Psalm 37: Psalm of (Adjusted) Proverbs

Avoid fretting over selfish people;
do not be envious of wrongdoers,
for they will soon fade like the grass, and wither like the green herb; 
just as all humans do.

 

But focus on the bigger picture, and do good;

so that you live in simple thankfulness and don’t cling uselessly to transient things in life.

Take delight in that which is transcendent,

and allow yourself to be filled with gladness.

 

Commit your life to focussing outward;

engage with others,

and experience your interconnectedness

with all of Creation and with the Divine.

 

Do nothing from time to time,

and allow yourself simply to be;

do not worry about what others are doing;

do not get wrapped up in the comparison game.

 

Experience your anger but avoid reacting out of it; let go of your wrath.

Do not worry—it won’t accomplish anything beyond exhausting yourself.

Rash actions, motivated by fear, are dangerous.

It is better to be patient so as to act with calm clarity.

 

For selfish, impulsive, and greedy actions

will leave you unfulfilled,

their satisfaction, fleeting.

Delay gratification, and plan for the long-term.

 

Gluttonous people like to mock those seeking to serve others,

denying their own sense of guilt.

But such selfishness eventually

consumes itself.

 

Habitual self-centredness is harmful to others,

blind to the poor and needy, hostile to those trying to help.

Such self-centredness is subtle self-harm,

leaving one cut off from life-giving relationships and community.

 

It is better to value what little you have

than to constantly covet that which you do not,

for coveting leaves one always wanting,

but the satisfied will rest content.

 

Justified are those 

who put the needs of others before their own.

Their selflessness 

will be their legacy.

 

Know that all people will perish;

all are transient as annual plants;

they will vanish away 

like the smoke of an extinguished candle.

 

Loving themselves above all else, selfish people only take,

but generous people will keep on giving, regardless.

Giving and receiving are both gifts

to offer to those around us, in balance.

 

Maintaining contentedness in all circumstances

gives one confidence to move through various circumstances.

Then one is able to persevere through hardship,

moving forward in hope.

 

Now this I have observed in life:

those of both guilt and innocence have been forsaken,

and both the rich and the poor have been forced to beg.

Yet strive for goodness and to be a blessing to others.

 

Obviate the path of evil, and always seek to do good,

so that your good actions may persist forever.

For we must contribute to the justice

we so long to see in this world.

 

Perniciousness breeds death,

but magnanimity brings life.

We must strive to bring life wherever we go,

that life might triumph over death.

 

Quote wisdom,

and speak of justice.

Cherish them in your heart,

and let them guide your actions.

 

Ravenous for power,

the selfish prowl amongst others,

seeking to devour those who are weak.

But what goes around eventually comes around.

 

Survival of the fittest:

rules are coded in our evolutionary past.

But we as humans are fit enough now

to care for the Other.

 

Take notice of the great evils in this world;

you will probably see them always.

But, you, strive for good,

and be an agent of hope in this world.

 

Uphold those who bring good to this world;

they are beacons of hope for a better, more peaceful existence.

Don’t give acknowledgement to those who seek evil;

starve them of the limelight that feeds their egos.

 

Victory for the cosmos is greater wholeness for all;

transcending this present state is the hope that will take us there.

Live like the universe is on your side, willing you to be the best you can be, 

because maybe it is.

 

Welcome to the hazy grey areas of life,

where black or white thinking isn’t enough.

Be prepared to nuance and qualify;

negotiation is your friend.

 

Xenodochy must mark your actions

in a world overcome with xenophobia.

Care for the stranger, the widow, and the orphan;

transcend yourself.

 

Yearn for awe and wonder;

raise your consciousness.

Connect with the bee, the leaf, and the cloud.

Strive to see that which your eyes cannot see.

 

Zealously defend not your freedom or your rights,

but your compassion and integrity.

At the end of your days, may you be blameless,

and may you be filled with joy for the gifts of life that you have selflessly given.

The Note On Our Mirror

Considering
Our lives may
Not be what we
Truly wish or
Envision,
Now we must
Try to
Move ahead without
Envy or bitterness–
Needing each day to
Trust anew.

As I Shout in the Streets

I no longer know what matters to such American

people. Although if I follow their leader, money

seems to be an answer. I read about the sans-gun

service of once-US Poet Laureate Frost. Does freedom

fighting of that sort count? Or is it only the power

of military and business that is worthy of praise? ‘God

bless America’ sounds hollow when your god

is only invoked to defend those Americans

wielding wealthy, masculine, white Christian power.

