Sometimes Spirit Sees

Sometimes Spirit sees

Where bodies can not go now.

Like a chrysalis, this Now.

In the car, I sit

As a slow drifting begins.

I look up, bemused.

Cars shouldn’t creep about

Like cats, who crouch and listen

To unseen moves, songs.

Feathers can float

In sunlit glory, not me.

I move the gear shift.

Neutral flashes by,

As I step from the car now,

intent on one thing.

Around, is my plan,

But the car rolls quicker now,

So I walk with it.

I lean into it,

And find I am a feather.

Eternity now.

The car is stronger

Physically than my body. 

Only Grace holds me.

Have you ever leaned

Into It?  Leaning is a 

Kind of utmost plea.

I call out, loudly,

As mind races, but Spirit

Slows.  Futures abound.

I look between the now,

listen to the quiet pauses

In between the breath.

Even as I call,

Again and again, I walk

With the drifting car.

I walk with the flow.

I learn my strength or lack of.

The moment is Now.

The flow has its own

Pace, its own way.  I just am,

Eternal moment. 

Spirit has stepped out

To that moment in between,

The one of Grace.   

At last, I am heard.

He races over fast now.

Jumps in.  The car stops. 

  

Time stops, and we breathe.

Some damage, but we are whole. 

The ethers settle.

“I need help with this

one,” he remembers calling 

to beloved Z.  

In that quiet place

where Spirit lives, we give thanks.

Gratitude and grace.

Time

November 1, 2009

6:21 pm
Time has a funny way of twisting around. I sit here in my bedroom and I am in a timeless place. No breath of wind comes through the open window. Outside, the late day sun highlights a pink wall a block away. Two parking lots lie in pine tree shade. It must be at least 80 degrees inside. I hear only the constant whir of my cool mist humidifier and occasional scratching as it swallows bits of microscopic debris. My floor fan is on, but drowned out by the humidifier. I could be 12 or 90 years old. I could be in another time and place entirely, somewhere else, staring out a window at day’s end, remembering, wondering…

Time doesn’t matter here. What I remember, what I wonder, are thoughts best held close to my heart. To let them out, even for a second, out of this timeless place, is to risk losing them. So I sit here. I remember.

It’s funny how things keep repeating themselves. I read my diaries earlier today, and heard a relative acting and saying the same things seven years ago as he says now, the same things as he said when I was 13, when he held the power.

Why do these things matter? It’s never easy, this being a family. It’s so much easier to go to work and solve problems there. People don’t get angry so much. Maybe that’s why I like this room, with the view. The sun lights only a wisp of pink wall now. Soon all will be pine tree twilight.

I can pretend here. I can pretend I too am timeless. This lifetime or another, what does it matter? Sitting here looking, I need do nothing. It’s the doing that is hard. Going out there and opening my mouth, doing what I think is helpful only to learn how differently another sees me. I am safe here in this room. No one can reach me here. I haven’t failed anyone, including myself, because here I can sit unseen, yet see.

I read of others who go out into the world and do and do and do. But I am cursed — or blessed, depending – with that part of me that stands aside and sees and hears in a different way. Sometimes I try to speak of it, but inevitably I choose the wrong words, and my listener does not understand. Sometimes I wonder, why try?

Try telling that to the sun or the moon or the stars! They just are. So, too, I suppose am I… It’s the getting from here to there that’s the hard thing.

The sun is gone now, but tomorrow it will rise again. And I will go out my door, back into the world.