Safely tucked away in my hiding place, the hallway,

I spend the day, dry and protected.

Perhaps she forgot me again,

After all it’s only windy outside.

 

It’s lonely here, separated from her.

 

Letting go of what we do not have may the hardest of all,

For desire fuels both dark and light.

It is both a sword and the wound it inflicts,

Yet appears impossible to drop.

 

The for the mind and the blackness in our heart may hold us stronger than we think,

Even locked up safely, in the hold of innermost thoughts and places;

For this is a dangerous place, where the cargo cannot be seen, but is felt in all the ships movement,

And will keep the ship listing when we take on water, sinking us faster in a storm.

 

Inner peace is not found by searching for what cannot be fulfilled,

But savoring what is already present.

I remember the evening we first met,

You, fresh from the butchers, filled with the aroma of a life just lost,

Now here to give me pleasure and comfort.

Me, surrounded by a smiling family, encouraging our relationship.

 

The bone was my not my first, but you were great.

Cast out by humans, who did not consider you worthy,

But to me you were a prize, a friend, the precious essence of another …

Now embodied in food, extending my personality, something I could hold … it seemed forever.

 

Now, I remember all the bones.

The smaller ones, delicate and easier to crunch, which I eventually consumed.

Large bones, indestructible and awkward to carry were fun;

However, you lasted, and were loaded with the extra reward of marrow for persistence.

 

This bone, neither large or small, given on summer’s eve, was my favorite.

I should bury you. Along with all the other bones.

Don’t dismiss it, relegate it to the place we know does not exist;

The land of forgotten bad memories.

I tried to stuff all those along with the dog that bit me, my first firing, and what I thought was a love lost.

But like a Golden Retriever, my enthusiastic memory just keeps working; putting them to the front of the line again.

 

Forgetfulness is deemed a failing,

A failing of love; a failing to remember;

A failing to please; a failing … except

Those memories we want to erase forever.

 

The memories are not the problem; it is my ability to process them, to understand, to find the love in them,

It’s in there somewhere, hidden in the corner we know as forgiveness.

And there we will find ourselves, and the clue to understanding all.

Standing alone in the corner, the one who awaits all. Love.

 

 

Looking out the window, even though the scene may not be changing,

It somehow encapsulates me. Trapping and drawing me in further into a world I am not even part of;

Or am I?

Observation was perhaps just a first step, in the holy longing of exploring.

 

It never seems to get old, at least for myself,

But my eternal gazing does irritate some;

“What do you see that’s so interesting” others bark, annoyed by the delay now incurred in our progress, “Can’t you get a move on”…

Explanations are trees without fruit, for the reason is beyond the logical of reason, rather firmly resident in a heart.

 

There is something in the vista unfolding around me, and if I listen with my eyes I might hear it.

The secret conversation which bubbles away below the surface, the one which will show me the meaning of the scene,

Or my own motives,

Perhaps my own life.

It could have been any location; a train station, airport or a football stadium.

This happened to be in my local Church in Clinton, MA. Not any “old Church” by any description. Walking through the huge wooden handmade doors you might be mistaken for entering a medieval Christian passion reenactment. The sound of the choir singing Gregorian chant uplifts a soul immediately; each inflection of waves penetrating the heart, changing the spirit and relieving the sharp pain of the winter chill from my cheeks.

Ears now replete with all their needs, my eyes are now bombarded with a festival of beauty, years in the making. Wooden pews glow with years of patina and polishing of praying elbows and listening seats. Overlooked by frescos depicting the passion of the Christ, they follow me down the aisle as I approach the stunning high altar; never demolished by crazy post Vatican II whitewashing designs. Here all remains as it was always supposed to be. Eye candy for the searching soul, overstocked with statues of our favorite Saint, bible scenes all a prequel to finding my own spiritual companion for the journey.

We all know when we have walked through the door which has been held open for so long. A door with patience and warmth and love behind it. Only waiting for us to cross the threshold.

What do see when you look at something? The object or person, the situation surrounding them? Colors or patterns? Is there some meaning in all of this? Why do we tend to reflect on photographs, painting and images, where we might be less lightly for a movie. Does the movie tell is the story and the image requires us to interpret it?

Is the world telling us something about ourselves? Are we an observer or a participant? Who or what else is calling to our heart about an image? Why does abstract art attract us?

No answers just questions to explore on our journey.