Remnants of
the Way
Once the
Way is lost, Lao Tzu taught,
then comes
virtue – birthing innumerable sins,
the
far-reaching and the trivial –
pride,
disdain, judgment,
envy,
division, exclusion . . .
inevitably
creating its opposite;
setting up
the incessant battle within.
All because
we have strayed
from the
original mandate; abandoned God
as constant
Companion, inner arbiter and guide,
creating
instead our own world
from the
remnants of the Way,
striving
without wisdom, purity or strength
to live by
(and constantly failing) our own rules.
O child of
God, the Way, the Truth and the Life
is the lost
inheritance of each soul.
An ocean away
I’ve been to India many
times.
I’ve never felt at ease
there.
It’s the oppressive,
ubiquitous unfamiliarity –
ever a stranger in a
foreign milieu,
an ocean away from
home. These days,
holed up in my hometown,
homestead,
habitat, my own planet
and (gross) plane,
I’m also ever slightly
ill-at-ease,
every familiar thing now
drenched
in a foreign light, heard
in a disquieting way,
smelt and tasted seasoned
with dust and ash.
Ill-at-ease in my own
skin, my head and heart.
I’ve listened to You and
told myself
so many times I’ve come
to believe it
beyond any intentional,
intellectual concept,
down to my very bones –
this world is not my
home.
This world is not my
home.
O child of God, don't
rest until you
get back to where you
started.
(photo by Debbie Finch)
The heart of the circle
Born into a realm where a childish heart
is soon crushed as a matter of course,
sewn up and packed back down
to function brokenly in the name of wisdom,
You’ve come again to sever the sewing
for each of us and let it bleed.
To accomplish, if not the restitution of innocence,
the hearkening of each heart back to its beginnings.
Our minds reject such an intrusion,
busying themselves with worldly affairs,
opting for fear over pain,
insularity over vulnerability
while hearts, in ones You have directly touched,
begin a slow, planetary revolution
toward and around You – the center of existence,
the unbroken heart of the circle.
O child of God, the mind gives way to worry
and the heart bears thus much needless woe.
A clockwork arrangement
Silent seem the stars in their vigil,
no one near enough to hear their earnest roaring.
The moon shows its face, a clockwork arrangement
of shadow and light – mute testimony
of our estrangement and God’s abiding faithfulness.
It is He Who has sent Himself on this journey, apparently,
gathering and guiding Himself toward home.
Infinite and solitary by nature and definition,
there’s no room anywhere for anyone else.
No self means no other.
No child but the Father.
O child of God, sometimes
all you can do is hold the pen.
(photo by Petra Fischer)
