SOC Writing _ 19 December 2020

 Cross of Fools

 Cross myself in the cloister – in the altar, chapel, room of mystics – cross myself with wet - drip on the floor this more of me - wanting to be worn out for this – this un-bliss, this championing of the religious life in me – this place of memory – safety in these walls – comfort with the known – not knowing is an art form – get lost with the tumult of the waves – really, really lean into them – feel them press against you, push you back – say – “I’m going to keep coming“ - keep coming at you – such is life – always, relentless – one bridge crossed, another to cross – makes me cross when I realise how far I have to go, how meagre my progress seems on the therapists chair – I want to dissociate – want to be rescued – sometimes want to go back to mother - when she was there. But not an option – I feel into that which arises – on them in mirror - glimmer – hold all that comes – another thought – to intentionally bring in joy as my state of being – state of play – play joyously even though the old ways always rise – thoughts like sounds, like feelings, like everything – another noticing – but oh feelings, they are hard to leave – hard to bore into without story – sight too – judgements of a car’s passing, judgments always out at the ready by my eye – and hearing – yes, over hearing conversations – lining up the guilty and the poor – who is in – who is on their way out – it’s a mad world she said – worth going mad, berserk for a time – the bear shirt they called it in Russia. But on the other side one must with great tenderness bring the warrior to a great kindness, must take off the talons, bathe the wounds and make ready a hearty meal – for the voracious hole at the centre of everything can eat us alive. For friends, for the comfort of strangers, for a life lived with heart, soul, spirit – lift my hands and find myself adrift in a sea of blessings – wondering just where this path will lead me if I only get out the way.