Et tu?

[chelidon]

Et Tu?

Oh yes, plenty of pain there
(my own and other's)
and an always choice, whether to see
in each and any moment, the joy and love, or the suffering and sorrow
(my own and other's)

The deep, murky yawning pits of hopelessness, cynicism, of loss and bitterness,
(my own and other's)
call longingly with their ancient siren song of inevitability,
sharp smells of salt tears, absinthe, bitter regret,
(my own and other's)
how easy it would be to put away hope

When does optimism become foolishness,
when does hopefulness become stupid blind faith,
when does a deliberate stance of openness
become a giant Kick Me sign to the universe?

Do I hope too much, or too little?

This I know: Courage is not enough. Abstract commitment to well-intentioned principles is not enough.
And, this, too: empty words, half-hearted platitudes, easy lies and weak-willed fantasies are definitely, absolutely not enough.
There must be more.

Will, Intent, Desire, all the noble beasts
in line, pull, pull, pull
the Chariot of life surges forward in fulminating passion

Some pains are earned, others come in the night like unexpected, unwelcome anti-Santas who sneak
down the chimney and take all the toys away, leaving empty aches behind.
Leaping like a fool from the cliff, the ground rising up SMACK! to meet beneath is no great surprise
(though to fly would be a wonder), but then
come moments of unexpected blindsiding,
back-stabbed, gut-shot,
the wind sucked from the sails, knocked off course, all forward momentum slowed, stopped
for. a. moment...
and teeter, wobble, compass drifting, course uncertain, at the whim of small
careless motions of
wind and wave.

Moments of pain are an opportunity to change direction.

Pain can open eyes, carries a message, widens your horizons.
So, too, can joy, love and ecstasy expand vision.
Either can obscure and veil as much as they illuminate --
it all depends on how deeply open you are to them.
I shut down. I am blind.
I open up. I see.
I feel. I know.

But blindness has its purpose, too
At times, the mind, the body, the souls, all say, "enough." Too much.
Stop.

The eyes close, I am blind,
alone here in the quiet dark,
nursing my wounds, my sorrows
healing, burying, composting,
trying not to let the cleansing turn sour, into
rot and corruption
But even decay is a part of life,
Pain, pleasure, joy, grief all
serve their purpose,
have their place
need their day
What is dead must rot
so new life can arise
And it may smell for a while,
not like a flower

Can I always give thanks for the pain, the Dark Mother's gift? No, though perhaps I should.
It is easier to be thankful for the lessons the pain carries --
harsh words, but true ones,
the scraped knee
the broken bone
the bruised ego
the bleeding heart
the aching soul
not good in themselves,
but in what they teach

That which does not kill us
may hurt a hell of a lot more than we feel we can bear
and may wound deeper than we know, persisting in
ugly scar tissue, numbness, stiff and tender places
sore aches of ancient wounds that come when it rains,
when we smell that odor,
hear that song

Oh yes, plenty of pain there
(my own and other's)
and an always choice, whether to see
in each and any moment, the joy and love, or the suffering and sorrow
(my own and other's)

The deep, murky yawning pits of hopelessness, cynicism, of loss and bitterness,
(my own and other's)
call longingly with their ancient siren song of inevitability,
sharp smells of salt tears, absinthe, bitter regret,
(my own and other's)
how easy it would be to put away hope

When does optimism become foolishness,
when does hopefulness become stupid blind faith,
when does a deliberate stance of openness
become a giant Kick Me sign to the universe?

Do I hope too much, or too little?

Et tu?


(written on the occasion of the 3rd anniversary of the death of a dear friend and brother)