For a while there, I thought I found a way around pain,
had stumbled onto a means of sustaining inner peace
and harmony by letting go of trying so hard, and
catching thoughts that might derail me from staying
centered in love.
I was mistaken, it seems, since yesterday an ego dart hit
its mark, a flank undefended by love. It wounded me,
made a fool of me, laughed at my grandiose plan
to no longer care how my writing compares or whether
the winners include me.
This morning the ache is softer now, a gentle reminder
that it’s harder to show your face to the world than it is to stay
home and tend the spiritual fires where you can almost
imagine you’re improving, becoming less flawed or short-sighted.
Now that I’ve told you all this, Shame knocks at my door and
wants to come in. Shame for what? Shame for why? I ask.
Because you are here all over again, he answers. (For some reason
the voice of my shame is always male).
You’ll be glad to hear I sent Shame packing so I could talk
to you today. I know he didn’t go far, though, and he can hear
through doors like a hunting dog. Which is why my Beloved
has set himself guard, just because I asked him to.
Which seems too simple and easy to be true, but then love always is.
Yes, I know it will come to this again for me, and probably soon. I also
know how the story goes and how it always ends here,
where I can finally hear God say, You’re only human, sweetheart.
And I wouldn’t have you any other way.