Low Sunday 2012

Imagine you are in a great cavernous room;

a place that makes  you feel small, yet safe--

vaulted and open, spacious and free

like a cathedral of trees, or a beech with a breeze.

There, there are many strangers

and acquaintances

from the present and the past

and someone stands and says:

“I am a nobody, no one special.

but I heard something.”

(and—we all love gossip—every ear is ready to hear)

“I have heard that …” he says.

“if you have a secret worry

or a small secret fear--

something you have told no one,

absolutely no one… ever;

or if you did, not in a way that they believe you.

Even your parents did not believe you—

‘oh, poo poo,

you do not mean that’

(because they knew

it was true

and thought if they denied it,

it would not be true)

Well, if you have this thought,

I have heard there is someone

who knows how you feel,

what you think…

In fact, you all have someone,

someone who believes you

and whose eyes drink you in,

whose arms enfold you

without touching your skin

you feel warmth

like when you come in from the cold.

You are transformed ”

He says.  “I have heard this is true.”
I too have heard this for years and years,

but I have not run into this someone.

Not personally.  Have you?

To be polite, I don’t challenge him.

No one does.  It’s such a nice idea.

We all hope we will run into someone like this

for we think we are ready to tell our secrets.

Are they secrets?

What if I have the same secrets?

If I have the same fears, the same worries,

do I need to share my secrets?

Are they still secrets? 

Or do I just think it’s a secret?

What if I go about my business

pretending I know the secrets

of everyone I meet.

Believing them,

drinking them in with my eyes,

enfolding them with my imaginary arms,

sending warmth so they won’t be cold.

Then I would be somebody special.

Savasana

Lying on my mat lightly breathing with

my body feeling heavy sinking and

weighted down on a non existent floor.

I feel tear drops peaking out when

hands press down on my shoulders--are

my hands softly slipping under these hands?

I massage the palms with my thumbs then

softly slip away like a breath and a caress and

my fingertips too drift away, back to my sides.

I am imagining that it is the end of life and

I am nearing heaven--but not quite yet for

there is too much to do, but less and less.

My lists vaporize, I faintly hear the bells of

the music that surrounds us all beating a

slow steady rhythm calling me inward.

I see tableaus, pictures gone by and

albumen images of the past stalking me on

my closed eye lids—sifting in and out.

Still images of moments fade into view while

I breathe in very, very slowly and let it out just

as slack and easy, for now I have no arms or legs.

I hope it will be like this:  melting away or

heavy and weightless, so very tired that

you really don’t care if you breathe or live or die.

Nonetheless, now I shall float away into

that distant beacon of bright light by

choice, because I can and it is dark here.