The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know… It was a bitch to get moving this morning because a million speckled memories of past mistakes, regrets, sad hours, memories held me to the bed as I tried to wake up.
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know… the effort it took to “put on my face” and spike up my hair, searching every kitchen drawer for a smile to wear and looking in each closet to find the twinkle missing from my eyes.
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know… I’m swimming around buoys and running down rabbits in the field in my mind most days trying to find the course syllabus for life at 53 after the end of a 20 year marriage & a million lost dreams that danced a jig out the door with the X.
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know any of this as he leans out the window awed and thrilled by the sexy black Audi holding a smiling blonde, purse dog riding shotgun, and asks in excited tones:
“Are you the Cool Grandma or the Cool Aunt?” I’m the Cool Grandma I say …. Grateful that the word Cool is still in style.
The Words are only
for the truth emotion energy
hieroglyphs forms symbols
they never truly say
this artifice of speaking
for the internal aspect
of human divine knowing truth
mute words can’t speak
these mute donkeys that plod
the garden of living
is not possible
the words do
the best they can
and I find
the one place
where honesty shows up
in mystical magic
the words speak
any of the words
I bled for you
We talk over the old bones of the past,
The way people sitting beside a campfire
Take a stick and poke the dying embers of flame
Licking the last log-remnants
Burning in the night air of endings.
We sigh over how it makes sense now
The scenarios once locking us all in blindness
Show themselves clear and sparkling
As light dancing on water
Their jagged-edged episodes
Blistering clear in the light of passed time.
It is how a mother and daughter pick through the past
Of a husband, father, grandfather – his absence
Like a leaf we hand back and forth
Turning it over and over again
Examining its veins and edges and discolorations —
As if this examining will somehow tell us
What made it turn loose and drop from the tree.
Walking toward Photography in search of
a How To book that isn’t there — I turn
toward the whispering shelves of poetry–
Hafiz, Billy Collins, Rilke, Rumi, a chorus
calling me to take them home. I do.
A million sparkling lights of hope and
friendship — voices, voices, voices calling
out a hum of knowing, living, being. Yes!
This chorus of light vibration wisdom is
the Holy Ground of libraries and bookstores.
I often tried to explain to friends:
On bad days or during times of sorrow,
I walk into a bookstore and ask God —
Help, give me the words I need to hear.
And He does. And they laugh, Yeah – Right!
And I further tried to explain the science,
the physics of vibration, energy, contraction
Einstein’s universal laws lived out in reality —
but they couldn’t understand my language.
I explored the topic in deep sharing:
Everything is energy and movement — atomic.
Voices in books are the writers Being with
me in conversation, friendship, vision.
The books are just un-bodied people I know.
But, my friends laughed — Yeah, okay! And,
I stopped trying to explain with explaining.
The God of your Soul-Self will come to you
in the way you can know Him, love Him.
He will meet you in the Space between
longing and faith and call you Home.
Each thing carries Him inside it.
Each breath a confirmation.
Each need an answer to Union.
Each cry a step closer to Wholeness.
One — into many — into One.
The spectrum has many colors
but there is only one Light.