On Facebook

Every day

on facebook

I want to post how sad I am

and that I cry

in the night

I would like to talk about the pain that closes off my throat

but instead I write about the weather

It’s sunny today!

Sigh, rain again.

or maybe something about the fog.

Never mentioning the fog in my brain

or the rain of tears

that tempers the raging fire

my maddness has become.

I have become adept

at hiding.

Careful that no one should see

the crazy hanging out of me

like the tatty lace hem of a none too clean slip

peeping from beneath a more respectable garment

too hastily donned.

I cannot tell you where it hurts

or why

or even that it hurts at all

lest I explode, or begin to cry and never stop

dissolving myself into a puddle

So I tell you I am fine

because there is nothing else

for me to say.


Life’s Rug

Some one asked me today, how one reconciles the idea of God with tragedy, particularly tragedy that takes the lives of children. I get asked this every so often, even by those who do not know my history. So I’m writing down what I think once and for all and forever after this I will refer the asker to this piece of writing. THIS is what I think.
First of all I believe that everyone’s life has a purpose, that there is a particular point to your existence. Each of us is necessary to the whole. Once you have made you contribution to the pattern, you are outta here. There is no room on the stage for those who are just hanging about. The Greeks believed in the existence of the three fates, Clotho, who collected the wool, Lachesis, who spun the thread, and Atropos who cut it when it reached it’s end. The Celts called them, The Maiden, The Mother and The Crone and gave them similar jobs. I think it’s like the threads they are creating are being used to weave one of those fancy oriental carpets. Each thread contributes to the pattern, weaving in and out with the other threads. Some are longer, some are shorter, but eventually they all reach the point where they must be knotted, or the pattern will suffer. Sometimes the brightest threads are the shortest. Sometimes there are a bunch of threads that all look pretty much the same. All are needed though, to make the rug. Once a thread has been knotted, you must cut it. There is no longer a place for it in the pattern.
We cannot see the pattern from our place in the warf and weave, we are too close to the rug. Sometimes we are gifted with a moment of insight, lifted briefly above ourselves so that we get a glimpse of the beautiful whole before being plunged back into the mundane. Those moments are the hand of God, guiding the weaving. We will not see the full beauty of this tapestry until we pass from this world. The perspective is wrong.

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