You have always worn this light:
light which burns,
which heals by cauterizing–
cold light that washes faces,
This light that comes forth
from Your eyes
it seizes up when it enters our skin,
passing through our pores,
thickens in our blood
and our love is crystallized.
Our lungs fill with this light.
It tumbles out of our mouths
in song and in weeping for joy.
In Your presence it washes over us
coating our skin and sealing our lips
until all we can see,
taste, touch, or be
In this light You engulf us,
turn us to shining stone.
You gather us to Your heart
with waves of it
and as the tide of this light recedes,
what remains is only Yours.
I have touched the hem of this light
which ripples over the ground like skirts,
robes, garments passing over the skin
and feet of followers in the crowd.
I have let it into my body.
This light has burned, drowned,
and calcified me
and I give thanks that I may carry it,
bearing it within me,
proud to be one tempered by Your love.
Day Four: Beginnings
My first experiences with my gods:
He is there in the darkness, waiting for me to come. I come with my eyes closed, breathing slow and measured, in stillness and silence. I come staring into the center of myself, waiting for myself to expand outward–and He is there. His eyes drive mine away. It is gentle, unthreatening, but nonetheless His visage is too much for me to take in.
“When you can meet My eyes, you will understand.”
It is late and I am lying in bed, mumbling quietly to the force that has been pulling at my heart. She comes while I try to sleep, calling and calling until I feel like I am driven mad. She stares at me through the eye of the moon, filmed by clouds as I dance barefoot in the evening tide: my first taste of divine ecstasy. My companion thinks I’ve lost my mind. She remains unnamed for months, but I feel Her presence in my core.
Day Five: Forgiveness:
What is there to forgive? What could I have done in my life that the gods would need to forgive me? They don’t operate on the same level as I do. They don’t focus on the same things I do. Did I leave Their offerings too long? Did I let Their shrine become untidy? They have already forgiven me by making me human.
More than anything, They teach me to forgive myself–to allow myself to be flawed and imperfect and human. When I bow before them in angst because I have been away too long, They remain. When I fear Their reprimand for having been too busy or too unwell to honor Them, They remind me that there is no shame in that. To honor Them is a blessing; to remain distant is painful, but it is no insult. And so I learn to forgive.
No god designed the calendar that moves with us,
that breathes with us,
inhaling and exhaling years and milestones.
We make the days sacred by our own design.
We consecrate them with our plans,
anoint them with our tears
and sing hymns with the peals of our laughter.
We nimbly navigate the scaffold of holy days
that frames and braces ordinary time.
In truth, these days hold us up
and strengthen us;
they allow us to be renewed.
They mark the time that circles us,
enfolding us in that which is greater
than we can be.
And still, when the day comes
that we have chosen to set apart
we step beyond the widening spiral of years.
We define our holiest calendar,
the festivals with the greatest light.
The time that winds around us makes us smaller
and the time that we arrange
can make us great.
I miss the sense of you beneath my skin,
fur and teeth and tail,
speaking with your language
braced against my tongue.
I pace on pavement,
squint my eyes against the sun–
Her Eye peering into mine.
Stubbornly I stow Your roads,
Mother’s fire, the feather,
the light of Your heart.
I can bear the mantle
of the Queen of Heaven’s daughter,
because I am.
I can trace Your dust-shod footprints,
King of the Highway,
because I am Yours.
Lord of my life, come to me again;
remind me of the wealth and pleasure
in drawing near to You —
in lowering myself before You,
at Your feet, candles and incense —
in filling myself with Your love.
You’ve made my radio Your gentle hand again. In my internal vision You are before me, hands in mine, your forehead pressed against mine, my tears streaking your smoke-gray fur.
All this hurts so very much, but here You are, and the radio plays Your song. You sing, and I sing with You, and on I travel.