xxx.

i want to be the most prized possession
of my Creator

to be a source of joy
for the giver of joy


to be the bushel of apples
in His eye
that sparkles on all of creation

i hope to be a magnificent aroma
rising like a pheonix
in desperate pursuit
to tickle
my masters nose

that he might sneeze out euphoria
upon the entire universe


i want him to wrap me up in the eternal ribbon of divinity
in the most luxurious love
to tie the silky bow of purity
more than once
around my heart


i want to open my hands
when the heavens call my name
to reach my arms across the sky
of knowledge
and rest on the clouds
with humility


i desire to present myself
as the most caring of souls
set upon roots of wisdom
like an old oak tree

to cherish friendships and loved ones
to extend copious amounts of love
to the new and to the old


i want to lose myself
in the
fetters of love

and stick
shiny ribbons of understanding
in my hair

so my loved ones can take them
as they need
like excitable children at a bazaar
carefully picking toys
they will cherish
forever


can you find a more true presentation of love
than as a gift?


what if we all climbed inside
the pinate
of love-
crammed in and bursting with
excitement

and whenever someone
hurt us
we would explode with sweet treats for them?


revenge and anger have no room inside my heart
i can only hold
peace,
hope, and
love


my lovers face is my prize
and i am his gift

he looks
upon me
with
rejoicing

and i sing for
his joy
i am here for
his joy

-me

xxix.

i spent this morning with hafiz.

. . .


that does perish.

the

earth would die

if the sun stopped kissing her.

hafiz is now such an exquisite world

that perishes

when God is not

near.

. . .


my eyes so soft.

dont

surrender

your lonliness so quickly.

let it cut more

deep.

let it ferment and season you

as few human

or even divine ingredients can.

something missing in my heart tonight

has made my eyes so soft,

my voice so

tender,

my need of God

absolutely

clear.

. . .

the God who only knows four words.

every

child

has known God,

not the God of names,

not the God of don'ts,

not the God who ever does

anything weird,

but the God who only knows four words

and keeps repeating them, saying:

"come dance with me."

come

dance

. . .


find a better job.

now

that

all your worry

has proved such an

unlucrative

business,

why

not

find a better

job

. . .

wow.

where does the real poetry

come from?

from the amorous sighs

in this moist dark when making love

with form

or

Spirit.

where does real poetry live?

in the eye that says, "wow wee!"

in the overpowering felt splendor

every sane mind knows

when it realizes- our life dance

is only for a few magic

seconds.

from the heart saying,

shouting,

"i am so damn

alive!"

. . .

the suburbs.

complaint

is only possible

when living in the suburbs

of God.

. . .

i imagine now for ages.

it

happened

again last

night:

Love

popped the cork on itself-

splattered my brains

across the

sky.

i imagine now for ages

something of hafiz

will appear

to fall like

stars.

. . .

until.

i think we are frightened every

moment of our lives

until we

know

Him.

. . .

a hole in a flute.

i am

a hole in a flute

that the Christ's breath moves through-

listen to this

music.

. . .

xxviii.

xxvii.

political schmolitical.

xxvi.

i have never met my father.

that is quite a powerful sentence. 

in my life, this is a reality. something that i have grown more and more accustomed to over the years. and through a barrage of questioning by friends early on in life . . . questions that i didnt know the answers to . . . questions like, "Does it bother you to not know your dad?", "Do you get jealous when you see girls with their dads?", "What do you do on Father's day?", "Do you miss your dad?", "Do you love your dad?", "Would you ever want to meet your dad?"- i learned how to avoid the issue all together. 

i grew up observing. observing other girls getting dropped off and picked up by their fathers from day care; observing friends pick out fathers day cards for the World's Best Dad; observing fathers proudly holding up their daughters after an elementary school choir performance; observing my sister playing around with her dad. 

i would observe these things and never discuss them. i learned from an early age that the heart can hold copious amounts of pain, and interestingly enough, be able to hide it. 

as i grew towards adolescence i dabbled in the give and takes that are the immature friendships of junior high-  "i'll give you a little of my story- you'll take a little of my trust . . ."  i remember a few rare occasions of sharing my secret with close friends- and then being confronted with that secret during an argument . . . being called a bastard is a remarkably influential way to cause a person to shut up. i felt a lot of shame during this time in my life because of these situations. . .  i didnt talk about my father much with friends after that.

