(not necessarily in that order)
This really hit home for me.
There are
no yesterdays
or tomorrows
in your lungs.
There is only
This moment,
This breath.
I mean, “being present” is the whole point of all my meditation practices. And yet…this somehow made it more real for me.
Thanks once again to John Roedel, whose poetry resonates so deeply in my heart and soul.
When I’m browsing Facebook and come upon a poem so deeply moving that it makes me weep, I feel compelled to share it.
(The poem is below. The above quote was shared in the Facebook comments; it’s so perfect I had to use it here.)
when I am tested by the complexities of
our modern world, I retreat to the simplest truth I have slowly come to understand:
I cannot hush the roar of a hurricane
or persuade an earthquake to spare the walls I’ve built for my home
my influence on this life is small and I control very little
except for:
1) the softness of my voice
when I speak to myself—
and
2) the gentleness of my hands
when I reach for others
my love,
if we hold fast to
these two things,
how can either of us
fail this great exam
we all must take?
~ john roedel
I did a quick share of this on Facebook this morning, but seeing as how it remained in my mind and on my heart throughout the day, I realized I had more to say about it.
First of all, I’ve been loving the poems of John Roedel since I discovered him during the pandemic. His words have touched me deeply over the years, and today’s poem was no different.
I’ve been reflecting on how this poem has a very “both/and” perspective — something that is so lacking in the world right now. The ability to acknowledge how things are, but at the same time, refusing to let the craziness overwhelm us or cast us down into despair. It’s definitely a delicate balancing act.
Anyway, the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that — in times like these — being kind and gentle, and going easy on ourselves and others, is a powerful and radical act.
Enjoy the poem.
there’s no handbook
for any of this
there are no hard and
fast rules for times
like these
~ you’re doing the best you can
holding things together
while the world falls apart
in this age of fear and fret
you don’t need to be perfect;
you just need to be gentle
~ with yourself and everyone else
because that’s all you
can really control, isn’t it?
yes, things might unravel a
bit more before this is
all done
~you might come undone as well
and it’s okay if
you do
because
while the world
is resetting
it’s router
we can take turns
deciding who gets
to cry on the couch
we can take turns becoming
a balm for one another
we can take turns yelling
up into the silent sky
we can take turns
having insomnia
we can take turns being
confessionals for one another
we can take turns brushing
the tears off of each other’s face
we can take turns inviting
the butterflies to swarm us
my love,
don’t worry about getting
all of this right
you won’t
don’t worry about making
mistakes
you will
~ you’re doing the best you can
and
remember
there is only one great commandment for
enduring a year like this one
~ and that commandment is this:
go easy,
my love,
go easy
~ john roedel
(art by the wonderful Tricia Robinson Art)
I’ve shared poems by John Roedel before; I love his stuff. This one is the result of his experience this morning. I found it powerfully perfect for Easter.
(It’s okay if you’re not up for reading a long poem. I’m happy to give away the ending: Hope endures.) 🌻
The poet sat at his computer for two hours on Easter morning without being able to produce a single word.
His hands resting on the keyboard like starfish drying out on a beach. His eyes fixated on the blinking cursor that mocked him with every flutter.
He had so much he wanted to say to you – but couldn’t find a way to start.
The poet knew you likely also had such a weight on your shoulders and he just wanted to find a way to take some of it off before you were crushed by the heaviness of everything.
The poet closed his
eyes and he could feel it all.
All of the heavy emotions of the world were seeping under the door. The despair started wrapping him as if it were a hungry python.
The snake slid under the poet’s tear duct and made his way down to the his heart.
All of the fear.
All of the sadness.
All of the anger.
All of the war.
All of the greed.
All of the inhumanity.
It all coiled around the poet until he couldn’t focus on anything but the endless anguish of the world.
“Write something,” the poet hissed at himself through his pursed lips.
He figured if he could start with a single word to get the ball rolling – anything.
Just write something.
