They jest at scars that never felt a wound.
~~~

I watch him communicate. He scratches an itch only he can feel. He stares at the sky, craning his neck. He claps at rainbows. He swats away flies on the mane. He laughs gloriously, triumphantly, and deep.

They want him to talk. They say, “Say, walk on.” And when they do, he taps the gentle mighty and we plod on. The horse drags its feet. A tug on the mane and he stops. Who needs words? Who needs to talk? Why must we fill the silence with sound? Why must we tell another?

Words are words. Anyone can say anything.
When people show you who they are, believe them.

Walk on.

I’m not doing this purposefully.

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being you.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

 I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true, I want to know if you can  disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and     not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from its presence. 

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of’ the full moon, “YES!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.  I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

 It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in empty moments.

May, 1994, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder

Sipping weak coffee and eating a stale pastry.

And then I hope you will remember

My face as I look out the window and see you

In your glamorous limo and all

The different women at your side.

Our eyes meet, eyesore rankles

And gives gloomy reminders

Of things said, or left unsaid.

But then again, maybe it is better you

Don’t notice me.

Besides,

All that is left are a few crumbs, an empty tube of toothpaste,

And some of your shirts in my closet.

gentle lightning

spinning like Orion,

full of muscle

and all the patience

of stars.

Hooked upon the pinnacle

of a desire

that arrests

itself,

caught on the crossfires

of what could be,

my mind turns to you:

A pin hole of light

that softly hums

and murmurs

whose blurry edges

beg to come into view.

forgetting words, bright

clarity appears before you…

__________

There are pictures, the doctor states, of her brain. One side has affected the rest of the body. She may not have full use of her limbs. Her language functioning still exists, but she may be incapable. There is blood. There are seizures and strokes. Nobody can give any answers. People are baffled. Priests are sent. O save me. She may not wake. She is on a ventilator and feeding tube. You wake in the night clawing  your face. Your cats nuzzle your armpit and knead your pillow.

An x-ray of grief. Listen. She is speaking to you.