“Worry does not empty tomorrow of sorrow — it empties today of strength.” -Corrie ten Boom
They neither work nor spin nor weave, yet wear designer clothing finer than a king’s. The bird that neither plants nor harvests brings its babies grain to eat. It can’t prepare a portion for the cupboard — only share its fortune daily, freely. All these things are offered for the taking with no strings attached except to trust His loving care.
Then what’s so hard to understand about the message? Did I think the earth would spin completely off its axis if, today, I called a moratorium on doubt that dances on my foot? There’s peace within the heart that lets One lead who knows the way.
Corrie ten Boom was the author of The Hiding Place, published in 1974, a true story of her and her Dutch family’s experiences in harboring Jewish people at risk in the Holocaust at the expense of their own imprisonment in a Nazi concentration camp during World War II.
“Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do.” -Major Tom (David Bowie)
Return with me to Nineteen-Sixty-Nine when universal dreams were fresh and new. The race was on; all bets were off on who would lead the way across the finish line as Russia surged ahead in the design of Sputnik, spurring U.S. efforts through the decade stepping up to mount a crew— one man’s small step, a leap for all mankind.*
With science and humanity positioned in love from Ground Control to Major Tom and David Bowie looking like a geek,** how hopefully the waiting world envisioned a brighter color in the days to come beyond this evanescent moody streak.
“There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” – Albert Einstein
When stardust, quarks, and mystery combine to make a human, nothing can compare to possibilities. Some say beware of ultimate betrayal to confine the breath of life where tangled roots entwine with evolution. I can only stare in utter wonder, blinded by the glare of dazzling supernatural design.
For wedged between the elemental ash and sentient entity, surprises lurk in hidden crevices of every hue across the spectral plane, and in a flash all heaven is exposed. It’s but a quirk the miracle of promise can renew.
For those who think America’s history began with the arrival of white settlers. “After 75 years of obscurity following his death, Smith was rediscovered as the American whose explorations led to the use of the 20-mile (32 km)-wide South Pass as the dominant point of crossing the Continental Divide for pioneers on the Oregon Trail.”
“Are you a cul-de-sac or a channel?” – Nancy Woods
A home is offered on a cul-de-sac located at the bottom of a hill. The carpet, furniture, and bric-a-brac would be at risk in heavy rainfall; still, it seems a pleasant place to live. I’m told the problem’s not the overwhelming type, since rising water’s easily controlled by channeling. The groundwork’s laid, each pipe is needed in its place as, drop by drop, the depths are filled to bring one thirsty plant a crucial chance to flourish. Dammed up top, however, they won’t hold a trickle. (Can’t.)
Imagine a supreme communal force with every channel flowing from its source.
“Darkness will be preferred to light, and death will be thought more profitable than life; no one will raise his eyes to heaven; the pious will be deemed insane, and the impious wise; the madman will be thought a brave man, and the wicked will be esteemed as good.” -The Prophecy of Thoth
There will come a time, the ancients said, when Planet Earth is severed from the Spirit. As mystics strive to reconnect the thread with sacred speech, the people will not hear it.
Redemption must go deeper than the words to overthrow the pattern of stagnation in human consciousness that undergirds our currents of decline in co-creation.
For only when the willingness of one and all anothers unified by reason to forge ahead together has begun will heaven manifest its winning season.
And each alone can activate the glue that binds us to the cosmic retinue.
Before she’s drawn a second breath or viewed her mother’s face, a newborn seeks the breast. No special training’s needed, there’s no test for measuring a baby’s aptitude or mother’s love. The cycle is renewed as fed becomes the feeder, doubly blessed with strength. Instinctively, we all ingest the substance packed in life-sustaining food.
So why should care and feeding of the soul be shrouded in enigma? Through the worst imponderable doubts, our Living Guide extends a standing offer: “Here’s a bowl of hearty stew for free.” And with a burst of sight, the inner cynic’s pacified.
A brain cannot absorb more than its mass. I tell myself it helps to let it drain in seeking to achieve a higher plane. How often, wearing blinders, do we pass the Buddha Image in a blade of grass or shun the light beyond the windowpane for fear its pull will render us insane? My will is steel, my spirit tempered glass.
