I have some real sense of a possible turning of the tide. And, not directly because I finally have the opportunity interview. The reason I feel some sense of light breaking after a long night is, also, more like a kind of faith thing. It is not the interview itself; it is that the interview is for a job that seems completely nutty and far-fetched. It is the opportunity out of the blue. It is the road not even considered a real course, let alone traveled. It is the least expected option in a universe of more reasonable options.
It has been my experience at many points in my life that, when the next right thing comes, it is often the last thing I expected–that when the best thing that could happen actually happens, it turns out to be something I had given up on entirely or never even imagined. And, it comes quite unexpectedly. Usually, when things are darkest. Or, when I have settled into settling, become content with being basically content.
An example that I think best describes the kind of serendipity–and, perhaps, synchronicity–I am talking about is the reunion Scin and I were able to bring about in our lives. Sometimes, the thing you think you lost turns up in a drawer you thought you looked in a hundred times; or, it was in the pocket of your favorite jeans all along. Sometimes, the thing you think you really screwed up presents itself anew. Sometimes, we do get second chances. Often, when we least expect it. And, in many cases, it ends up being the next right thing. The best thing that could ever happen. The thing, in our slumber, we dreamed of but never expected would happen.
Sometimes, the phone rings and we answer. We answer, recognize the voice, and we speak our truth–boldly, bravely, and with heartfelt intent. “I’ve been thinking of you for a long time and have been trying to find your new number. There are things I want to say to you.”
And, the response we get is: “I’ve been thinking of you too…in fact, I woke up in the middle of the night last night and had to get out of bed to write about us.” Sometimes, the phone rings. And, we answer. And, it changes our lives forever. For the better.
Sometimes, the phone rings and we answer. And, a voice says, “I received your resume and I was calling to see if you’d be interested in an interview.” Sometimes, when we least expect it, a bell rings. A door opens.
NOTE: This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.
Hump Day: Mid-week Musings
Yard Butch: A Day in the Life
As many of you know, I left my profession some time ago and set out on the path of re-inventing myself in my mid-forties. While I have been career shopping, I have also been eking out a meager living doing landscaping and lawn care. It is not a bad gig, really. I get peace and quiet…well, relative quiet in the white noise of weed-eaters and mowers…and, I get to work with a close friend, Ed, who is like another father to me. I also get to do something that, overall, I like and enjoy. It is preferrable to my old clinical profession.
Generally speaking, grass and foliage do not talk out of turn, refuse to take their meds, try to elope, or make me have to get out of bed and go to work in the middle of the night to complete a transfer to a State hospital or have someone arrested for threatening my staff or another client. I’m not on-call even when it is not my rotation. I do not have to go in on the weekends to do second opinions on involuntary commitments. And, I do not have to get up in the middle of the night to cover someone’s shift because she called off work at the last minute. I get to be outside. And, I get to do a lot of hard manual labor–this saves a fortune in gym fees. The worst thing I have to deal with is a temperamental two-stroke weed-eater.
Or, the stares, whispered remarks, and–sometimes–the confused, offended comments or scornful expressions of people who see me and become befuddled.
Picture this. The local yard butch: a too-thin, androgynous woman with moderately well-defined but kind of corded muscles, mowing the yard or laying the rock for a landscaped garden. I am dressed in a tank-top, beat up work boots, torn up blue jeans and a ball cap or do-rag–depending on my mood. All of this adorns a body that really has no hips to speak of…and, where most females have breasts, I have pectoral muscles and nipples. Oh, and, I should mention the presence of the wrap around black shades. [These protect my eyes from the crap the weed-eater throws out. And, they look kind of hot.] Often, the pattern of my boxers shows through the holes and tears in my jeans. There is no doubt it is a confusing sight.
There are several points in the average day when the confusion is obvious. One of these is the lunch experience. The other yard grunts–who actually are male–give me the “hey-dyke, what-are-doing-on-our-turff” stare. Or, on a good day, they give me the head nod of kinship. I nod back. Then, there is the restroom experience. I can always tell when folks are watching to see which door I enter. I swagger a little more just for fun. The best fun is always when there are women my mother’s age in the restroom when I enter or when I come out of the stall to wash my hands. They seem to get the most frustrated by me.
Today, I waited behind a woman who was at the sink washing her hands. She developed a mildly aggravated expression and glared at me in the mirror as she washed. I smiled at her. As she was leaving, she stopped for a moment, and turned her head toward me as if she were going to speak. Then, she looked down and left. I guess she thought better of whatever she was going to say. Even though I accept who I am and, overall, enjoy my ambiguous walk through the world I’ve been given, these times in the women’s room are the most uncomfortable. This woman had the grace to not provide me with the customary clarification of which restroom I had entered. When I sat down for lunch, I told Ed about my encounter in the restroom. We laughed. We ordered. We laughed at the looks I had gotten from the family beside us who prayed together over their meal and watched us. Ed reminded me that the waitress knew I was a woman. Indeed, she did.
