to be humble
So that God does not
Have to appear to be so stingy.
O pray to be honest,
So that the Beloved is never miscast
As a cruel great miser.
I know you have a hundred complex cases
Against God in court,
But never mind, wayfarer,
Let's just get out of this mess
And pray to be loving and humble
So that the Friend will be forced to reveal
Now, I could be one of the first to say that 'prayer,' per se, has not done the housework, changed one single diaper, washed up after a puppy, or even, brought home the groceries and put them away. Nor, maybe, has prayer restored the demolished.
Recently I had the good fortune to attend a poetry reading by a poet of renown. No, drat, it was not Hafiz. This poet is a beloved college professor, and I have to admit, I was much more engaged by what he had to say in-between his poems, than the poems themselves. He is said to be very good with writing about the emotions. Oh Dear... the dreaded emotions! Perhaps his gift to the academic world is bringing up the topic of failed relationships.
Which, essentially is what politics is all about as well, and taken to the unfortunate extreme, failed wars, failed economies, and back to failed relationships. One big circle, circling around a tender, unavoidable subject... staying connected moment-to-moment, day-to-day, week-to-week, with one's god.
Our 'Artist's Way' chapter this week is entitled: Recovering Our Strength. Of course, the morning pages provided me with a snafoo right away: that being the word, "precious." I am 'supposed' to write this affirmation: Treating myself like a precious object will make me strong. Excuse me, but there are two(count them, 2) ghastly words in that "affirmation..." Precious. Object. Are you kidding?
Our afore-mentioned poet really helped with this process: I was mildly rip-roaring mad at him, for being sexist and academic and, basically, out-of-touch with what I consider 'the real world.' The more I thought about it, and the more I wrote, I realized that long ago, many many moons ago: there was a young talented woman, fresh off the farm, who innocently went off to the wild world of college. There she encountered things that she did not understand, and came to believe that the outer world defined her...
Of course, there are several thousand pages to burn through to get to "precious" and to redefine "object." Hafiz just jumps in and declares...
Is not upon
His Jeweled Dance
Don't you love it? Not even a question mark! Perhaps the relevant question is, How does one treat a precious object? Maybe like holding a puppy, breathing the warm scent of her. Maybe like watching the sun rise, standing under the clouds. Maybe like listening to the Cackling Geese? Maybe like ceaseless prayer.
Yep. I love you.