I guess the first thing I should do is to define it. Right now, at this paragraph, it is my life; and, some days I wrestle with it, and it puts up a good fight. I have no complaints, God so unconditionally smiles on me; yet, every now and again, it feels broken and out of place; much like a bone that was never set properly for healing....it hurts.
Ok, let's say that it is my choices. It now becomes life and the choices that we make. Only the results allow us to know if we hit it on the head; or, if it will bite us on the butt. We either rejoice or feel remorse about it; yet, what can you do, but live with it? It stares you in the face and doesn't let you forget that it has to be dealt with. Oftentimes, and if allowed, it will eat you alive. Sometimes, it feels impossible to live with...it is a vicious cycle of never-ending choices....it makes you crazy.
Now, this has nothing to do with it; but, it will lead into the third of it, regardless:
I am reminded of a story, whereas a young girl went to a wise woman, and confessed that she had said some things that caused hurt and pain to others. She wanted to know what she could do about it to make amends (it, ironically becomes remorse). The wise woman advised the young girl to gather up a bag of feathers, and that night, to take them and place one on the doorsteps of everyone that she'd hurt.
On the same night, the young girl did as she was instructed, and felt so relieved to know that her penalty was one of such ease. She placed the feathers on each doorstep, headed home and slept in peace. The following morning the young girl went to the wise woman and delightfully explained that her mission was complete; but, just as she was about to thank the wise woman for her advice, the wise woman explained that it was only a part of her task (it is never what it seems).
She then advised the young girl that, for the next night, she must go back and retrieve every feather that was placed on all the doorsteps. The young girl became biligerent, and exclaimed, "I can't get those feathers back; as soon as I placed them on the doorsteps, the wind took them away". The wise woman smiled, and said, "And, so like the feathers in the wind, are the words that we speak to each other; once uttered, they cannot be retrieved".
It must have been love; but, is it over now? Does it ever end? And, if so, can it ever proclaim that it was love? Is it of God? Does it go from everlasting to everlasting; does it have a beginning, and does it have an end? It is the tool we use to serve others; shall it ever be used as a tool to serve ourselves? Does the heart that gives of it, then becomes the heart that receives of it; for it knows no boundaries? It is not conditional; yet, it conditions. It is never found in discord; yet, it is the cord that binds.
It now becomes every degree of loss. It is knowing that what once was, shall never be again; it could be life, it could be the choices we made in life, it shall be the loss of love in this life....as we know it. It is everythiing, and then it is nothing at all. It will not be foretold, we must live, choose, love, and lose; and, before we know it, it is gone.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Friday, April 01, 2005
The Mighty Jungle....
In the jungle of my deepest thoughts, I asked the Lion, "what do I do wrong?" The Lion replied, "stop trying so hard", and strolls out of the forest. No elaboration, no additional comments; just, "stop trying so hard". I walk the jungle of my thoughts, because I don't know what this means; I can only know what it means when I say it to someone else. Is that a fair assessment of what it means when the Lion says it to me? In the jungle are no trees of confusion; no growths of differing accords; and, so I resolve to know that its bounty shall yield the very vines that choke the life from everything growing peacefully there....in the jungle of my deepest thoughts.
Had I never known a time when my jungle was lifeless, full of dried leaves and foliage that rendered my nurturing void, I would have never had cause to uproot the plants; would have never cast a shadow on the trees to hinder their growth; never drowned the wildflowers with discontent....all the portions that were my peace. But, I have; and I began to dislodge the Lion's seeds....not in my jungle.
'Stop trying so hard', says to me, "I'm in your jungle, but your trees give me too much oxygen; your jasmine and wild roses gives me headaches; and, your stream, that runs through the midst, makes me cold". I suspect the lion has found a more peaceful jungle; a jungle that he would much rather visit. So, I gather up all the branches of the trees that have since died there, and I barracade my jungle, for my own sake. I speak to the Lion; but, he's not invited in....to the jungle where my deepest thoughts lie. While he's not there, and with the wind, the leaves of my trees sing a song of wanting him; the wild blooms dance a tribute to the time when he was there, and I am summoned to the ground for sleep with the echoes of his footsteps.
Others ask of my jungle; want to know if the barracade will always be there....would I not share the beauty thereof. This jungle, is not for every would be 'lion'. This jungle is not found by the eye; but, by the soul of those who belong there. The Lion who speaks to my heart, doesn't realize that, my jungle is his haven, he sees me as vividly as God; and, all that is his being is a promise unfolding to me. Only the soul of one who is destined to be there, needs no invitation to be there....in the jungle of my deepest thoughts; just a place in his heart.
Time has no presence in this jungle; the Lion speaks to me, and bears his gifts, which are held in my jungle awaiting his return. If this is the jungle for him, he will return. Until then, I will nurture the ground with the essence of God; I will live in the bloom of His blessings, and I will rest in the shadows of His unthinkable joy.
Had I never known a time when my jungle was lifeless, full of dried leaves and foliage that rendered my nurturing void, I would have never had cause to uproot the plants; would have never cast a shadow on the trees to hinder their growth; never drowned the wildflowers with discontent....all the portions that were my peace. But, I have; and I began to dislodge the Lion's seeds....not in my jungle.
'Stop trying so hard', says to me, "I'm in your jungle, but your trees give me too much oxygen; your jasmine and wild roses gives me headaches; and, your stream, that runs through the midst, makes me cold". I suspect the lion has found a more peaceful jungle; a jungle that he would much rather visit. So, I gather up all the branches of the trees that have since died there, and I barracade my jungle, for my own sake. I speak to the Lion; but, he's not invited in....to the jungle where my deepest thoughts lie. While he's not there, and with the wind, the leaves of my trees sing a song of wanting him; the wild blooms dance a tribute to the time when he was there, and I am summoned to the ground for sleep with the echoes of his footsteps.
Others ask of my jungle; want to know if the barracade will always be there....would I not share the beauty thereof. This jungle, is not for every would be 'lion'. This jungle is not found by the eye; but, by the soul of those who belong there. The Lion who speaks to my heart, doesn't realize that, my jungle is his haven, he sees me as vividly as God; and, all that is his being is a promise unfolding to me. Only the soul of one who is destined to be there, needs no invitation to be there....in the jungle of my deepest thoughts; just a place in his heart.
Time has no presence in this jungle; the Lion speaks to me, and bears his gifts, which are held in my jungle awaiting his return. If this is the jungle for him, he will return. Until then, I will nurture the ground with the essence of God; I will live in the bloom of His blessings, and I will rest in the shadows of His unthinkable joy.
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