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| here comes salvation. my gosh, how lovely it is. especially when the scandal is at its most gluttonous, how lovely salvation is.
and i did nothing to usher it. there was nothing i could have done to hurry salvation. i asked and i waited, and here it comes.
the enemy cannot harm me.
there is always forgiveness of sin...
sin has no power over me. i am forgiven. | | |
| there is a monster inside of me, and on weekdays, it asks for chocolate pies and ice cream sundaes. our oven is broken, and i couldnt bake cookies today-- the cheap kind from longs that wouldnt have taken long to make. monsters don't know how to wait. i'm not going to punish myself for today. or for this past week's addiction. the monster is not me, and in my trying to get rid of it, the process is messy. if you are willing, the leper said to jesus, you can make me clean. "i am willing," jesus replied. "be clean." and the leprosy fled. i must believe that i am clean. that what i see is not what i am. and when all i see is sickness and exhaustion, i rest my eyes a bit and look beyond what i know, the construction and physicality of every day things. and i choose to believe.
that nothingness protuding especially on weekends is scary. though i need the rest on weekends, i dont know how to with that nothingness monstering. paul tillich says that faith is not so much a hope in magical things, like christmas presents and birthday wishes, but a willingness to despair, to KNOW with a fierce certainty that in our most despairing moments, our most unacceptable moments, we are accepted, loved, and without blemish.
i'm going to wear something pretty tomorrow. though my stomach swells and the pants that had been way-too-big is now taut, i will wear an outfit white and fresh tomorrow, and be beautiful. for i have been cleansed.
not yet...but, ALREADY! | | |
| advent, 2007.when you died, rain broke. autumn colored pink
the dogwood trees, and i died with you. don’t
delay yourself, your vowed parousia, it
is mine as well. my name is israel.
remember me when you let your hair fall
like wool from sheep, your hair: as white as snow,
as naaman’s leprosy, as rilke’s poems
which angela recites till tea leaves dry
till tears dry. dry the rain that broke the day
you died. deluge our many husbands— five,
to be exact; our bleeding and our scabs.
when heaven comes to earth and eden comes
again, a cello’s bow and seven stars
in your right hand: an incarnate, a name. | | |
| she's had the most horrific life. yet, on paper, the written horrors fall so beautifully in place. peg davis hobbles about with a bad hip and the entering in of her father when she was barely two. are tragedies necessary in good art-making? does poetry depend on incests and hate, disease and rape, or fractured hip bones...
does poetry require a broken heart?
(and i don't mean art as a technique, but good art: as in a relationship. a shared story. a feeling, a brush stroke true of its color, art as in one of pastor eugene's songs... $1.99 novels from cvs, perhaps.)
what is this codependent relationship between beautiful things and sad, sad people?? it's kind of sick, no? | | |
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