You threaten to sue with check-books of money,

declaring that your rights demand denied freedom

for the Other—and if that fails, you have your gun.

You angrily yell: ‘Keep your hands off our guns,

and keep your political correctness off our God!’

You claim this government is killing religious freedom.

But Christian liberty is not religious liberty; America’s

separation of Church and State proven a lie. Money

will now be our ruler—the divine right to power.

The rally ‘Vote for Life!’ becomes ‘Vote for Power!’,

as the NRA threatens, ‘Vote to Keep Your Guns!’

Once again we are reminded of the money

chiselled for worship of a lifeless, foreign god.

This is the god for which platforms of ‘Americans

First’ are throwing aware their coveted freedom.

Your ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ pursuit of freedom

is revealed to be a desperate grab for power.

You are willing to distort the elusive ‘American

Dream’; replacing and reifying it with rights to guns,

rights to give lip-service to only the Christian god,

and rights to the pursuit of money, money, money.

You say intelligence is success, measured by money.

You claim that to maintain our fought-for freedom

requires labelling and barring those who worship Allah.

You have compromised Light in order to possess power.

Driven by fear of Other, you cradle your precious guns.

Is it only You who gets to define what is Great America?

Lesson one: If I make money it will bring me power.

Lesson two: Freedom is defended by wielding a gun.

My plea: Dear God, I don’t want to be this American.

Apology

I struggle to write about happy moments;

I fear it will stop me from living in them.

Hypothesis: 'But Then You Write a Poem and You're Fine'

Bone cave. Capable of holding the life of death. Perhaps waiting

is death enough. If only convincing was needed: all will be well;

all manner of things; be well, be well. Been swallowing placebos,

knowing their lie—they prove less effective when death is needed

for biology festering inside. Maybe truth is void—death without

life. Only in the mind—this narrative of mine—a personal Hell—

isolation—punishment—just—divine—

Breathe

James 4:9 “Be wretched and mourn and weep.

Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom.”

     I am sitting at my desk, perfectly still; head bowed into my hands; breathing deeply, slowly; trembling.

     So it’s still there, I think. The anger is still there. I focus again on my body—willing a cessation of the adrenaline pulsing through my vessels.

     Is it anger? Or is it fear?

     So it’s still there, I think. The fear.

     No. Not just anger. Not just fear. It is a cry—a cry of anguish: “Why do you have freedom while I am thus bound?!”

     So it’s still there, I think; my body stilling into tautness. The jealousy is still there.

     My body begins to cool, my muscles start to ache, and tears slowly well in the corners of my eyes.

You're Free to be Me

And so it begins—

You turn left; I turn right

And one of us is wrong—

You should’ve turned right

Or I should’ve turned left

But not simultaneously—

That would leave us condemned.

It’s not okay to be different.

Difference is Bad—

Incompatible—

Defective—

Only same love now.

No you; no me.

No hetero Us.

Only mind games now.

I seduce you,

And mold you into Me.

It Comes from Within

            I wake with a start, my stomach tightening. What is this? Am I scared? I open blurry eyes to glance at the clock. 7:30. Half-an-hour more. I close my eyes. But my heart begins to race. I follow my rapidly-clarifying thoughts. It’s last night. It’s you. I conjure you before my mind, and I ponder. Another surge of adrenaline. So it’s happening…

            But what is happening?

            I stand before you, in my mind. Paralyzed by all my fears, all my hopes, all my haunting memories, all my unmet desires—

            Beep. Beep. Beep. 8:00 alarm. You don’t dissolve from before me. I reach out and force you back into my heart—or maybe back into my knotted stomach.

            I pull myself out of bed. I know I should eat, but I’m not even hungry—

Whispers in the Afterlight

Look at the stars—
See how they Shine for you.
Study the waves—
Hear them Crash on your Shore.
Ponder the insect—
Your flying Companion.

You gotta let it go—
—But not This—
You hold Tight to my World.

Your Forgiveness

This game we play:
Who is Justified and who’s Condemned?
I give up; I let you win—
Now let your Burdens go.

Each one the shape of a small, sharp Stone.
Not laying them down, you let them fly.
As each one hits, I remember—I think:
I give up; I let you win.

Each one draws Blood, these Stones you throw.
I sink much deeper—deeper—into the Mud.
The Dirtier I become, I remember—I think:
I give up; I let you win.

