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Poem

The miracle is restoring
joy.

Sometimes this means bringing back the dead,
Opening the eyes of the blind,
Restoring limbs,
and so on,
but these are just means to a Greater End —

Sometimes mountains must be moved,
but often one only need move the Mountain
with a kind word
a gentle touch;
sometimes it is enough to lay in the grass and know you 
       are in the palm of the Sky.

The miracle is Love,
when the fruit of the Tree of Knowing Good and Evil is 
       coughed up,
when Judgment is coughed up
and all is left is Love,
and the joy of paradise is restored,
and all is the Face of God,
the good,
the bad,
All of it the wonder of Making,
All of it the miracle of Void transformed by Word and 
        Movement,
all of the beauty and ugliness made of the same Light of 
        Making
all of it shining and wondrous
as pure as the Nothing it was Made of —

The miracle is letting go
of the hurt that was never meant to stay,
to let it drift away,
as all things were meant to do,
to let the hurt be unmade;
even Sinai was meant to slowly fade,
all things made He decreed unmade,
it is His Will
that All return to whence it came,
and hurt is just the same.

But
it feels so hard to do
when it is not
ready,
(when we love Our Will too much) —

and when it is
ready
(when His Will may have Its way)
it happens all at once,
as easy as breath,
as easy as heartbeat,
and the impossible pain
goes back to God,
back to the Void it is made of,
so suddenly 
it is a miracle.

Do your best 
to be
ready —

12/2/2020

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