October 21, 2011

soul walking on water ::

after the rain © 2007 esther miguez

I've had moments, lately, when those feelings arise. Dark and desperate. Just like the ones I had so many years ago, at fifteen and seventeen, when I felt soul-suffocated and barely alive.

When your whole life you sojourn
and your soul wrinkles with time, 

when you are not-of-this-world and grow ancient, longing for home,
when everything that is truly you ~ the artist, the mother, the nourishing one, the writer, the dreamer, the mystic, the lover, the wandering gypsy with a poet's heart ~ becomes stifled and choked by the demands of living in a fallen world,

how do you find strength to pour yourself into another day?  

Day after day?


It's hard to be strong all your life. To be the responsible one; to survive. It's exhausting, sometimes, to survive. And for the weary, forget sex or drugs or rock and roll ~ the temptation to seek the sweet fruit of eternal rest can come crashing in,
unexpected and tantalizing.

That was his final status.
I don't know him, but I'm sobbing like I did.

Within hours of posting, he took his own life.


Darkness was in the beginning with God, before light, before evil. For those who have eyes to see, darkness is a holy place, a womb where life begins.

Darkness is holy ground where we are planted, where we germinate and grow strong, where we are born to rise into light. When the Spirit fills, she over-shadows. And when we nestle close, tucked into comfort, into the shadow of the Most High, darkness is our covering and we find treasure there.

I'm well-acquainted with darkness. Especially these days, when life flickers low, smolders like the incense on my windowsill. I guess this is a confession of sorts. I love life, love it so much, almost too much, and yet I feel like one standing outside looking in,

Sometimes I wonder, can I stay alive? My entire being aches and yearns to be and become and to live rested with the truth that I am born to fulfill everything within me to do. But the rat-race, the living a life that isn't truly mine, the spreading thin, the seeking sacred in the incredibly profane, trying to leave a quiet breath of holy wherever I am, yet finding myself simply without breath, and gasping ... sometimes, it is just too much.

i am a nomad on this earth
the purple is for spirit day
We sojourners, we need each other. This world is not our home, yes? Will you share your gypsy heart? Breathe light when the valley grows dark, breathe dark when I am distracted by false light?

When cold seeps into my bones, will you share warmth?

Will you remind me, when I forget, that our souls
are meant to walk on water?


in memory of jacob heyen