I remember—I think:
Perhaps Mud mixed with Blood
will convince—
You have been Justified.

The Gift

If you don’t want it

—give it back.

Leave it on my doorstep

with your memories of us.

Born of the Island, Assateague

I am not naïve—

I’ve been reined in artistic perspectives

and Einsteinian relativities.

I know you loved me—

tried to help me—

became the person you thought I would need.

I am not blinded—

I saw it all—

your acts were far from in vain.

But I wish you had paused

and simply watched—

to see me wild and free.

I didn’t want to be helped.

I didn’t want you to change.

I wanted you to love me—

wild and free—

unbroken, prismatic-sheened—

living—just as I saw you—

I wanted you to see me.

Instead—our solipsistic,

domestic soliloquies.

I wonder—

is there any going back

to the Island of Assateague?

Why Should It Bother You?

“It’s not always rainbows and butterflies; it’s compromise that moves us along.” How much will I give up? Arranged marriages often lead to mutual love. I care. It’s impossible to live without hope. Your head is filled with phantoms and fantasies. Do you ever wonder what I hope for? I used to think you were a phantom keeping me alone, but now I see you are a wisp keeping me in hope. I feel my heart die a little every day. What is the difference between suicide and self-sacrifice? My Christian love duty. You are anti-Christian. I love you. I thought we agreed not to use that word. You both have an anointing on your lives. He will go insane if you cut him off. You need help. God loves you so much. We can be in the insane asylum together. I’ve already been there; I’ll reserve a room for you. That’s not something you should tell people. You will never love. You do not need to help—Jesus does. It’s him versus me—and you want me to trust? I’ll be here with you in spirit. A trail of destruction. Why did you come back? My hope is crumbling. You’re bringing me down with you. Hope floats—just beyond my reach. A man threatened to jump off North Bridge a few days ago. Every time I cross it I remind myself: “No, I can’t guarantee I’d die; the fall isn’t far enough.” I wrote a paper on a UFO suicide cult. You are unnatural. I suppose it’s my fault for being me. If you could be anyone, would you choose to be you? I’m stuck in a box of six “why”s. This too shall pass. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. Your message woke me up. I’m sure my phone won’t survive flying from North Bridge. 

The Assessment

Today’s Assignment: Self-Acceptance

You are             gorgeous

                        neurotic

                        fun

                        depressing

                        intelligent

                        exploited

                        strong

                        fragile

                        improved

                        in need of major help.

 I don’t understand why you struggle to love you for you!

You get an F. I hope to see some more effort next time.

Immortality

I can feel it happening:

I’ve stopped living my life.

Eric Forman.

Sam Winchester.

Vicky Austin.

Anyone but me.

“13 responses by women on why they’re still single”

All actresses.

Some I agree with, some I don’t.

Isn’t my answer good enough?

My job for the summer:

embody Emily Dickinson.

My body is stuck

in a box of six “why?”s.

I point to my heart—

“emotions are deceptive.”

I point to my soul—

“you’re forgetting depravity."

I point to the book—

“context makes that irrelevant.”

I point to my mind—

“there’s too much pride in man’s reason.”

So I cut myself down,

cover my head with old shame,

and within this box I slowly decay.

I can feel it happening:

I’m both dead and alive.

Don't peek inside so I can remain both.

Do You Love Me?

Do you love me?

(It’s not just the cry of a clingy, hormonal teen.)

It is the unspoken question every child longs to know:

the little girl spinning in her pink, fluffy dress;

the little boy begging you to watch him win this next match.

Do you love me?

(It’s not just about securing a wedding ring.)

It is the unspoken question every searching eye pleads:

the young woman waiting to be noticed;

the young man hoping to impress a potential boss.

Do you love me?

(It’s not just an attempt to manipulate.)

It is the unspoken question of every lonely spouse:

the wife who cannot coax her husband to speak;

the husband who cannot admit his own deepening fatigue.

Do you love me?

(It’s not about feelings, sensuality, or desirability for sex.)

It is a question of worth:

Do you see me?

Am I valuable?

Do I possess beauty?

And strength?

Do I have worth, in your eyes?

Tell me: Am I lovable?

Who Knows Best?

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Doctor. Not necessarily the healing kind. In fact, I just wanted the title. That was my plan: no matter what field I go into, go all the way. Be the best. Be a Doctor.

But something took that away from me. My academic castle was swept away by a psychological wave. I thought it was punishment for rising too high. I had made myself a god, and that tends to evoke jealousy.