After lunch today, Ed and I went to the decorative rock lot to get another ton of river rock for a job. We sort of know the old guy, Rick, who owns the place because we have bought from him a few times. He is thin, clearly alcoholic, friendly and fairly competent. He has a great sense of humor. For some reason, he likes me. So, he winked at me when he drove the fork lift up to the back of the trailer. He usually winks at me at least once and jokes with me about Ed being a true foreman and making me do all the work. [This is kind of true, but only because Ed can’t do at 62 years old what he could at my 46 years of age. He is still a work horse of a man.] So, Rick dropped the load of rocks on the trailer and I walked over to get the metal gate for the trailer so we could put it back on. Here comes scrawny old Rick to help me set the gate–the thing is about 8 feet wide and is not a light piece of trailer gate. Ed was on his way, but there was Rick to help me. He grinned at me and said, “you work too hard, girl.”
I nodded. “Well, I was raised to work hard…it’s in my blood,” I said laughing. Rick advised me that once it is in your blood, work is all you know or all you need to feel good about yourself. I smiled. Inwardly and outwardly. The three of us put the gate back and Ed and I headed for the truck. Rick was waving. We waved too. In the truck, Ed observed that Rick treats me like a woman, but also like an equal–which means, really, he treats me like a person, a person who he respects as a hard worker and a decent person. I acknowledged this little fact. Ed said: “pretty neat, huh, little girl?”
I laughed. He does his best to understand and be supportive. It is good. “Yea, pop…pretty neat.” And, you read correctly; Ed calls me “little girl.” He is the only person alive who can do that and still be alive afterward. It is all right with me. This is why: one, he is well over 6 feet tall and weighs over 250 lbs–I am little compared to him; and, two, he knows me and accepts me…and, finally, he loves me like I am his daughter. I love him as if he is my other father. He looks at me and sees only the person he loves, respects and, often, admires. I see the same when I look at him. And, in the grand scheme of my daily experiences in the world, his way of supporting me may be telling of his generation and enculturation, but it helps. At the end of the day, I am the yard butch who–like anyone else–is much more than what is seen.
I am Li the yard butch. I am daughter to Carolyn and David. Sister to Shawn. Lover of Scin. I am her sweet baby boi. I am her lesbian lover. I am friend to quite a few; acquaintance to many. Keeper of my own sense of self. I am a sometime artist and writer. I am alpha master to my dog, Big Girl. I am a lover of good food, good music and the writings of Thomas Merton. I am a kind of Eastern-thinking, gnostic-pagan-Christian. Cousin and niece to a large family. I am Scin’s anam cara and she is mine. I am babe to my mother. I am Ed’s little girl. I am Li the…many things, all one.
NOTE: This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.
The Spirit of Things
A Matter of Faith:
It is Spring. All around us, there are the signs of a world in regeneration–a coming alive of all things after the winter waiting time, a resurrection of all that lay in slumber during the dying time. We feel it too. Our awareness and experience of this rebirth varies from person to person, yet the need to feel connected to the process, to the coming alive within and without, is present in all of us. We reach into the dirt, cultivate and plant. Or, we buy cut flowers. We tend our yards. We go to the park and walk. Or, we pull the motorcycles–or bicycles, or both–out of the winter storage and we ride. We open our windows. We sit on the porch and drink in the growing sun, the blooming around us, the birds and squirrels and, yes, the rabbits. Whatever we do, we are on some level aware that the change has come, that we too are waking and are renewed.
This is an ancient process–the basis of all ancient religions that celebrate a way of life based upon the belief that all things are connected, that we and the earth, its cycles and processes, are essentially tied to one another in an endless turning of generation, birth, death, regeneration and rebirth. It is no accident that the believed resurrection of the Christ occurs in the Spring. It is all literal, metaphoric, allegoric and psychologically powerful stuff. No matter what else is happening in our lives, most all of us feel the instinctive, subconscious pull of the process of rebirth. We feel lighter, more energized and tend to be better able to cope with and move through the other things in our daily lives in the presence of all that is Spring. For many people, this is the basis of their faith. It is for me as well, but not in the conventional ways you might expect.
