Waiting

An adaptation from Mexico

She and he were meant to be.

And were kept apart for 

Unjust Reasons. He stayed

Nearby, because of a promise made,

but not far enough.

She fed his legacy

Because it was also hers. 

But not.

When that life was

Taken,

She went into a deep depression,

And was away for a while.

Eventually she came

back, though she'd gotten close to staying. 

She had learned

about Light, and matches, that if they are made with silver nitrate and a human

Consumed them,

They would combust and all would be still.

They were reunited,

Because circumstances changed, 

And they reignited, 

But did not consummate. 

Or they did.

Not important.

Because of Another promise, they were still officially hidden, 

Till finally and with great fanfare that promise was fulfilled, and

They joyfully joined

Hands.

The skins were less supple, and though they tried to be slow,

His heart gave

Out too much.

She alone again, ate

All the matches she could find,

and reached out. 

Cycle

I have been writing a lot, but not here.

It took me a long time to come to terms with the reality that things are always changing, and that a routine that works for a while might not work forever.  And that by following one's feel good one does the most good possible.

It is disappointing if one still feels the need for that grip, to let it go. This is a great lesson of jiu-jitsu.

Today was a day back, it felt like, a fall beginning. Rosh Hashanah has always felt like an appropriate time to start the book again, and we had a great celebration. I even got to do an impromptu renewal ceremony with my friends who dance. I wrote this poem:

I am sorry
                  I was afraid
                                  I will
                  I am

                Enough.


And then I wrapped it in silver paper and a pink string and lit it on fire and skipped it down Nashoba Brook.  And today I read about how when Buddhist monks finish those beautiful sandpainting mandalas they brush all the sand together and let it loose in running water, so that the blessing might be shared.  And I read a story in my book about India yesterday about how Hinduism (where mandalas probably originated) is the most likely candidate for universal religion, because it accepts everything and all gods.

I am not sure yet how this all relates.

But.

I took this picture on Labor Day, traditionally summer's last day, with my mother and my daughter and some friends, and it reminded me that for a beginning to be there must be an end. Chaos is the shadow of purity, pointing toward practice.

 

I am going as slowly as I can, paying attention.