Lord, what shall I do that I
Can’t quiet myself?
Here is the bread, and
Here is the cup, and
I can’t quiet myself.
To enter the language of transformation!
To learn the importance of stillness,
With one’s hands folded!
When will my eyes of rejoicing turn peaceful?
When will my joyful feel grow still?
When will my heart stop its prancing
As over the summer grass?
Lord, I would run for you, loving the miles for your sake.
I would climb the highest tree
To be that much closer.
Lord, I will learn also to kneel down
Into the world of the invisible,
The inscrutable and the everlasting.
Then I will move no more than the leaves of a tree
On a day of no wind,
Bathed in light,
Like the wanderer who has come home at lat
And kneels in peace, done with all unnecessary thing;.
Every motion; even words.
Beyond loving then, there is stillness, emptiness, death. So much of Mary's work points us towards joy, and running towards union with love. At some point though even that is a superficial desire, a strategy to heal ourselves and be whole. How much must we let go? I suppose when a close one dies, we shock our system into contemplating that there is nothing but letting go to be done. It consumes us. Mary loses her poetry and bows down, no longer Mary of words. I lose my birds and bow down, no longer LoraKim of parrots. Ah. Nothing left but bowing and light. So I begin my day, turning to the east, turning over, in a deep bow to the sun.
What do you have left to lose?