Falling into place
I sit waiting.
Silently sensing the pieces of my thoughts
gently drifting
like the avatar on their way
to chat with Na’vis
Paul writes to the Romans “We know that God
causes all things to work together for good to those
who love God.”
How it is possible that
the devastating imprisonment of our souls
in chains and napalm fresh from waterboarding
could lead to justice.
“Ahh” you say. “Justice is not the goal.”
Nikki (Giovanni the poet) talks
of the power of the women bringing
her people together on the slave ships
with the common language of
the hum.
The hum which morphed into the spiritual
which morphed into strength
which morphed into power
That hum which came from the oblivion of objectification
and brought back to life the soul which not even those who bought and those who sold could steal.
We reach for the stray pieces of the chicken,
a piece of onion, the withered carrot, the wrinkled potato,
any greens which are lying flat from the absence of moisture,
a generous helping of water,
a bit of salt and pepper and many spoonfuls of love
Allowing them for the next hour to playfully anoint each other.
If the cupboard is feeling especially generous it may yield the ingredients for a little cornbread which we mix with the strength of one who knows
we shall overcome.
The pieces of our life fall together.
It is not about the falling together of the just, the fair, or even the pleasurable.
It is about the hum which creates the common language which melds our souls into the angels who lift up the suffering of the weak.
We open our arms to hold the pieces of our life until the grief has fallen into the dust of those who died too young.
The tears and the dust form the mud.
The mud spawns the pot which brews the new life.
All things fall into place.
Written March 20, 2016
I sit waiting.
Silently sensing the pieces of my thoughts
gently drifting
like the avatar on their way
to chat with Na’vis
Paul writes to the Romans “We know that God
causes all things to work together for good to those
who love God.”
How it is possible that
the devastating imprisonment of our souls
in chains and napalm fresh from waterboarding
could lead to justice.
“Ahh” you say. “Justice is not the goal.”
Nikki (Giovanni the poet) talks
of the power of the women bringing
her people together on the slave ships
with the common language of
the hum.
The hum which morphed into the spiritual
which morphed into strength
which morphed into power
That hum which came from the oblivion of objectification
and brought back to life the soul which not even those who bought and those who sold could steal.
We reach for the stray pieces of the chicken,
a piece of onion, the withered carrot, the wrinkled potato,
any greens which are lying flat from the absence of moisture,
a generous helping of water,
a bit of salt and pepper and many spoonfuls of love
Allowing them for the next hour to playfully anoint each other.
If the cupboard is feeling especially generous it may yield the ingredients for a little cornbread which we mix with the strength of one who knows
we shall overcome.
The pieces of our life fall together.
It is not about the falling together of the just, the fair, or even the pleasurable.
It is about the hum which creates the common language which melds our souls into the angels who lift up the suffering of the weak.
We open our arms to hold the pieces of our life until the grief has fallen into the dust of those who died too young.
The tears and the dust form the mud.
The mud spawns the pot which brews the new life.
All things fall into place.
Written March 20, 2016
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