I learned to settle into humble life—hid myself away where the temptation to be great was naught. Once came the response: “What if you get the chance to go back?” Honestly, I doubted I would. Pride is hard to destroy and, therefore, restrictions eternal.

But then the doors opened wide, and I trembled in fear. A trap it seemed to send me back into Hell. But I stepped through the door, hoping that mercy was something real. To my relief and to my horror, my pride had indeed been shot.

It wasn’t what I expected. Pain much outweighing pleasure. And yet self-contradicting, I moved forward. The girl who has the potential but is crippled by self-doubt. It is the struggle to be a perfect god, when a god I am most definitely not.

Now here I am again. The next door opened. This one promising to lead to my childhood dream. And par with self-contradicting me, I both desire and loathe it. I no longer think it is a trick or a trap. I’m just beginning to doubt that a child knows best.

Don't Stop; Run

They say, those who can’t do,

teach.

I say, those who can’t decide,

study.

To be fair,

there are those who study

with a specific telos in mind:

the much-coveted,

socially-preferred,

professional

career.

***

Can you hear the angelic chorus?

Here, let me do it again:

Career.

***

Hear it?

Ah. Music to my ears.

Or at least to the ears of

my financially-conscious,

socially-conscious,

productivity-conscious

culture

(family members,

friends,

advisors,

potential funding bodies,

insurance companies,

self?).

But I just can’t decide—

especially upon which life-defining

career

***

(There! Did you hear it, this time?)

I should pursue.

And I admit

I was guiltily excited

to discover

I am not alone.

There are a surprising number of us here,

floating in indecision,

finding safe-haven within academia.

Please don’t misunderstand me:

it is not avoidance of responsibility;

it is avoidance of caged-monotony.

The fear that once I choose,

I will be locked-in.

Oh, yes, I know it is possible to change,

but I’ve tried that at the academic level,

and even there it costs time and money.

(I hear my financially-, socially-, productivity-conscious critics cringing.)

No, a stable and secure career is much more preferred.

(You know, the kind where benefits

and vacation time

accumulate

with increased commitment

and dedication

and loyalty

to The Company.)

But I think I am avoiding

more than simple caged-monotony.

Let me illustrate:

Hi, I’m Jaime.

Hello, Jaime. Nice to meet you. And what do you do?

I’m a blogger!

(She must have misunderstood my question.)

I’m a self-publishing writer.

(Unemployed.)

I’m an editorial assistant.

(Temp-work, most likely.)

I’m an editor.

(She probably sucks too much at writing to be an author herself.)

I’m an author.

(B.S.)

I work under Gina Centrello for The Random House Publishing Group.

(***)

I’m still a student at the moment. I am studying

_______ (insert exotic or intelligent-sounding topic here).

Well, that sounds exciting, Jaime. Enjoy the adventure!

You have so many opportunities before you!

For along with caged-monotony comes

The Label.

The pigeon-holes

and classifications

and judgments.

All because you asked me what I do.

But put off the decision,

and I can still do—

and, more importantly—

be

anything and everything and nothing.

Those who can’t decide,

study.

And those who study,

often teach.

It is not an inability to do

or an avoidance of responsibility;

it is defiance of—

or, perhaps, irrational fear of—

that immovable Label,

which dictates:

you are what you do.

The Dirt-Based Answer to Such Heart-Quandaries as, What is Love? So This is Love? and Do You Love Me?

Love is fleeting.

Love is shallow.

Love is fake.

Love is dangerous.

Love is exhausting.

Love is a flame, easily extinguished.

Love is a liar.

Love is a slippery, slimy-scaled sprat.

Love is petting a purring cat,

and then being scratched and bit.

Love is being asked for my number,

and then never being called.

Love is spending the day together,

and then never getting a word in.

Love is being best-friends single,

and then being deserted for him or her.

Love is ironic.

Love is opening oneself to be drained.

Love is keeping one’s mouth shut.

Love is sparing another and going it alone.

Love is black-and-blue marks.

Love is an open wound.

Love hurts.

Love tears.

Love bends.

Love stabs.

Love distorts.

Love calls out into the night.

Love cries in silent agony.

Love bleeds from a clot-less vein.

Love is this void that cannot be filled.

Love is thinking I’m blessing,

when it’s received as seducing.

Love is thinking this is life,

when all it breeds is death.

Love is pouring me out,

when I’m already dried up.