Without getting too involved, let me say that my concept of God is…well…nearly heretical in the eyes of some. No doubt there will be more about that as I write here. But for now, I will simply say that my view of God is bigger than dogma, religion, or the common anthropomorphic ideas of God. My view of God is living and breathing and rooted in physics, the commonalities of all religions, the cycles and processes of the universe around us, and some basic universal truths about the human experience. And, it is rooted in my personal experience. Things others would view as synchronicity, serendipity or plain old happenstance. My experience of God changes as I change. While I do not believe in the currently popular view of God as some puppet-like magician simply waiting to give us whatever we ask for, I do believe that God moves in our lives. Within us. In cocreativity with us. I am panentheistic. And, I believe the action is internal. I also believe that what we think about and turn our mental energy to, we manifest.
These are things that have come up in discussion of late between my friends and I, and between Scin and I. People wonder how I can continue to have faith that all will be well, that forces are moving around and within us, that God is active, and that more will be revealed when I am dealing with such difficult circumstances. As are the people close to me. People ask: how can you believe that a loving God is taking care of you when you have been job-hunting for over two years, your health concerns are unresolved, your mom’s house still has not sold, and the things you need do not seem to be appearing? These observations are correct. There has been struggle and uncertainty. In addition, Scin and I are struggling with significant circumstances: financial concerns, securing housing for them so they can move, difficulties related to being apart–for now–and trying to plan, while also trying to keep faith that somehow all will be well. Struggle abounds.
So, my response to all of this is simple, really. My entire life has provided me with examples of the care I receive from a benevolent universe and an active, present power greater than myself. Greater than our conceptions. Greater than doctrines. If I look back on events that at first seem to be bad, not what I thought I needed or, for that matter, wanted, I can see how I was saved from something worse by things not going as I thought they should. I can see how events were unfolding in ways that led to other things, that were better in the long run, that–once more was revealed–carried greater gifts for me than what I expected. Also, good things happen every day. My reunion with Scin is an example.
This, to me, is the action of God in communion and cocreation with us. This, to me, is like the metaphor of Spring. All seems dark, dead and stagnant until Spring comes and we see that things were at work, doing wonderous things, unseen and in their own time. Spring is the point in the year when what was unseen becomes revealed. Much of the action in our lives is this way: internal, unseen, connected to other forces and processes, and is obvious only at the moment of its flowering.
Now, you could say that what you have read here is simply the expression of the obvious influence of perspective, of how one chooses to view things over which one has no control and how one mentally processes events and daily life. And, to that I exclaim a resounding: yes; you are correct. And, isn’t that what faith is–belief without tangible evidence, conviction without immediate proof, a set of beliefs to which one is committed, a mindset? The issue is not simply the mindset, but how one comes to have this perspective and to be committed to it. Experience, in conjunction with willingness to examine and interpret the experience, is the origin of the mindset. I believe we are, indeed, transformed by the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2). By the way, this kind of thinking–as some of you know–is the basis of Eastern traditions, Pagan traditions, and, interestingly, behavioral science and the majority of physics. In fact, there is a vast compilation of science to suggest that “mindset” or expectation–that is thought–is a physical force. So, perhaps, faith is not conviction without evidence.
For example, if we study light as particles, that is how it behaves; if we study it as waves, that, too, is how it behaves. Expectation, or the perspective of the experimenter, influences the thing being studied. Thus, how we view our lives influences the unfolding of our lives. Similarly, how we view God, or view our spirituality, determines how we experience our spiritual selves and our lives. This perspective, like Spring, is a turning–a shifting of our view, an expectation from which is birthed the evidence.
So, yes. I have faith the things are going to be, both, as they should be in the scheme of things, and OK as well. I believe that I will continue to have what I need, if not always what I want. I believe that, like the bulbs that were lying in wait, there will be important gifts and growth in my struggles. I believe that this time of uncertainty carries within it the seeds of the new, as yet unseen, budding of myself, others and our lives. I believe that Scin and I will have the things we need to build our lives together. I believe our reunion and the growing thing that is our relationship is a gift. I receive it gladly. I believe that things move and unfold in our lives in ways that work toward what is suitable to our individual selves and provides us with opportunities for our best interest. And, I believe more will be revealed.
Finally, I believe that my role in my spiritual walk is simple. It is mine to do what is in front of me, to tend to what I can and take responsibility for my choices, actions and my life. It is also mine to tend the garden of my thinking–to be mindful of my life, my thoughts and perspectives, my actions and my participation in my relationships to my spiritual self, others, and my God. It is mine to tend to the turning of my sight. It is also mine to view myself as a valuable and to believe in myself as I am and as I am becoming. If I believe that God is in all things and all things are in God, then God is in me as well and I need to trust the tools, talents, and abilities I have been given–and trust they have purpose. I view others in the same way. We are all connected, all part of the spirit of things. We are all waking, slumbering, and waking again. Each day, we are all being reborn, resurrected. It is Spring, eternal. That is enough for me.
NOTE: This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.
Androgynonamous 