Now.
Write.
Go!
Nothing happened.
No words came.
The hands of the poet
remained still.
So so so still.
The emotions of the planet were swallowing him up and soon he felt he might be gone altogether.
When his family would come looking for him they would just find his shoes and an untyped document. Every other little bit of him would be devoured by the darkness.
The poet looked out the window.
The world was raging.
Everyone was holding signs.
Everyone was shouting at each other. Everyone was building fences between one another.
The python of despair continued to tighten around his heart.
“This is how it ends,” the snake said as it began to squeeze his heart like a breakfast grapefruit.
The poet could feel the tightness in his chest. He could feel the despair pinch itself around him. He took a gasping breath and watched for the darkness he assumed that was about ready to rise up out of the floorboards and gobble him up up up.
The poet and the python waited for his end to come – but that is when the miracle happened.
The harder the snake
coiled around
his heart the more light
poured out of the poet’s eyes.
At first, the light was subtle – like little particles of glowing dust caught under the lights above.
The snake’s expression changed to as if to say “Uh oh.”
The emotions of the world hissed louder and started to squeeze as tight as it could around the poet.
As that happened, the light from his eyes sharpened into beams, then lightning, melting the snake.
The heat of the light pouring out of the eyes of the poet melted the snake down like an old Lenten candle.
“What’s happening?” the python asked.
“I’m not sure. But I think the more despair you tried to smother me with the more hope seemed to squeeze out of me,” the poet said.
“Oh…damn,” the python groaned as it became a purple puddle of waxy sadness and grief.
The poet looked back out through the window. The world was still raging. People were still screaming at each other. However, this time, none of that scared him nearly as much.
This time the poet knew exactly what to write to you on this Easter morning.
It was his shortest poem ever.
“Hope endures,” he typed.
~ john roedel
This really spoke to me today. Such an important reminder…BE KIND. Not just to others, but also to OURSELVES!
Me: Hey God.
God: Hello, My love.
Me: The world is completely out of control!
God: I know. It’s such an adventure, right?
Me: No! It’s like being on a runaway train! I need to feel like I am in control of my life.
God: You want to be in control?
Me: Yes!
God: You are living on a spinning wet rock of a planet that resides next to a constantly exploding fireball in the middle of an ever-expanding universe that is filled with mysteries beyond your wildest imagination.
Me: Um, okay….
God: And on this planet that you are hurtling through the great expanse in — you are coexisting with billions of other people who have free-will and their own experiences that shape their perspectives and beliefs.
Me: Yeah…?
God: And while all this is going on your soul is residing in a physical body that is such a miracle of delicate engineering that at any given moment could produce its last heartbeat.
Me: Right…
God: What is it about your existence that you think you have any control of?
Me: Um…
God: Come on — you know the answer to this. What can you control?
Me: How kind I am to people?
God: Yep and one other thing.
Me: What’s that?
God: How kind you are to yourself. Aside from that — most of everything else is a bit outside of your design.
Me: This is a bit terrifying…
God: All great adventures are!
~ john roedel
“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” — Mahatma Ghandi
I’m continuing to reflect on Parvati’s Sunday talk, which is maybe why I keep seeing quotes that seem to relate.
The reading for the week’s topic was Living in the Presence of God (from Rays of the One Light by Swami Kriyananda), which starts with these words:
In the Gospel of St. Matthew, Chapter 25, we read of a King – capitalized, for the reference is to God – who welcomes certain devotees to the divine consciousness, saying, “I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.”
The elect asked him when it was they had served Him in these ways, and the King answered, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Listening to the reading a memory surfaced of hearing that scripture for the first time at Sunnyhills Methodist Church in Milpitas when I was just a little girl. I still find it profoundly moving today.
On Sunday I saw more clearly the difference between helping only the person as opposed to serving God through that person. Like what Mother Teresa said about each person being “Jesus in disguise.”
