Pearls from Tears

I remember well my fascination with oysters – rather unattractive on the outside, very rough around the edges. Yet, inside, lay a much sought-after jewel, the pearl. When later I learned that the pearl is the by-product of an irritant entering its sensitive insides, I understood why the oyster so resonated with me. This was me, my life: nothing particularly compelling on the outside – by typical standards – but inside, my heart and my mind, utterly extra-ordinary, beautiful, invaluable and unforgettable. 

To this day, I draw my sense of self-worth and place from what lies beneath my skin, that which cannot be seen or felt by most. Alas, residing in a world where the outward appearance is a major determinant of one’s currency and where the attention span continues to rapidly decrease, what place is there for the pearls that lie within? Will anyone pay attention? Does anyone care?

For us, the human oysters, the world’s daily dismissal serves as the irritant; our tears, fodder for the formation of precious pearls. They pile up, the pearls, on our delicate insides, yearning to be seen, worn, to adorn. They were not meant to be stowed away, these iridescent fruits of vulnerability, discomfort and despair. No, they are gifts to be brought to the Light and shared.

And so, with lips quivering, hands trembling and hearts pounding, we take a tentative step, and then another; we open our mouths to speak, softly at first; we pick up our pens and write, allow the pearls to flow out, and then quickly hit send.

Some of what we offer will fall on fertile hearts and minds and be valued; most will be discarded or just plain ignored. No matter. The response is not our responsibility; we are tasked only to release.

A-sexual

A-sexual,
this is what
it can feel like
to be menopausal.

What use to be 
exquisitely
sensitive 
has deadened.
no amount of 
stimulation
will it 
reawaken.

not one for
medication,
I bide my time
with 
meditation.
Such is Life:
The Lord giveth
and He taketh
away and then
returneth
another day,
as per
His Way.

An Untold Story

buried deep
inside,
a part of self
wishing only
to hide,
preferring to
“live”
a lie.
how to see
it
let alone speak
it
that,
which altered
a Life.
innocence
forever lost,
a new trajectory
is now forced.

but not
without
a heavy cost.

one can only run
from The Truth
but so far
before it
festers and scars.
An untold story
will travel from life to life,
causing all matters
of angst and strife
until it is
revealed,
brought
finally
to the Light.

 

The Wave

i must see myself

as part of The Wave,

not some outlier to be saved

from this swarm of humanity

and its seeming insanity.

to most every body,

this frenzied activity

is really quite ordinary.

though, not to me

a Soul that craves

tranquility;

the one that runs from the grind,

just trying to find

much less human density.

must do so quickly,

lest risk immediate psychic misery.

“Oh Lord, help me to perceive differently,”

i pray, so that i may longer stay

in the place where i am free,

not enslaved by a trickster ego

playing devious jokes on me!

Give it Away!

Give It away!

For It does not belong to you.

You are but the vessel It flows through.

It chooses you, coming seemingly

out of the blue

to awaken and amuse.

“Give Me away!”

It begs.

I was not meant to remain hidden in your head,

dormant, because you are afraid.

I come from a place that is nothing but pure.

Hence, no need for you to be insecure.”

Yield Your Fruit

Yield

your

Fruit,

just give it all away-

that which you came

here

to do,

to say.

Don that suit

with only your name on it.

Bring that song

you were crafted to sing.

Return to the dust

from whence you came

emptied

-with absolutely

no thing

left within.

Go home utterly spent-

’tis the only way

to live a life content.

Fated

it comes relatively easily,

that which is fated.

the steps run smoothly

as if actions in an incredulous movie!

one feels as if riding a powerful wave

toward that thing God long ago named;

this place He slated

for you alone,

to grow, to blossom, to come into your own.

“this is your path, walk in it,” He declares.

“trust me. do not let your heart be troubled nor scared.”

not all in this life need be a struggle,

an interminable inner fight

to discern where one belongs,

which way is right.

indeed, sometimes a boulder is thrown –

the Universe knowing better

than to reach you with a mere quiet stone.

Urgent, desperate prayers come up constantly to the sky:

“help me!” they all cry.

God cannot do for us

what He cannot do through us.

that we are each other’s keeper –

a remembrance that is sacred, an absolute must.

The call for help

is responded to

by an ever-evolving self

that consciously

with a sense of deep conviction

and moral responsibility

relays relentlessly:

“here I am, Lord, please use me.”

This surrender,

ego placed out of the way,

then renders

the necessary space

for one’s fate

to perfectly navigate.

 

 

 

 

Memories of the Child

Memories of Me as Child

very rarely

feature

prominently

in my mind.

Sometimes,

a memory

will come

spurred by that

of another One.

Such was the case

recently

when the memory of

a beating came to me.

Perhaps, the worst ever

by my parents

wrought,

the result of me following

my child heart.

An adventuress,

I have always been

from deep within,

yearning to explore my world,

for real life to unfurl.

Such was the case when

at ten years old,

I did something very bold,

against which I’d been sternly told.

I visited the home of a classmate,

Molly was her name.

She had dark hair,

freckles and such seductive flare!

Molly lived in the biggest house I’d ever seen,

just down the road from my apartment building.

Four stories, it stood,

dignified and handsome –

in sharp contrast to the rest of the ‘hood.

Intrigued, curious, in love, I was.

Hence, how could I have declined

Molly’s invitation to come inside?!

Adventure called,

I could not it stall!

A blissful afternoon I spent

while my parents wondered

where their child went.

Alas, all good things must come to an end;

my parents found me at my friend’s.

That evening, I learned

there is a price for authenticity,

that its sweet pleasure is earned.

Fear and anger were unleashed

with every swish

my father’s belt

on my young skin

released.

Though, the physical wounds have since healed,

the memory is sealed,

seared forever into my Soul.

There to one day be told.

Not a story of pity, no!

Rather one of victory

and great resiliency.

For you see,

I am still me

filled with the same boundless curiosity,

in love with Life immensely.

Always will I be,

no matter the external story.

 

Sculpture: First Portrait of Roma of Barbados, 1932, Jacob Epstein

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Light in The World

What does it take

to be A Light in the World,

to accept the sacred invitation

to truly make flesh The Word?

A sprawling, often lonely,

task

that will inevitably

ask

the removal of all human

masks.

There’s no hiding,

only faithfully abiding;

Seeing the world

differently;

expanding consciousness to foreign

possibilities,

such as loving all brothers

unconditionally.

One will need to forgive,

to always relieve grievances.

No space for judgment and blame,

for pettiness and thoughts criminally insane.

Only the remembrance that we are all

fundamentally

the same.

A formidable call

to be A Light in The World,

to sow seeds of peace

in the Minds of the All.

Not for the faint-hearted, this role.

Indeed, many flounder and fall,

the ones who think themselves insignificant

and very small,

who know not how

to stand erect and tall.

Much is given to A Light in the World.

This path, once chosen,

one does not walk alone.

Vision, wisdom and extraordinary might,

all bequeathed to A Light,

all needed to keep up the human fight

that rages

within and without

day and night.

A Light

ultimately

returns home, to Love

remembers its function

is guided

only

by things holy and Above.