Keeping the Fields

This moment steps into the next and reconciles the tension, instantly transforming this moment to the last and the next to the present, a dizzying dissolution of slides on a reel experienced as one continuous flood of colored light. Consciousness is a cycle; like our planet's orbit that takes a year, our minds process each stimulus as intimately as each inch of earth conceives the seasons.

There is no veil. The world's dreams assault our own, weaving a gothic tapestry of conscious life. Exponential numbers of tiny electric shocks shoot across the superhighways of the mind. Our brains sling web and information crawls and darts madly, urgently and grotesquely as though there are spiders in our cortex. Neurons and synapses wait with anticipation for each rendezvous.

I meet myself again; each day between sleeps a fresh self-portrait emerges in a new medium. Each fellowship is like the lord's supper with mixed elements of fidelity and betrayal on each companion's breath.

We take each symbol into our minds like spring, experience it like summer, and render it, like fall, to understanding like winter's death and renewal with the promise of the cycle we will commit again with each word. There is life in the mind we have not explored, a life vast with possibility breathing in the spaces. There may be an underdeveloped sense of self or sense of community, for development is cumbersome and serves as the ultimate distraction.

Incarnation is the soul's excuse to revel in the beauty of itself. Give me four seasons of your soul; it is all I ask. I might want more but four is all I need to love you best. I am a perpetuated glimpse of divine energy, and so are you. I meet you and meet myself. We are the same story with one variant angle.

To live is to be the good I know and to have faith is to make myself accessible to the good I have to learn. To love is to practice the good: that which I know and that which I am learning. I make myself my home and my home is my self-diagnosis. Maybe I do not so much work, play, feed and sleep as much as I self-medicate.

Glory is waiting at the height of wisdom, still glorious in her exile, hand outstretched and ready to take me up into the tree of life. I am on a journey to a well where the water will take me back like a raindrop. My essence will disintegrate and reintegrate, destroyed and recreated a million times over, river to the sea. My mind is alchemy, turning thought into pure energy while history writes like a seismograph. I will make the needle pulse just once for my initiation, one moment and an eternity, and it will be enough.

This pen is to draw out the poison and scatter the devils to the wind, writing like a sneezing fit. For all the people I have met who have loved some part of me, these lines are my prescription. For each community that declares "This is the Kingdom!" these lines are my purging.

I knead the dough. I have purchased the fields for their treasures and I am keeping the fields. In doing so I may lose my life or your esteem, but such is my singular preference: to keep the fields.

Redemption seems to be already and not yet--the gospel still being written--full of the philosophy, poetry and prophecy of sacred texts. Our pens can be the spirit we incite for the writing of our own canon. We will illuminate the shadows of the garden again and leave our father's houses for a land we promise to ourselves. Keeping the fields where I have found my treasure, I am evolving to one simple, universal amen. I claim the soil of freedom, spontaneity and love for the cultivation of winged seeds like fallen angels.