“I see God in every human being. When I wash the leper’s wounds I feel I am nursing the Lord himself. Is it not a beautiful experience?” — Mother Teresa
Each of us has to find our right way to serve. After all, we certainly don’t all have the exact same calling. But whatever we do, we need to do it in the full awareness that every person is a child of God, and that we are serving God through them.
It’s been a while since I shared one of John Roedel‘s amazing poems.
Ramesha read this one today and was deeply touched. He thought I might want to put it in tonight’s blog, and he was right.
on my last day
here on Earth
let me be like I
was on my very
first day
let me be
ready for my
great voyage
between worlds
let me be
ready to ride the cosmic
river of the vast unknown
on my last day
here on Earth
let me be like I
was on my very first
let me be
ready to see what
all the fuss is on
the other side of
the womb that I’ve been
hearing so much about
let me be
ready to be bathed in
a light that I could have
never have imagined
let me be
ready to be held in
the arms by my lovely
creator and to feel safer
than I ever have before
on my last day
here on Earth
let me be like I
was on my very first
let me be
ready to see the smiling faces
of all those who have been
eagerly waiting to meet me
let me be
ready to be swaddled up
in the warmest cotton
blanket of fresh starts
on my last day
here on Earth
let me be like
I was on my very first
covered in the
miracle of creation
no wonder newborn
babies cry
no wonder 45-year old
men cry
it’s all such an adventure
it’s all such a journey
it’s all such a circle
it’s all such a flowing river
it’s all such an endless passage
it’s all such a mystery
and it goes on and on and on
and on and on
it all goes on
and we go on and on and on
and on and on
we all go on
oh, divine light
oh, sacred spirit
oh, God
please let me
go on and on and on
and on and on
oh, I can’t wait to see
what comes next
~ john roedel
Me: Hey God.
God: Hey John.
Me: Can you make me into a new person?
God: Nope.
Me: Okay – let me try again. Can you PLEASE make me into a new person?
God: Nope.
Me: Why not?
God: Because you haven’t tried being the person I created you to be yet.
Me: But that person is broken. I have so many holes in my heart.
God: So do all of my favorite musical instruments!
Me: What?
God: Make your brokenness into a song.
Thus begins yet another of John Roedel’s amazing writings. It goes on for quite a bit longer, but it’s well worth reading.
Another phrase that really spoke to me is:
I’m not a new creation
I’m an ancient song
I’ve been a woodwind
instrument of the divine all along
And:
oh my love,
take my hand
and listen to
hope turn my heart
into a flute
Okay, I’ll stop now, before I end up copying the entire poem into this blog post!
[Warning: this is a long one, but well worth it, I believe!]
Today I’m sharing something I read on Facebook, written by John Roedel. What he wrote — especially the poem! — resonated on a very deep level for me. Memories of my own dark moments of despair surfaced, and I believe some healing happened through the powerful experience his writings invoked.
I’m sharing what he wrote in its entirety, then I’ll share more about my own experience tomorrow…
Recently, I woke up at 4 a.m. feeling crushed under the weight of my anxiety. Unpaid bills. Graying hair. Strained relationships. Health problems of a loved one. Struggling writing career. Relentless bouts of depression. Self-doubt. Anxiety. Regret.
It was all laying on my chest like a cannonball. I have never felt this type of despair before.
I crawled out of my bed and walked across the street to find a park bench to cry alone on. I didn’t want my family to see me like this. I didn’t want God to see me like this.
I was at the edge of all that I could handle.
I put my hands in my face and just let it all out. Everything I had been holding onto. All my grief. All my sorrow. All of my fear. All of my pain.
It all poured out of my eyes. I hadn’t cried like this in a decade. The guttural groaning coming from me probably scared a couple squirrels into believing a wolf had made its way into town to eat a fat-tailed rodent for a snack.
I cried and cried until the sun came up. With my face buried so deeply in my palms I could hear my thumping pulse against my cheek. I felt each tear squeeze their way through the gaps in my finger.