Yet there are times the mind will not be barred from grappling with enigma. Nonchalance won’t turn the key to wisdom or prepare the soul for nourishment. Without regard for tethered cognizance, my psyche wants to conquer obfuscation in the air.
The mistress cracks a psychic whip, and he, a blinder-fitted plodding workhorse bound by honor, hopes to find a patch of ground that won’t give way beneath his hoof. To be or not to be, his sole identity derives from someone leading him around in circles, heaping judgment pound for pound with unequivocating certainty.
He’d never think of putting up a fight, for every time he jumps, she lifts the bar to keep his motivation locked up tight, convinced that it can never venture far from her own brand of patent black-and-white philosophy, “I think, therefore you are.”
Adaptable, dependable, designed explicitly to fill a threaded slot, you serve, content to be yourself. You’re not a bolt, but when some nut gets in a bind, you’ll spiral in if qualified. Maligned and snickered-at behind your back? So what? Opinions turn you neither cold nor hot — that’s not the way your character’s defined.
For whether long or short or fat or thin, or backing out or boldly pressing through, the key is in the willingness to spin according to the job one’s called to do. Humanity could learn a lesson in the perseverance of a lowly screw.
“Somewhere in the cosmos, perhaps, intelligent life may be watching these lights of ours aware of what they mean… or do our lights wander a lifeless cosmos, unseen beacons announcing that here on our rock, the universe discovered its existence?” – Stephen Hawking
The mental giant in a metal chair resided in a multi-layered sphere beyond our grasp, as we who simply stare into the heavens, wondering if here is all there is. He brought the world a gift enfolded in a cryptic paradigm, unwrapped in subtle stages for a shift in scientific thought on space and time.
The message of the multiverse is veiled in gossamer and lace, with calico and pleated velvet drapes that have assailed our curiosity, but this I know: Illusion born of suffering absconds when consciousness is freed from mortal bonds.
Your melody’s transporting me away to sunrise in a candy-coated land where no one suffers at another’s hand. You offer me serenity to stay. I’m tethered to the protoplasmic clay you fashioned from the void. I’ve always planned to hitch a ride back home. You understand my murmurings in spite of what I pray.
But I’ll decline the invitation while my fellow travelers are left to grieve, for who would sing these lyrics if I leave? I’ve given them the only things I had to share, a simple sonnet and a smile. I’ll catch you on the flipflop. Don’t be sad.
If you can set your biases aside to champion what’s compassionate and just, and value every member of your tribe as if you’d given birth to each of us; awakening to true community, not rushing into battle unprepared, but seeking out a path to unity when sleepers’ predatory fangs are bared, and forging through the darkness to the source of light, replenishing your spirit when the mantle sags, thus modeling the course of energy infused with wisdom, then…
I’ll follow you with every nerve and bone to places I’m afraid to go alone.
Atop a ladder, Jack, with hair askew and frownful countenance, leaned in to fend away resistance. Wrestling with the wind to hang the Christmas baubles, temper too acquired momentum. As his banner flew, three letters pirouetted out to bend around his backside, shining end to end. A passer quipped, “Does JOY live there with you?”
I wonder, does it show that she has earned a front-room space with me? A cozy bed among the other beds, a comfy chair, a plate — so little asked, so much returned. In peaceful co-existence, Anger, Dread and Sorrow hold their tongues when Joy is there.
“Don’t tear that statue down! It represents my heritage.” The Civil War still rages. Although it ended, losers ever since have sabotaged the bleak and bloody pages of history. The altered facts we swallowed have been exposed to light and judged a ruse to whitewash the atrocities that followed.
The symbols we so carelessly confuse with patriotic zeal across the board from founding days are neither right nor good — they’re remnants of a past to be abhorred by those “endowed” with three-fifths personhood.
And liberty is just an empty word until each citizen is seen and heard.
This was my part of a collaboration with my friend Bill Keller, in which we were challenged to take opposing sides of an issue but write as one voice. We decided on altruism, and he graciously took the con side with a reverse Shakespearean sonnet in response. Our joint effort, entitled “Give and Take”, won second place in the contest.
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