What I find cyclically inducing strife and guilt-ridden anxietym, is this idea that you don’t care? Alluring, seductive, and tantalizing is the notion of a contemplative life; being in the presence of divinity. Attentive to the ripples of the everyday ordinary. Simplicity of existence. Peace at what is. I want to run. Fearing retreat and abandonment, distressed in the mire of loss. Escapism haunts me both before and behind, gleefully proud of the static, paralyzing thresholds I’m kept from crossing. I want you. I love you. I can’t pretend or silently utter for the anodyne enclosure calling for ignorance brings. I need to know. I hunger and burn to know. I can’t be satiated or know contentment in the elusive luxury that falsity beckons one into.
Warmth meets the need of cold. Love is invited within the eyes of sadness. Love, warmth, and light are found in the absence, not in the measure. I can’t adorn myself in the frivolity and decadence of unintentional, pleasure-seeking that thematically runs through the mantras and recants of ‘blessings from God’. Offensive and pinning, this monophonic chorus vindicates for a life lived out of abundance and excess. Entitlement muddles austerity, claiming that space as natural and native, as if we should know no other in our newfound “sonship.”
Please tell me divine? Speak. Is the ascetic, humbled heart that lies broken in receptivity, a silent repose of an attitude cultivated to your Being desirous to you? Do we run towards redemptive, restorative efforts in the world, meeting brokenness and injustices with haste and relentlessness? Do you care? Are idle hands a sin of unfulfilled commission? Does my participation merit a life for/in/with You? Restlessness consumes me, demanding my allegiance and smothering me with the guilt of all left uncompleted, undone, untouched, dismantled, and excused. Fulfillment of Being. The dichotomy of the Mary vs. Martha mentality: servitude against solace. Heaven is here now. The taste that enfolds and enlivens is a present reality. I can’t help, but deny the Stygian sights and sounds of the hell that resides as the present reality for so many others, also here and now. My brothers. My sisters. My family. You.
Divine Mother, may I always taste the reverie and sweetness. Enamored by the dust of divinity in which all live and breath and move. Keep before my eyes what appalls and ravages the innocence of my heart. Bare, broken, and tender. May I be kept alive. Make the struggles of the marginalized and least of these my own, match the intensity and ferocity of sensitivity. Share what I tasted. Callous, bruise, and fatigue my being. Make the hell of the brethren be my own. I want to share in the wild. Let them taste the heaven I’ve humbly savored. Plunder pride. Restore humility and meekness. I’ve known no other than hautiness and self-preservation for too long, numbing my senses, instilling self-justification. Forgive me. I come with penance and grief. I’m a mess. Create in me a clean heart. Keep me on the bridge between the two, ecstasy and depravity. May it heighten my senses towards the ethereal and mysticism of your Presence, and enraptured in the conflicting dissonance of a heart made in the likeness of what I know my Creator to possess.