It was like I was melting right there on that park bench. I figured in a couple hours a jogger would have to jump over the middle-aged puddle of clothes and hair that I would soon become.
My inner muse whispered in my ear like she always does in these moments when I’m barely holding on.
She told me to “write something.”
That was her usual prescription for helping me through a panic attack like this.
“No,” I replied out loud.
The nearby squirrels looked ar me with concern in their pebble eyes as I argued with my invisible angels.
I didn’t want to put it all on paper -or in this case on my phone. I didn’t want to write about this unseen heartbreak I was going through. I didn’t want to read it. I just wanted to melt down into a drain. I was too tired to do anything else.
“Open your eyes, John,” my muse spoke softly.
“Why?”
“Because you’re about to miss it,” she said. I swear I could feel a pair of lips kiss my forehead.
I lifted my head. The sun was peeking. The darkness was the one that was melting away and I was still there – yet so was my anxiety.
“Miss what?” I asked.
My muse didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.
A lovely dragonfly was hovering about four feet away from me. She must have come to the bench to celebrate the coming day. We looked at each other. One of us was breaking and the other was honoring the breaking dawn.
“It’s all so beautiful,” my muse said through the sound of the dragonfly’s whisking wings.
“Yes, it is,” I admitted through my post-sob dry heaving.
The dragonfly danced for me. Up, down. Right. Left. It was just the two of us.
“Now…write…” my muse said.
I pulled out my phone and wrote this:
******
I wasn’t going to
write a poem today
then I worried that if I didn’t
that I might start to forget
how terrifying and beautiful
this whole experience is
I would love to quit writing
about the knots in my stomach
and the rivers of grace I often
find myself swimming naked in
but I think doing they would be
the first step in taking
the mystery of each of those
mystical riddles for granted
and I’d rather be mocked and made
to feel humiliated for my vulnerability
than to be bored
by the distinctive
music that the wings of
a dragonfly makes
when it joins the harmony
of the near-silent sobbing
I produce while sitting at a
park bench at sunup
the frequency of it’s outstretched wings
the tone of my sentimental tears
blend simultaneously to create
the song of sunrise
two unwitting poets
writing lyrics
together under the
crawling shadows of
first light
one writing with her furious
anisoptera form
the other with his trembling
hands
both poets unafraid
of remaining authentic
to the growing melody
that’s been playing
inside each of them
since they
first hatched
both poets unsure
that they will
survive this day
without being under
the boot of an enemy
we didn’t know we had
both poets
recognizing their fragile
role in the beautiful
play they have been
cast in
both poets
equally considered
grotesque or lovely
depending on which
set of eyes look upon
them
both poets taking
inventory and
writing their story
one blurry wing beat
and
one thirsty written line
at a time
a lemonade dragonfly hovering
a blueberry man considering
a pineapple horizon pouring
a pair of cracked coconut wings
a single fresh watermelon smile
a very sweet start
to a very new day
I wasn’t going to
write a poem today
but then I remembered
that I was already living
inside of one
~ john roedel
I just discovered John Roedel’s God and John Facebook page (thanks to my friend, Erin!) and I’m loving the wisdom and insights.
Many of his posts are pretty long — thought provoking and profoundly moving, but too long to give you a taste in a blog post. But here’s a fairly short one that will give you an idea…
Me: Hey God.
God: Hey John.
Me: My past is holding me down.
God: That’s impossible.
Me: Why? I feel tied to it.
God: Your past doesn’t have any fingers. It can’t tie anything. You’re the one who has knotted it to your wrist.
Me: I’ve made too many mistakes to ever be free of it.
God: Forgiveness begins with the simple act untying yourself from who you used to be. So you can be free to fly away and become something beautiful.
Me: Here I go…
Guilt: Bye John.
Me: I’m floating!
God: Enjoy the view!
~Author: John Roedel
Check it out!