You have made me fall in love with you,
At my request,
And now my days and nights are spent starving, bleeding, weeping for you,
Hollow, emptied out with longing, flesh clinging to disintegrating bone,
While I resist giving in to the terms I think you offer and that I am mistaken about.
You have given me this silence, this blessed emptiness going right up to the roof,
This crowded silence,
Thick with the souls of the waiting,
Longing for my surrender to what they don’t yet know.
You play your music for me,
And I feel my way from note to note,
Striving to find the silence within each
Where you conceal yourself, waiting for me while you play.
Day by day, I wait,
Irresolute with longing,
Thinking there is something I must do to be worthy,
Bleeding from these open wounds that do not heal. – Amidha Porter
(I used to have a friend named Charlie Hopkins, who made it clear that no poem of his was ever finished. I think he was probably right.)
I think some angels are sad
Because they make it their business
to hold the tears God weeps
when He fears that He has gone too far
but knows no way back.
of having created that Vow
in Pre-eternity. . .
What if . . .
What if, what if, what if
Even He doesn’t know,
And She can’t contain . . .
Has the River Styx become too wide?
Are its banks overflowing and washing away the Innocents on either side?
Or will the Vow hold true?
Will all come right, at least until the next time?
Does Heaven know?
– Amidha Porter
Even a rabbit knows to take refuge in the Buddha. Perhaps all is not lost.
My Lord, you have heard the cry of my heart, because it was You Who cried out within my heart. – Thomas Merton
“It is plain that a life which includes deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness. To the precise extent that we permit these, do we squander the hours that might have been worth while. But with the alcoholic, whose hope is the maintenance and growth of a spiritual experience, this business of resentment is infinitely grave. We found that it is fatal. For when harboring such feelings we shut ourselves off from the sunlight of the Spirit. The insanity of alcohol returns and we drink again. And with us, to drink is to die. If we were to live, we had to be free of anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us. They may be the dubious luxury of normal men, but for alcoholics these things are poison.” – Wilson, Bill. Alcoholics Anonymous
Recently I have noticed that I have been putting my holy books aside and entertaining myself with the trivial. I have kept my music with me, but I have not listened to the sublime, but only the heartfelt. I have seldom taken time for the silence of union, despite the fact that all my joy and health are in THIS.
In other words, I have been letting myself go increasingly unconscious. I have marveled that I am feeling “okay,” and have not been willing to notice the pain that becomes physical as the deep emotional body is ignored.
In other words, I have been “okay.”
Addiction has been a major theme of my life. Bill says it above: “to drink is to die.” May I just say, here, that drinking is not the issue in my life, but it doesn’t matter, for it might as well be: I am an addict, and this mechanism of shutting oneself off from one’s true being by the use of whatever substance–or emotion–or behavior–whatever–is to die of a longing that can never be fulfilled. I wonder if I am addicted to resentment. I have been feeling a lot of resentment recently: “they done me wrong!” “Oh, it really doesn’t matter.” But it does.
I have been pushing this resentment aside, because I am too “mature,” too “wise” to need to pay attention to the way I am letting toxic emotion eat away at the edges of my life. Me? Surely not: I am past that kind of thing.
And so I again flop about on the shores of the abode of my God, gasping like a dying fish, too proud to make my way back into that Ocean and Live.
THIS WILL NOT DO. Why should I die? It is certainly not time.
God weeps from these depths, sobbing in sorrow for this one who chooses starvation over feasting.
Piously we produce our images of you
till they stand around you like a thousand walls.
And when our hearts would simply open,
our fervent hands hide you.
Barrows, Anita. Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God.
In blind determination, I make my way back down the shoreline and into the waves. I will not let him do this to me.
I just had to share this: in these times that seem so dark, in the midst of the birth pangs of a new age, a little joy:
He still looks like a choirboy!