Writing Myself Sacred.
Sometimes I feel as if I am carrying a swollen heart around in my chest.
It is heavy, full and satisfied, and yet yearns for something so far beyond satiability. I am unsure what causes the accumulation of moisture, but I believe it is you.
I haven’t known how to address you as a writer, and yet you are there on all of my pages, in between all of my words.
I suppose, in a peculiar way, I worried about ridicule. I didn’t know how to call you.
Over-sensitive to the modern seeker’s contention to the word God, super-resistant to fluffy New Age spiritualism, and equally suspicious of theological dogma, I have found myself wandering among my yearning, unable to find an apt label to language what I am swollen with.
And so I write about topics that circle around the sacred, without stepping into the red clay.
But I long for that clay. In my quiet moments, I dive into it and spread it all over my face in hopes of divine recognition.
I rub it in my eyes in desperate aspiration of one glance into yours. I place it in my ears so your silence may permeate my cacophonous internal world. I drink it down in gobs so that my belly may remember your substance.
With my simple acknowledgment, now, I allow the first morning dew of your love to settle upon my skin and sink into the wet sanctuary of my heart, where you have been sitting with ancient moss at your feet, waiting for me to return.
One single drop of your enchanted nectar and I am intoxicated, lost in a bewitchment for which I do not want a cure
There was no angel to give warning. And yet, if warning were given, I would not heed it but run madly into the mist and evaporate into a thousand molecules of love.
Are these the molecules that conglomerate in my heart, swollen and heavy? My own essence formed from my crazed soul search, placed there as morsels for my creative emergence?
I long to write anthologies on your beauty, your peculiar ways of inspiring when we allow.
Have you sought me for my own making? Poisoned me with my own dampness? Like a distended sponge who must find ways of wringing out the unbearable fullness and weight it carries within?
I believe we are at that holy point now, you and I.
I believe I have no option now but to write myself sacred. To bow to your voice within me, and etch your ghastly glorious handwriting onto a rhizome that sits at the center of my chest.
I mustn’t meander, but intentionally place you before me, finding just a moment of satisfaction in a world saturated with illusory distraction.
My words must play with the clay, form images that momentarily awaken, and yet are destined to dissolve.
In their destiny to dissolve, they become sacred. They become like me. And I, like them. And we, like you. Written. Sacred. Mysterious. And Beautiful.