Saturday, July 17, 2010

Gifts of Sorrow

Gifts of sorrow you have been given, gifts against your will, so that your soul might long to sing. A lament is a method, a way of holding close feelings that wombed may blossom into depths of poignancy and life. Regrets nurtured are the seeds of prayer, and prayer is a gateway to fulfillment beyond fulfillment or loss.

Love is that longing for what has been lost, for in love there are ecstatic unions and separations of agony. Who will find soul without love? When will love consent to uninterrupted happiness, for She weaves, and the thread moves away and then sews back together. We are apprentices, our flaws the fault in the fabric, our learnings the darnings of frayed threads. It is when love is gone that love is tested. Will love return? Will She come back to us? Have we created a noble, nurtured nest for her within our hearts? For with falcon wings, she flies, soaring. If hearts are ready, she alights and lays eggs. Will you make your boughs bowers?

Melancholy is a mode of making love She knows well, for she sees the sorrow and the struggle unavoidable in growth, and is filled with great, magnanimous compassion. In between the seedling and the oak are dark days borne alone, trials in the forest's jury of peers, reachings and missings, and sheer holdings on through the storms that make one strong and sometimes need healing.

Celebration is not the only mode of knowing love, though She loves a good feast. In loss, we find her depth ; in loss, we do her service, and penance done to love plants seeds of future pleasures.

O, beneath the sky, you will wonder, How did I survive? How could one give reckon for how one bore the varied tests that come it seems from some sadness called necessity? All you know is, awakened, you have survived, as if planted on a different shore through swathes of fog.

Life finds a way.

This Love whispers, a smile slightly breaking from Her seeming-Stoic lips ; and it is a song She sings to pines seeking light through the darkened and crowded canopy ; seeds stretching tendril in the dark and moist, hoping blind for sunlight ; larvae planted clay and loam to find their way to molting. O tender primate, weeping behind that stolid mask, you are not alone. Life is struggle, and finds a way.

If this song has come to your ears, you too have found a way, and you shall. But spurn not your sorrow ; it may guide the way in dark times, for Love hides patient behind the mask of regret. Her hair was once tied in knots, too ; her eyes forlorn and far away ; her flesh cold and longing for winter's end ; her heart broken and wondering when the beloved might arrive at last. Sing her songs. She knows. You will find it is true. She knows.


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