The moments when I come to resemble the rage that I encounter and I must re-group and re-consider and re-register so that I can come back to the love that forms all things, and I don’t know if this love-stuff, the essence of life, the dignity of all beings, the foundational quality of grace and inclusion and peace, including all people, all of the universe and all that is seen and unseen, can be the works of a god, or simply is and is this moment, or if it is empty and luminous without any god at the center, rising from a vast womb that needs no seed but is fertile and without error, without regret, open and producing you and me and the man who would do me in, the kid who threw a bottle at me, the woman who said I was evil, or the brother who raped me and all of us have come from the fecund womb, the womb without wound large enough for all of us, to love all of us, to hold the softness in each of us. As babies we were all soft, all wanting love, all needing assurance and nurture, all seeking the breast for this is our nature as humans and later we may harden, we may close our hearts to the raw

the raw moment that join us

moment that joins us that is now but we cannot close entirely, it is not possible that such could happen for we are here together and we are flesh and heart and there is a way into our loving natures all ways. Do not give up on anyone or anything and do not give up on the love of this creative space that contains us all and as we spin on a planet in space, lost in worldly concerns that are also sacred and all of this space is a sacred space, a space in which hate and love are held in equal measure and I was crying for a father who does not love me as I think he should and who is eager to share his hate with me and to let me know that he would like to kill my kind and he has always said this and he has often said this and he said this last night and I was silent and my heart was dark and I forgot my essence and I forgot the womb from which we all rise, all emerging naked and wishing only to nestle and suckle and I forgot my father and I felt rage in my heart and I felt lost in my rage and I wanted to leave my father and to not see him again and to not see him any day or night but to see him in a coffin where he would be silent and relieved of his hatred at last and I so wanted to get drunk and howl to the moon and block it out, the wound in my heart is so raw, so gaping and so filled with oozing pus from years of affliction, from picking at the crusted scab that has not healed and I was silent and I was still and I was miserable and I was the little girl who did not have a father or a brother to defend me, to help me, to love me but instead they hurt me and wounded me and last night I did not get drunk and I did not stop the pain and I did understand that we are made of love, that love binds us, all of us, and that the woman I am, the girl who grew up with neither father or brother to stand by my side,  I am firmly, entirely rooted in love and I cannot deny this or hide from the brilliance of the light of this moment and its myriad facets, glowing and glinting in astonishing detail and the people beside me and around me and the preferences and judgments are stones in a great field with textures and surface structures and categories of composition but the field has no limit and we are in that field, held in time, spinning in space, moving through the inevitabilities of mortality and yet in love we can open and let loose, we can drop any limitation of barrier or separation and know the

we are in a love affair that has no end


core of our shared truth that cannot be spoken in words although we can and do use many types of language to speak this truth that we are here together come. Our separation is only incidental, not an expanding reality. We are in a love affair that has no end and can never be discarded.  We may, if we work hard and practice with diligence, open to the taste of unbounded love when we pass a woman in the market or watch a squirrel decide which path to take, or face a man whose anger makes us angry, or wake with anguish in the dark. This is love’s call. This is the knock at the door of our hearts. This is the path to our freedom. Not easy, not simply practiced to perfection but workable, a way to circle and to dance in a kitchen in the morning, loving a father I do not like, who gave my life and love to me.