I wrote this poem, “Though Your Spirit Be Weary, Begin Again,” in December 2008.
Given the nature of cycles, it is time to present it once more with a few changes.
though your spirit be weary,
how long has it been, this feeling?
the sense of being invisible, incapacitated,
struggling to find home in a world not of your design?
though your spirit be weary,
your deepest desires have not been obliterated,
they simply wait patiently where you left them for safekeeping
and circumnavigated their resting places,
Your gifts are still yours to give!
expanded in radiance and ripening in song.
the old is behind you now,
yes, you are weary of the journey
and have questioned your every step
yes, you have seen through the illusion
and wondered what you could possibly have been thinking
you have resisted love time and again,
fallen under the hypnotic state, somnambulant
marched willingly under the starched banner of consensual reality,
and perhaps while none were watching,
slipped away into your cocoon of becoming.
the chrysalis has served you well:
begin again as a child taking a first hesitant step
begin again with wonderment and unflinching resolve
begin anew even as you have begun anew for eons of existence,
gather up the fragmentary procession of all that has come before this now
scatter your outworn bits and pieces as rose petals line the wedding walk.
then, with hope in your heart
and the promise of all that you know to be yours:
not one utterance has been in vain
not one breath wasted
not one kiss for naught
each and every beat of your shattered heart
has echoed a timeless rhythm of knowing,
a singular sounding of metronomic metanoia —
the lilting of flutes beckons as you wrap yourself
in the sheen of a constant forever…
wait not one moment more:
begin without ending,
begin with a steadfast determination that has lived within you
since before time began,
begin with the anticipation of a gloriously incomprehensible outcome,
with a willingness to be utterly enchanted, exponentially delighted
begin with the unmistakable scent of river-washed stone
sun-baked canyon walls
and the aroma of arrival.
begin with arms outstretched in preparation for the reaping,
with feet and wings in perfect celestial synch
with your head and heart embraced in undeniable union
in rapturous intervention!
begin with a hint of trepidation
feel the flutterings of constriction unbound
and realign with the star-kissed illumination of the essential You.
speak no more of crucifixion
of burnings for truth spoken and obeyed
of presence offered without reply,
goodness meted out in scant rationing
not one moment has been for naught!
be filled with courage,
with adamant joy,
with effervescence without end…
the old is forsaken
the new is now yours:
Rachel! You are peeking in my window. You are seeing into my heart. You are tapping the shoulder of my soul. Many thanks!
None of that is illegal, is it? With all that peeking and seeking and tapping, it’s no wonder I’ve been napping more than usual. (: