Don’t tell me,
don’t talk to me,
don’t stand in my way.
You think I don’t know
that even on a good day
I am morally ambiguous?
That’s because I need to see,
to find out for myself what is
and what is not.
Don’t ask me to
agree with your views,
believe in one thing,
behave in one way
or join your gang.
I can’t, I won’t,
it’s not for me.
I don’t believe that God
favours Clubs or Churches,
or Temples or Synagogues anyway,
or lives in signs or statues either.
I believe God is in the wild places
the difficult places, the places
where His Light is needed.
And the most difficult place I know
is my own heart, a heart that trembles
with fear and anticipation
in the face of what life brings.
The sky is clear and dark,
the air is cool and I am here,
waiting in the garden
for the earth to turn.
Waiting for the light of the sun
to creep across the oceans,
over the farms and the fields
and through the buildings of this city,
waiting for it to turn the clouds pink
and fill the tree above me
with golden light.
I know of no other thing
that I can rely on as much
as the turning of the world.
I know the weight of misery,
I have carried my share my whole life long,
but what bends my back and buckles my knees
is the weight of unacknowledged and unexpressed love,
love that is just waiting to soak into this parched earth,
into our hearts and into the hearts of others.
How much would misery weigh do you think,
without the burden of love bearing upon it?
Very little I suspect, if love touched the earth
it would make light of misery.
As usual I woke up
feeling sad this morning,
now I am in the garden,
it’s 5.30am, dark, windy and balmy,
and I have thirty delicious
minutes all to myself,
here in nature, here with God,
the only one who knows me
well enough to heal me.
But it’s not really a healing is it?
It’s just that in the sound of the wind
rushing through trees and in the stillness beneath it,
I remember, just for a few moments, who I am.
Not the wounded man, broken by life,
caught between the impossible and the implacable,
depressed and angry at the wrongs meted out to him
and waiting for the sweet release of death,
but a man for whom life and death are unimportant
because they are secondary to love.
It’s stronger in the night,
in the day something else takes over,
something more reasonable
that knows what must be done
for everything and everyone else,
but not for me.
When I sleep I am newborn,
powerless to my Soul,
and though ravished
and ravaged by turn,
my heart knows no fear.