WANTING TO BE REAL

Doors are 

so easily 

made into 

metaphors.

But for 

the Buddhist 

on Death Row

a door’s 

an idea

wanting

to be real,

to be taken 

in hand, held –

the knob, the handle –

and pushed 

or pulled

with the strength,

weight and will 

that’s one’s own.

Give this man 

an actual door

to open

and he will cross

a threshold

neither his meditating 

mind nor jailer

could deliver him to:

the simple freedom 

of fending 

for himself.

BEYOND A QUARREL AND A COMPROMISE*

Opposites don’t

have to collide 

as contradictions.

Paradox

would have us

blend and transpose 

them into 

each other

like overlapping 

circles

to create 

a new thing

a third thing:

a space 

between

that is shared

as a harmony

a unity 

a dignity

a worth 

wholly and holy 

combined.

*From Robert A. Johnson’s, Owing Your Own Shadow

THE PARABLE THAT COULDN’T*

I wanted it to lift me up

and out of my pain.

To free me of my suffering.

But it couldn’t.

It didn’t have the hydraulics

I believed it needed

to do the job

the way 

I thought it 

should be done.

It took a different approach,

by showing me 

I was not 

alone.

By showing me

we all carry

 

grief and loss

in our bodies 

like a weight 

we can’t shake.

By showing me we

are the mustard seed 

we are seeking.

We are the missing

ingredient our neighbors

can’t give us.

Only when we put down

the need to be lifted 

does everything 

get lighter.

Do our hearts 

get less heavy.

Do we rise.

Do we become 

the parable

freed 

of its pages

and binding,

that then simply  

floats away  

on the invisible 

wings of grace.

*To learn more about the parable of the mustard seed, click on the link. 

THE CONFIRMATION

When the gauze was lifted
from the nondescript wound

above my mother’s lip
the surgeon 

had been working on 
all day, the imprint

left there

in no way 

 

resembled the shape 

of the open sore

it came from. Instead

it looked every bit 

like a tiny heart,

which was confirmation 

enough for me,

that every wound

was really a gift 

and a blessing in disguise.

ORANGE UMBRELLAS*

Dead Portuguese poets

and orange umbrellas...

were lost to me

when the rains came.

The tour left without me

because I was too busy 

not paying attention

to the experience

I came for. 

A sodden map in hand,

drenched to the bone,

I cried until I laughed

and heard a voice say:

There’s nothing

 wrong with you. 

You are human.

Welcome to humanity.

And then remembered,

it was Pessoa who said: 

Ships among tempests 

and not a one 

has sailed to a port 

that has not known 

its share of suffering.

*Inspired by Susan Cain's, Bitter-sweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole

 

UNDER A FULL MOON

It is said that master violin maker, 

Stradivari, centuries ago, on each full moon, 

went to the Dolomites, to a magic forest, 

to lay his head against the spruce trunks. 

To listen.

This was how he found the wood 

for his famous instruments.

I long for my truth to be heard 

this way, under a full moon – or even

during a downpour.

I long for a listening that leans 

into me, that hears the deep tones 

of my elusive song, moon or no moon.

I long for my music to find its way into

the soul of a Beloved, like Rumi's did.

This partnership will be the instrument 

that brings me back home and into 

the deep grain of the self.

NECTARINES 

It stood there 

in my backyard 

among the other trees

so unassuming,

aloof nearly,

its secret safely 

cloaked in the silence 

of its green leaves,

like a dream

in sleep.

For a year it kept 

its secret silent 

and unseen,

and then yesterday

it let one of its hidden

treasures, that had grown,

it seemed, overnight,

fall to the ground:

a nectarine. At first glance 

I thought it was an apple

from the my neighbor’s yard.

But all that changed

when I knelt down 

and put my hand on it

and felt its softness, its ripeness.

This was no forbidden fruit.

On one knee 

I looked up 

to see among my

tree’s branches

more orbed ornaments, 

the sensual contours 

and colors 

in full bloom,

dangling there, 

waiting to be plucked

as if to say, 

Surprise, surprise.

This is who I am.

No more secrets.

I promise. Humans 

do this too: We take

our sweet time

before pulling back 

the curtain 

of the self,

before saying 

Here I am.

I am ready for you

to see me,

I am ready to trust,

to share my fruit

with you. Safety 

is a garden

whose plenty 

can’t be rushed.