One-night God
“Don’t leave me. Stay with me a little longer.” This says the still small voice of God. The voice that vibrates within me, as a man retreats from the wanton bed of his lover. Why should I stay? I feel complete and filled; resonating in the night’s passion. An unexpected nag is pulling at me, brushing my back with glossy fingernails. Ah, this God smiles, knowing completely of my weakness to Her. And so I stay and turn another time in blinding radiance and twisting Truth, known only in the smallness of a woman’s hand, the tremble of a breath broken.
This is my relationship with a God who loves me and implores me to stay, not to go. But I do. I leave every day. Every morning I get up and put on my clothes, not to look back at the disheveled lessons and smeared make-up stains which spill my life’s work. Sometimes I just can’t stay for breakfast, I can’t face those eyes. The eyes of Her, who will call me to come back and be with Her for Eternity. This is the spiritual life incarnate; hard and cold, strewn about and tossed out like a one night stand. I live for God and love, leaving when it is good for me. Kissing Her on the cheek, I crawl down the steps before the sunrise can touch my skin, slinking into my own bed and falling under the shadows.
It is only when the burning begins again--the aches, the sadness, the yearnings--for something more than what my finite brain fathoms, that I run out of my loft, into the benevolence of careful caresses and trembles. It is curious how the tumbling of our souls starts and ends, she into me and I into Her. I imagine this match is as good as it will ever be and still I vacillate between the way it is and the way it is supposed to be. My purpose is revealed in these moments between midnight and dawn, I know what holds me. Why should I go? I feel afraid of swallowing up into the cool black air. What will happen to me? The fire plays against Her skin and I look deep into these eyes. The eyes of a Love only recognized in seconds of silent prayer. Those utterances, inwardly released humbly from the lips of lovers of Mystery and Spirit.
“May I begin again?” I ask this of Her. “I don’t want to leave. Not now, not ever.” The secret marriage is Her. Then I remember a voice, a haunting father that I had once: “The spiritual life is hard and cold; it is loving and doting; as it is childish and codependent. It is waxing and waning; shifting and stretching; as it is constant and mercurial.” The remembrance flashes through my mind, leaving me to pull closer yet. The fall and rise of Her pregnant stomach haunts me now, as I lay in a blanket that reads out like a scroll; a litany of the way lovers do. Spying the script, I carry it to the fire and it illuminates, cursive gold letters stinging my fingertips in the dancing embers. I stay with it, smoothing the edges, and feel frenetic. The insecurity lifts my body and I rise to rest in Her arms. Maybe I will stay. At least for a little while.
Sweet ending.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this more on the second reading a day later. I think I was in a more clear state of mind then.
It reminds me of a paragraph I read today in The Embodied Mind by Francisco J. Varela, Evan Thompson, and Eleanor Rosch. p. 250
"Buddhist practitioners obviously do not realize any of these things (even mindfulness) all at once. They report that they catch glimpses that encourage them to make further efforts. One of the most important steps consists in developing compassion toward one's own grasping fixation on ego-self. The idea behind this attitude is that confronting one's own grasping tendencies is a friendly act toward oneself. As this friendliness develops, one's awareness and concern for those around one enlarges as well. It is at this point that one can begin to envision a more open-ended and nonegocentric compassion."
This paragraph gave me something to start working on in my own path.
An interesting synchronicity accompanied my reading today. I have been reading this book off and on for 15 years. It's quite dense in some passages. I have read it and reread it, sold it and bought it again once or twice, never getting to this last chapter until today. I had started the chapter yesterday and then started in again at the section entitled "Nishitani Keiji" I had just dropped off a client I had in a driving job where I take injured workers to their workman's compensation doctor appointments. I was sitting in my car outside. Went inside a couple times to see if the waiting room had cleared out any for an available seat. No luck. Then I decided I would go for a walk. I made a big circular route through the neighborhood and came back around toward the back of the building. I looked up toward the top of the building where the building had it's own title - The Keiji Building.
I figure it's a common Japanese name and googled it just now. The first entry is a a Wikipedia page on Keiji Haino. Here's a quote from that page. "He has had a long love affair with early blues music, particularly the works of Blind Lemon Jefferson, and is heavily inspired by the Japanese musical concept of 'Ma', the silent spaces in music (see Taiko for more information).
For whatever all of that's worth,
Peace
Bruce