The connection with others is electric,

Flowing deeply, charged with energy,

Reaching out to my most outstretched moment,

I can only pine for those I cannot see today,

As I want to reach them so much.

 

And let them know how much I love them.

 

So today, shall I use the logic of reason?

Driven into me in years of study,

Psychology and behavioral science,

All designed to have me do the right thing,

According to the law,

Or to Freud.

 

Now I am going to the fresh air in,

The love of my fellow man,

The thinking which happens in the deep,

Where many don’t want to go.

For fear of some indefensible action.

 

Like thinking with my heart.

 

When sadness reigns,

There is but one place to go.

My refuge awaits,

The Word,

The Sacrament,

The Light.

So now I retreat into a holy place,

Protected yet vulnerable,

It is time to be humble once again,

So the rainstorm of graces will come again,

And the false self is diminished.

Until the battery of my power is full discharged.

And I feel the divine touch me again.

 

The candles are lit in readiness,

For some light to be thrown on our lives,

To show us a way,

The way,

Where we might find true love,

The love which does not reside outside,

But inside.

 

Where the divine rests, waiting to be awakened.

Who decided how flowers should be arranged?

Like a compressed garden for the eyes,

Cuddled up likes lovers on a summers evening,

Co-existing, spraying out the perfect perfume …

 

Harmony.

 

 

So this plant is not perfect,

Has some shedding petals,

Sun damage,

Irritated by insects,

Who are really only doing their job …

And signs of a gangly and unwieldy growth.

 

However, parts of me are still a joy to behold. It gives me hope.

They are all ungone.

It seemed as if they were memories once,

Now magically undone,

And permanantly present,

Removing completely the yesterday.

 

The present has bled into the past,

As a river flooding its banks,

Removing the binding limits of a journey,

Punctuated by hard and soft soil,

And the steepness of a life well led.

 

Now, it seems, they all stand there waiting,

Waiting to hear from me,

How they have impacted my smallest movement,

Somehow missing me,

As I certainly miss them all.

 

Those people I can no longer talk to each day.

For whatever reason.

Burn scars tell a story.

Sometimes of renewal, or learnings, of what is painful in life,

Yet, new skin often emerges,

Breathing life and understanding previously absent.

 

A strange and unexpected gift.

 

The Lonely Veranda electronic

Rising in vibrant streaks,

A rush of color bursts into the room,

Filling it with warmth, light and love.

Suddenly there are no shadows,

Only clarity.

 

And I see with my heart for the first time.