throughout high school i was exceptionally numb to the idea that i was fatherless. the majority of my friends were from two parent households; and even of friends from divorced families- i was the only one who did not have a relationship with my father. but, i would never discuss it. i became a conversational wizard, of sorts- learning how to dodge questions about my 'parents' or to change the topic if family came up- i never wanted to feel like the odd one out. 

my father wrote me for the first time my freshman year of high school. he said he had had heart surgery and had a specific thought before going in- that he might pass on and would have never had the opportunity to meet me. 

a week before he wrote me i had a dream that i almost drowned on a boat. as i was sitting in the ambulance after being rescued my father came up to me with a huge bouquet of flowers. as he hugged me he told me that he thought that i could have died and he would never have had the opportunity to meet me. 

i believe God was preparing me for that encounter. 

my father and i wrote back and forth for the next couple years off and on. we still have yet to meet.

throughout my college life i experienced tremendous amounts of healing within myself in terms of my relationship with my father. i realized that its ok to be the odd one out- that it is our oddities that create beauty within this world. i also realized that i should never be afraid to share my story- for it is because of this story that i am who i am- flaws and all. that oddly enough, i am this woman now because i have not had my father in my life. 

and that thing about pain . . . the amount of pain your heart can hold- i've learned, through trial and error, to view pain not as a curse- but, rather as a blessing. because, first, and on the most basic level if we dont know pain, we are unable to experience joy; secondly, pain is what bonds us to one another- the valleys of pain in our lives point out where we should bridge the deepest bonds in our friendships- it is where we are able to understand and feel empathy for another person.  and as cliche as it may sound, i am convinced that the more pain your heart has held- the more love it is able to hold . . . and, in the end, how can that be anything but a blessing?

so, as strange as it may sound, i am not at all upset that my life has colored itself in these shades thus far. and, when my life is over- i hope people  are able to say that this was a beautiful picture- the dyes of lack, the strokes of felicity, the brushes pain- it all. 

xxv.

barbies

. . . 

while walking past the Barbie isle on a recent trip to target, my friend and i began to discuss our childhood Barbie escapades. we exchanged awesome stories about them. we described what our childhood Barbies were like, what their names were, how we played with them. after hearing my stories, my friend told me i must have been an odd child. she was right. . .

Butterscotch was my favorite (she actually wasn't a Barbie at all, but rather a cheap Mattel competitor knock off)

the name came instinctively to me, just as a pimp might name one of his ladies. "Butterscotch", I said matter-of-factly as I held her in one hand while stroking her hair with a small pink brush with the opposite. my sister asked why. i responded as any big sister would, "Hello. Look at her hair. It's like candy." 

her hair was exaggeratedly long- down to her ankles- and smooth like horse hair (which it probably was). it was the most beautiful hair i had ever seen.

she was shorter than the other Barbies- shorter than Skipper, even - I always introduced her to the rest of the Barbie clan as a Dwarf. Butterscotch the Dwarf.

my second favorite was Rebecca. she was an exceptionally beautiful Barbie. big blue eyes, long straight blonde hair, feet arched to the point that no woman could ever actually stand on them, and impossible waist to hip ratio- what every little girl dreams of being.

i always played her as the most caring and loving member of my Barbie society. all the other Barbies were jealous of her- yet no one could speak a negative thing about her because she was so kind. also, she was the only one with a pink convertible.

i had her for about a year until i fatefully decided one day that Rebecca would be diagnosed with cancer. i cut all the hair off her head (Brit-Brit style). she was never the same. yes, she was still always very kind- but much more removed from the close knit Barbie social circle than ever before. i gave her big dark sunglasses and an array of scarves for her head. 

during Rebecca's Chemo her good friend Aladdin was always by her side. he showed her true love by being the one constant in her life during such a difficult time for Rebecca. i pressed their firm plastic hands together.

Aladdin had a permanent plastic Turban on his head. when he first moved to the small community, he did not receive a very warm welcome.

he was the only Muslim in a sea of Caucasian dolls- it must have been tough for him. at first the racism was quite  intense- but, after a while the Barbies gathered together for a town-hall-style meeting to discuss the racial tension within the community. 

by the end of it, Aladdin was in the middle of a Barbie group hug and they celebrated their newly found understanding with a Pow-Wow . . . i dont know why. 

shortly after, Aladdin and Rebecca were married. 

Butterscotch was there.

i was a strange child- but, i think i am more worldly because of it. i mean, who else touched on issues of social acceptance, disability, death, racial integration/dispute resolution while playing Barbies?

i have many more stories, including Tiffany the home-wrecker who lost her leg in a car accident. maybe i'll share that one next time . . .