String-Theory explains Particle, Particle produces Consciousness, Consciousness cuts String-Theory, Shoot!

I feel like I don’t belong.

A woman among men.

A girl among women.

A master among doctors.

A practitioner among philosophers.

An academic among ministers.

A minister among theologians.

A fundamentalist among universalists.

A heretic among adherents.

But if we are all one

at the beginning and at the end—

singularity and Transcendent Reality—

then why can I not sense myself

a drop within the ocean,

a blue within the rainbow,

a thread within the quilt,

a dust within the universe?

And yet perhaps that is what scares me more:

to be incinerated by the all-consuming Core.

For I find a desire to remain

distinct.

This thing called Identity,

which surely must be

exclusively mine,

is something that claims what is me

is most certainly not thine.

Yet this carrot I am eating will soon no longer be Other.

And unless I begin to hoard

each clipped nail,

pulled hair,

and flaked piece of skin,

that carrot you-in-the-future are eating will be composed of the compost of me!

So what is this part of me that feels I don’t belong?

My subatomic particles differ none from that star!

Perhaps it is nothing more than emergent consciousness

rejecting the unconscious revelatory hint

that constantly whispers, "Your Identity is a myth"?

The Telos of Flight

The note reminds me,

"First learn to fly, then fly away."

But see: I've learned and flown quite far.

And now a fearful voice queries,

"Know you how to land?"

A Fraction of the Whole

I caught myself looking at each of them
with jealousy.
Here I was surrounded by
women of a higher
status.
One might think I have it backward;
shouldn’t the academic
over-rank the domestic?
And yet, I hold my ground:
we were the minority;
the mostly young,
pursuing our own
careers.
Shouldn’t I be proud
of my drive,
of my courage,
of my strength,
of my intellect,
of my self-imposed
hardness?
Gentle voices
and gentle hearts
surrounded me.
Wives and mothers.
Women.
I don’t feel like a woman;
I feel like a brain
with a vagina,
shoving information into my mind
while my soul
cries
in lonely
starvation.
Who am I,
and what am I doing here?
My name is little girl,
and I am utterly lost.

Would You Like to Dip Your Wing in My Glass of Milk?

He said,

"Congratulations,

You are the cream of the crop."

Sometimes 

I believe it of myself.

Certainly

I believe it of Sarah

(With her MDiv from Princeton),

Or of Simon

(With his background in philosophy

And metaphysics).

But me?--

Soured milk.

A fallen angel

Being given a second chance

At a pair of wings.

A flicker of recognition

At the sound of my name. 

What is he thinking,

This programme director of mine?

Will he grant me permission

To hear a bell ring?

I Am Too Full Of Me

I am too full of me;

each step I take weighed down by self.

Abnegation only through guilt;

guilt of me, myself, I.

Or abnegation solely to escape

such heaviness, such guilt.

What will it take to lose myself;

to float freely amongst the clouds?

What will it take to be free of self;

no longer defined by the confines of me?

Maybe the clouds are composed

of marriage-compromise

or the screaming of a newborn child.

Or perhaps those are the means

to cut loose my arterial walls;

to slowly bleed myself of me.

But shouldn’t there be another way;

some other means of escape?

For what use am I,

still so full of shape?

Am I doomed to wrestle;

doomed to stifle;

doomed to writhe

in this saturated state?

Have I been given a Call

that I cannot fulfill

because I am I yet still?

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.