Winter 2020 – Like the Curvature of Watermelon





Poetry & Prose

Whatever is the harder thing to do – do it, I am told. And so I do. There is, within the longing of pain, an under-swell I lunge to accept. Beneath the accusation, projection, and avoidance lies a fear.

Sprawled out, pale skinned, looking away, eyes covered, devastated to be seen by eyes of truth that we have come to know eventually lead to the mind, heart, and soul of reflection. And when the pure soul reflects upon the nature of its current role in this unimaginably infinate cosmos and miraculous cycle of continuation…there is a slight opening. A shift. A shift that refracts back within the kind of precision that scatters and shatters mountains. Entire landscapes which we might find in the finest of art galleries – in which exist windows to worlds we long for most when we seek to set sail from our own.

Self abandonment, even for an hour can live in our hearts for eternity. Yet all this time, through all these fears and spiraling moments of self doubt, I remain so endlessly grateful for this bizarre opportunity to embody this spirit. To reacquaint myself with love and bond, and present authentic praise for my continual maker.

What an odd sling shot to be fired that would create present circumstances such as these. Just as the trees whither and retreat to the company of their neighbors, only to lurch back to life as if their much awaited tune has finally hit the juke box, so too must we hurl ourselves back into life in the company of those we cherish, and those we will soon come to call family when the time is right.

I’ve come to imagine the moment that is to come as ‘the great beach party.’ One where the breeze is just right and all those who want to play volleyball can and do, while those who don’t have all the time, space, and beverage one could desire to soak up the sun. To kick sand and build castles we might all share the company of from a place of abundance only the eternal can offer. An abundance we offer one another while we remember to smile. Always to smile. Pure, bright, from ear to ear with the curvature of a fine cut slice of watermelon. Which I suspect will tease the appetites of young and old alike in this breezy beach scene.

Until then, I exercise that slight grin in the face of a long deserted night. Acknowledging this deep valley of unknowing which has always rested on my heart, even when I avert my gaze. Trusting I, and we people of the most high and transcendent and endlessly unimaginable and elusive and breath-takingly present God – have both not been forgotten, and carry the mark of a story as old as our ability to tell such tales. Which came first, the story or the teller? Because some old truths outlive themselves, and their rebirth. Which is to say, eternal is the opportunity for those who toil day after day to give God the glory. What would I give to see Christ live again? What stowed away stash would I be willing to drag into the light like a mangled skeleton recognizable within us all to see the great equalizer that history longs to see overcome such forces of domination and fear, in this clear and present danger.

I wish to be marked by this great equalizer. In some way, that I might come to see life through death and Christ through loss and fight through all the things that got me here. Because the truth is this is not a dream – we are right here scraping to tell of the times when new lives were heard, seen, understood, and loved when they screamed that Black matters now, as Black mattered then. Is this what we leave for our children? Because in present tense their dismissal is abysmal. I may often be found to be absent minded but clarity strikes when you swipe at the heart. And charity stripes will not win this war or even soothe the throats of those who persist to groan and push and thrash these walls of division to nothing more than the ground that keeps me from myself.

Still we know the meaning and feeling of war while endlessly forgetting the lessons war teaches. I suppose not all grace earth looking to be taught. Likely the result of some deep wound, like a punctured sense of self that only heavens gates might shake. And these are the souls I pray may return to us here and now. Return to us here, and now. And this is the moment I come to see what is constantly revealed to me – the door which waits each day to be opened – that nothing – absolutely nothing – can keep me from you.

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