Know Thyself – Short visits with an honest God

Hey. Is that you?
Yes.
It’s so dark it’s hard to tell.
I know. I don’t expect you to be sure.

Could you wave your cosmic baton and let there be light?
I could. But it wouldn’t help.
Why? Because then you’d hide?
No. Darkness and light are the same to me.

I don’t find that reassuring.
You’re not alone. Most don’t.
We’re on the same team, right?
No. We’re not.

But you adore swamis, crones, and mavens, don’t you?
In a manner of speaking, yes, I do.
You have a funny way of showing it.
True. And the stars agree. They’re laughing.

Sorry. I can’t hear the stars.
You can’t hear the stars. You can’t see in the dark.
It’s rude to make fun of my deficits.
That’s me. A rude, crude, dude.

Are you making a point?
Yes.
I don’t get it.
Relax.

When I relax, I’m afraid.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Nowhere I want to go.
That’s the point. Take my elbow.

I’d rather eat a snake.
No you wouldn’t.
All right. I wouldn’t.
Would you like some pizza or a protein bar?

Not really. Is that all you got?
For now, that’s about it.
Okay, then. I’m going to tally up all my dead friends.
Well, if you were wise, you’d tally the living ones.

I’m not into that positivity claptrap.
Clearly. But I must demur. Being positive can help.
Do you think the F-word is appropriate for poetry?
Absolutely. Better than puppy or paradise or peony.

Are there any right choices?
You make me a little crazy. You KNOW the answer.
But why is BEING KIND so hard?
I have no idea. In the original plan, it was easy.

I doubt you ever had a plan.
Well, you’re wrong. I have plans. So many plans.
So do I. But it’s futile to make plans, isn’t it?
Not at all. Plans are the way blood circulates.

I don’t recognize myself in this current form.
You have no actual form.
But then how will I ever know myself?
Same way you know it’s me. Leave the lights off.

You can learn a great deal by eavesdropping on yourself. You might be blowing off steam, visiting with an imaginary friend, guiding yourself with step-by-step instructions, giggling at your own joke, crooning your favorite tune, or even giving yourself a piece of your mind.

It’s sad, but some people are merciless with themselves, speaking cruelly about their inadequacies and mistakes. There’s no joy in that, trust me. Slapping yourself alongside the head, declaring “I’m an idiot” does little good in the long run. It does not alleviate the shame.

Wise people try to talk nicely to themselves. This isn’t easy. It may require borrowing the voice of someone who knew and loved you back when you were young and well-intended. Positive reinforcement and compassion from within are powerful.

And then there are those holy, mostly one-sided conversations with the Unseen and Unseeable. These visits don’t always go well. Sometimes, all we speak of is how deserving we are, whining about the unfairness of life. We demand revenge for perceived slights and offer feeble excuses for our role in the pain.

A person could drown in that slime. I’ve come close, but so far, I’ve managed to grab a life vest, paddle to a humble shore, and crawl out. There, face up on the rocky beach, I watch the wind have its way with branches and clouds.

Often, the Creator with the Kindest Eyes stops by. We admire the expanse of eternity around us, and I snuggle into the warmth of denial. She doesn’t mind. This Creator has the gentlest voice I’ve ever imported, so I bank on a few minutes of peace.

“You’re mortal,” she says after our quiet time. “And you can’t take this disarray with you anyway.”

I smile, relieved.

We take a bracing inbreath of the Now and begin putting earthly things on the shelves where they belong. Memories come untethered, sweet and tender, rank and bitter. There are a few so hilarious that we gleefully throw ourselves backwards, right into the Great Dissolution. Here, the vulnerable children we once were roll marbles over the viper’s den. And the vipers and cobras have come out to play.

I panic.

“There are wars and rumors of wars,” I shout. “Famine and pestilence on all horizons.” My chest cracks open. The children stop playing and crawl onto my lap.

“Oh, we know,” they nod, ancient and unfazed.

They wrap my beating heart in fine linen and begin singing the song I sing to myself when I can’t quite remember who I am.

It’s a lullaby. The cradle falls, but somehow, everything turns out fine.

Tag: Know Thyself

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