Love is advancing in confusion,

when it’s time to retreat.

Love is thinking I am healing,

when I’m trailing fractured hearts.

Love is always saying yes,

when I should have said no.

Love is always saying yes,

when all you give is silence.

              ***

God, I thought You were Love.

And that if I was in You,

and You were in me,

then I would be Love too.

But if this is Love . . .

Tell me I’m wrong;

I already know it is true.

But the dilemma remains:

I’m too earthen for You.

To Answer The Call

I found myself on the edge of the valley-induced mountain, looking out upon the darkness-induced lights. I’d never walked up here before—a new view of the city below. The wind was playing gently with my hair. I could hear the trucks on the highway below me, carrying their passengers far, far away. What is so safe about here? Up so high? Hidden in the dark? Sitting above, apart from the twinkling lights before me?

Kevin drifts back into my mind. Sitting on the bed. Tan work boots. Faded jeans. Plaid, flannel shirt. Ripped cap. He leaned over to talk to his father. A Marlboro pack was peeking out of his breast pocket—anything to take off the edge of stress, I suppose. He reached out his hand to his father; calloused fingers, tainted black.

Kevin asked me to stay an hour longer than expected. The prospect terrified me. The last time had depleted my strength. His father had at first held me suspect out of dementia-induced paranoia; then he had held me captive out of loneliness-induced beggary. Kevin asked me to stay an hour longer than expected. I couldn’t say no. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” His father had fallen twice today. I couldn’t say no. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Kevin reached out his hand to his father, but his father didn’t take it. Kevin was held captive by loneliness-induced beggary. I studied Kevin’s face. Stress cut canyons and sleep-deprivation painted black-bagged eyes. Kevin was held captive. He couldn’t say no. “Sure, Dad, I’ll stay a little longer.”

His father became occupied, but Kevin couldn’t leave. He stood with me at the doorway. “So how are you handling all this?” I asked. I doubted he would give me a genuine answer. Here I am, probably half his age, someone he’s only met once before, and will hardly ever see again. Why would he trust me? “I’m handling,” he replied. Bull shit. Don’t trust the little girl. I let him be. More captivity. More empty chit-chat.

Finally, “So how about you? What are you going to do?” I could have answered empty. Could have returned his distrust-induced shit. But he’s someone I’ve only met once before, and will hardly ever see again—I don’t have time for the vague niceties. I told him how I’ve been burned-out before. I told him that I’m scared. I told him that I feel weak. I told him how easily I get drained.

And that was all it took. “I’m burned out,” he said. “This place is a shit-hole,” he said. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I’m watching him fall apart, and it’s tearing me apart,” he said. “I get drained too.” He paused. Then he said, “So thank you for doing this.” I wanted to say to him, “I’m doing it for you.” But I didn’t.

He went to check on his father again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had first tried to leave. He was held captive. He couldn’t say no. I wanted to say to him, “Give me your chains for a bit. I can handle them. Sure it may tear me apart, but it will only be for a few hours—you’re getting torn apart every day.” But I didn’t, and he still didn’t leave.

It was dinner that saved him. Once more the Marlboros peeked out of their pocket and the calloused, blackened fingers reached out for his father’s hand. “Bye, Dad. Bye, Jaime.” And out the door he went. I hope the chains fell off—even if just for a few hours. I felt them settle around my wrists and ankles. “I’m doing this for you,” I thought after him, and then turned toward his father.

The darkened heights called to me when I finally left. I didn’t want to go home. So I climbed. I crossed over the highway, where I paused to watch the trucks speeding by into the night to who-knows-where. “Take me with you,” I thought. Then I climbed farther and higher than I ever had before. I found the edge: a guardrail at the end of a street. I sat alone. The lights twinkled before me. Why do I feel so safe up here? Up above and hidden in the darkness?

Kevin was only one of the many people who drifted through my mind. “So many,” I thought. So many to love. And I feel inadequate. And small. And weak. And scared. Maybe the darkened heights are a refuge. A reprieve from the daunting task before me. Hadn’t I just prayed the night before that Christ is enough? Maybe I don’t believe it. Or maybe I do. He has to be enough—because I’m certainly not.

And then there is that other nagging question: who will love me? Or maybe it's, who will I let love me? Yes, the darkened heights are safer. Then a dog barked behind me. Loud and threatening--I'm trespassing on his territory. I guess my reprieve cannot last forever. Back into the lit valley I descend.