the problem with waiting (after George Herbert)
the problem with waiting is the problem of misplaced focus
as in
why am i waiting for that which I know not except by
promise (which is to say, by possibility but not yet, if ever, presence)
when a perfectly fine right now right here
presents itself to my
eyes and heart and guts and soul and Soul
on this road which I refuse to see as
simply a process or pilgrimage
but instead a chance to bite creation itself on the very backside
of being
or, put another way,
to give myself fully to this now rather than pray for that then
I mean to give up crying (or bellyaching, as the kind giant put it) for the ghost of all I need that may not ever anyway be
and to hold tight and wrestle all night with the angel/demon of the pathless midnight desert
and then, like an apogean voice sent down from nowhere but stuck forever in some Seventeenth Century devotional lyric,
I am addressed, possessed, known well, washed clean of all my wallowing excuses,
and invited to hold the hand of Love
all the forever way down the endless path
to nothing but
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