A Dangling Becoming

comments 6
Christ / Poetry

I cling yet to the known,
no longer panicked, but
bemused by the early
warning signs of my precipitous departure,
dangling auspiciously
over the side of this ledge,
fingers clenching the last tufts of
what has been
as I hang in a state of
white-knuckled longing
for what will be,
waving gently
to and fro
over all of space
like a piñata
awaiting the strike
of some holy timber.

This reluctance
to all out surrender,
to relinquishing my grip
on what might have been,
to accepting all of what is,
is the last fear
any of us will ever face.

I think
the thing to do is relax-
to close my eyes and
notice the clouds swimming past
above and
below me,
to savor the inevitability
of my present position:
this final reenactment of
the separated man’s
inherent insolvency.

Near the end, we
all become this living question:
why be afraid of
what cannot be avoided?
Then we become the answer.

I am a bullet
Love has chambered
into Her gun.
She awaits but a nod
and the trigger will be pulled.
When the holy timber
strikes me, there will be Light-
an incandescence,
a catching fire,
and as the shell I was
is discarded-
the piñata torn open-
the cocoon split asunder-
the stillness inside
will be released from its prison,
and take flight.

We don’t know where Love
is aiming Her gun, but
it doesn’t matter:
butterflies don’t fly straight anyway, and plus
I know you will catch me.


  1. Boom!!!

    I open the reader and he has done it again! I read words written from the power of touching Truth and am falling into LOVE all over again.

    Falling in motion
    As though I had wings
    Baby it’s magic
    A magical thing



    • Boom, indeed!!! Here’s to the spontaneous combustion of littleness, and the dissolution of the artificial compartmentalization of being.



  2. “Simply by being ourselves, responding to what moves us, are we not as human beings in some way participating in a vast and creative sympathetic resonating?”

    Having the courage to be ourselves and respond to what moves us from the deep place of really seeing, and loving, not shutting down but really looking at even what appears to be missteps made from lack of knowing. I love my precious windbag self who may have gone off about something she thought she knew – The life that is played on the strings requires being open to the joy but also the pain that flows from really seeing and choosing to be the honey bee worker Maren so beautifully captured and composed in resonance with you.

    I heard a vast and beautiful symphony in a fairy glen it seems to me as I am awakening to the new morning light – The resonating strings inside of me attune and begin to sound to your composition built of the raw materials of words, stories, images, and openness, . Thou art a bullet indeed, still in the high heat and profound pressure of the liquid metal state of formation, while also chambered and waiting within the gun, yet you already have exploded into the crescendo – ALL at once! Back to the First Step or no step.


    • You picked up on something I thought about while writing, but couldn’t quite fathom how to weave into the words- the notion that we are already whole and complete even as we go through the seeming process of living that completion, the notion that what seems to occur in time is merely the tale of our acceptance of what has always been, the notion that the seed of Christ inside of each of us that is growing into form was no less itself in the invisible seed than in the obvious flower. (Lather. Rinse. Repeat!)


    • Yes, I loved that sequence of images. It is impossible (for me) to see that and not draw the conclusion: something is going on around here… something… that works its way from the inside out… something… that is more real and dynamic than any of the beautiful artifacts left in the wake of its passage…


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