Life Is But A Dreamy Poem

Today is my 108th posting!!!!  Supposedly the significance of one hundred eight is infinitely deep and auspicious as hell… but I don’t know why.  All I know is that there are 108 beads on my mala and when it is 1:08 o’clock, my bones tickle like stimulated wind chimes.

Now on to the revelatory news!  Yesterday, poetry saved my life!  Am I talking literally, figuratively or something in between?  I breathe into this question, as the answer is an ambiguous, spectral reflection, messily smearing all possibilities. Here’s what I DO know… I have been unintentionally poisoning myself by withholding love from Mykael (and others too of course, but Mykael is right up in my face, so it’s harder to feign denial).  I have been choking to death on judgments, disappointment, uncertainty and confusion.  All the while putting off loving him until I feel assured of his worthiness (my worthiness in reality, I suppose, but it’s easier to evade responsibility and point dirty, wretched fingers at the overt guilt latent in others…)  Yesterday morning he wanted to pleasure me and I wasn’t having it.  There was too much shit on my mirror and I had no desire to open myself to him.  Actually, I DID have desire… but there was too much in the way.  It was one of those pivotal moments where the choice between love and fear was screaming from within me, demanding that I step clearly to one side of the imaginary though very real line or the other.  I wanted to be enlightened.  I wanted to be great and free and alive for Love… And yet I DIDN’T.  I refused to share myself with him, and instead I cried long, hard, dramatic sobs…

… and punched myself repeatedly in the heart.  I do that every twice in a blue moon.  I’m sort of embarrassed about it… but more curious and fascinated. I mostly would’ve thought I’d be “above” that kind of self effacement.  I do it when my emotional pain becomes so thick and unbearable.  Somehow, feeling the physical sensations in my chest is a step up from this ambiguous, excruciating ache that occasionally lits down upon me.  So yesterday, just when I was sure there was no escape from myself… I tripped over a poem I had banged out on my typewriter some time ago.  I picked it up off the floor and read it.  It went like this:

Light and shadow

light and shadow smeared lovingly

Paint made to look

like wildness and danger

made to look

like lives made

made of fur and fangs.

another line, another typo

another potato chip

as I wait for Grace to slip

into these abandoned cracks

in a garden variety mind…

or is it?

ahem.  Wolves.

wolvesWolves sloshed in

thick paint

wandering frozen

not forever

but for a long time.

and my chips are



Ladies and Gentlemen:  this free-wheeling, rambling parable will return after a short-winded word from our sponsor…

Sneezing:  Witnessing a sneeze is a lofty, covert blessing from All Pervading OMgasm.  When someone near you sneezes, it is God saying, “Yo, so-and-so, wicky-wake-UP!  Your sole (soul) function here on earth is to Bless and be Blessed.  Through my All Pervading Grace, I am offering you an opportunity to bless this unique and wholly holy facet of Love!”   What could be better?!  Next time someone sneezes, revel in the divine opportunity to Bless and therefore be Blessed!  And now back to our previously programmed offertory.

I read this poem… and something moved inside me.  Not because it was a particularly phenomenal poem… What was it?  I got plugged back in to a state of remembrance.  Remembrance that Life is but a poem.  I often get caught up in this slippery mind fuck of a “perfection” that is other than what simply IS in any given steaming slice of present moment pie.  I can be one lofty bitch.  My Sainthood is as green and sour as any new born apple at times.  And instead of loving that, and resting into the seat of ever-present peace and infinite patience for the holy ride (which is a bajillion lifetimes long and simultaneously over a blink before it begins), I become intolerant of my shadows and my weakness.  Reading this poem, I remembered that Life truly IS but a dreamy poem.  And the best poetry twists and dips, thrills and spills on a regular basis, spanning all possible chasms, like any respectable rollercoaster ride.

Magic!  Literally in the space between the snap of two average fingers I was free again and in love with this mystic and bound hallucination of Me-ness!  I woke up to the purpose of my gift.  Weaving Being and Life and clumsy selfhood into poetry is healing.  Freeing.  Revealing.  Reminiscent of the princess in Rumplestitskin who spun mundane-assed STRAW into Holy GOLD.   Now I bring my typewriter everywhere, because you never know when God will send me One in need of sacred linguistic weaving of life and soul, irreverence and remembrance.

Now let’s double back to the calamity of me withholding my Love.  I believe that the withholding of Love is the only true cause of fatal diseases such as cancer, and heart attacks and all those shadow and fear stricken myths of brutal demise.  I can’t stand it.  I don’t honestly know if I’ll marry Mykael and have his baby and walk by his side until we die…but that’s no reason not to see the potentially blinding All Pervading Light in this Holy Man who sleeps in the bedroom next to mine.  Withholding Love is a fate worse than death.  It is a slow, cruel torture in the same vein as solitary confinement or being burned alive.  My dear friend Dara has been a very potent and useful mirror and reminder for me of the urgent call to return time and again to the hallowed G word.

Gratitude.  So this morning, I woke up still searing on the grill of my own closure and I prayed to All Pervading Wonder Woman.  I prayed She help me see things differently.  Then I opened my Divine Intuition book to read the next chapter.  Guess what it was about?  Yup, gratitude!  I realized as difficult as it might be to penetrate the seal on my psycho-emotional habits, I must return to gratitude, again and again and again and again and…  So I made a list of all that I am grateful to Mykael for.  Immediately, I found a ton of stuff.  Before too long, my heart was an oceanic frenzy of epic waves of Love and free-wheeling sea foam.  Writing it, it sounds too good to be true… I hear my inner Scrooge crossing his saggy arms and saying “Bah humbug, Athena.  You must be smokin’ some fine crack over there in your phone booth sized cubical.”  Nope.  I’m not.  I’m actually quite sober, and I’m here to tell you that it’s easier to return to Love than the frumpy, clumsy, jagged ego would have you believe.  I was so inspired after I made my gratitude list, that I flung myself out of bed and packed him a nourishing Tupperware full of lunch for his big day at “obligation” (that’s his newly coined term for work).  Then, instead of anonymously tiptoeing out the door, I smothered him with kisses first.

My life may feel like a colossal milk spill right now, worthy of at least as many spilled tears… but I’m choosing to see the kinks as blessed moment to moment invitations to return to Love.  Always.  All ways.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Rosy Moon
    Jun 30, 2010 @ 22:36:28

    Amen, indeed Holy, All Pervading Wonder Woman!!!
    I love your language.
    Love the poem (fur and fangs). There’s some gold in that one, I bet you could mine it for more.
    I had a thought that I wanted to transmit, other than my unabashed appreciation of you and what you let spill on the (proverbial) page, but I’m so tired that it has slipped away.
    Blessings and much gratitude to you.

    Moon xxxxxxxxxx


  2. spirit2go
    Jun 30, 2010 @ 23:02:35

    (also from Scrooge,) HURRRR—-RAHHHHHH !!


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