Archive for July, 2010|Monthly archive page
In ritual. Like the seasons of the sun. Going deep within.
Bonding. Mothers and pain. And endorphins. In relationship. In an unconditional relationship. The ins and outs, the ups and downs, with each other. With changing temperatures.
The gentleness of creation. A mother. A soft wind. Soothing words.
A man with a gentle caress. When you were disabled from the deceit in your life, as a result of the decisions you had made. Left with a visible disability from the choices made over power. Or just wanting to have sex.
Endorphins. Runners and pain and endorphins. Bonding on a team. How long did it take to sculpt your body? How long had it taken to sculpt your mind? How long would it take to sculpt your soul. With a teammate?
Backing up or going forward. In ritual. Timing and cycles. And seasons.
The past. The present. And the future. Sex. Generation after generation. When YOU are in the story. A woman who knew the importance of timing. Of timing and cycles. In the story of sex.
Ritual. Over and over, the same things. An unexpected connection to God. Closeness. Physically. Within the cycles, her cycles, defenseless. Deep within, the unexpected connection.
Sex. The past. The present. And the future. As it was in the beginning. IS now. And ever shall be. The unexpected connection, this sacred part of sex. When were you in the story of hope.
The humbleness of cycles. What did it feel like to have a period each month? And should it be discussed?
Birth and birthing. Genesis. Dealing with urgency. In labor and delivery. Endorphins and pain and bonding.
Birth and death. In a culture that feared death. In a culture that more and more feared birth. The sacredness of birth. And caring. In the stories, generation after generation, of hope.
Women with the urge to reach out to others, with the urge to be touched. Again and again. In their stories of hope.
Marriage. Seeking a stake in the world, through a lover. When she never ever would let me get close, I had thought. Until I had mentioned marriage.
Closeness. The timing of marriage, played against the law of physics. With the body, mind and spirit. Mating. Children. The future.
An arranged marriage. The ritual of arranged marriages. Within or between tribes. Abraham had helped Isaac. The cycles of history from the past. And the timing of the present. Seeking a stake in the world, through a girl. The timing and cycles on life and death issues. Through a spouse, in an arranged marriage. Or through a family. After a son had the first recorded case of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, as a result of father, who had seemed responsible for the world, tried to impose a needless death in the name of God. On Mount Moriah. And PSST always affected your relationships.
Choosing one. Having to choose One. One woman. One God. The challenge to men.
The excitement. To learn what life really meant. The purpose. And what to do after discovering the purpose.
Passing it all on. Tree of Life stories. What you had so gradually come to know to be true. The struggle to recognize in daylight, in motion, this deity. Or the one woman for you. When God all too often just appeared between the cracks. When life was threatened. When the piece of art was shattered into pieces. After you had eaten the apple. The moments when you had come to know a Living God.
The relationships with a deity that the great ones had a view into. When it could drive a human crazy, when everyone wanted a piece. Of You. When everyone wanted a piece of you. Too much for only the moment. Independent contractors or employers. Or for a cheap thrill.
Tree of Life stories. The struggle to discover a deeper layer within yourself, not unlike the energy that lights a firefly. In the struggle to recognize what was actually happening.
Identity and purpose. How would you react? To love? To birth? To the humbleness of birth? In the relationship. Which had come out of what my parents had given to me. The spiritual part. The ones never really described in words. But also imposed. Marked with the signs of the imposition. I had no choice. About my birth. Or about my circumcision. Or the arranged marriage.
When so many people would die to have what I had been born into. This awe over what that life meant. The excitement.
The excitement. At moments of life. At moments of death. Visible at daybreak, at dawn. At moments of light. Before you started, when you ended. After your time spent in motion. With all of the illusions in between. Chosen People. Choosing God. When God was palpable at beginnings and ends.
When it comes to spirituality, small children get into spaces that an adult never could reach. I half suspected it also happened during pregnancy, and in the small spaces and events that led up to the moment of the pregnancy.
Looking at this photo from the Aran Islands, your author is looking west to the New World. After about a 20 year silence in listening to Cat Stevens’ songs this week, I thought of the soundtrack of that movie, “Harold & Maude.” The songs in the movie were all by Cat Stevens. And it dawned on me 6 months after returning home, that the view from the Aran Islands with a different perspective was the same westward view if you now lived in California that the“Harold & Maude” movie maker had when he presented a lot of life and death issues. Of Harold, as a kid just completing his formal education. A lot like me, in the time period the movie was made.
I did not recognize the spirituality in the music, at the time. This was during the time before Cat Stevens had his own conversion to Islam. And no one where I lived quite knew what Islam really meant. You could be isolated when you came from the Aran Islands about what was going on in the rest of the world.
I went to a burial yesterday lacking in any spirituality. Or below the acceptable level of spirituality. When we all had standards, of what was the acceptable level. My acceptable standard, like some kind of sea level. The ones set long ago either by people who lived by the sea. Or the ones set by nomads. The ones who came from the dessert. And I did not really know what to say.
Who really knows a family? Or what went on to reach the ritual of burial of this Irish Catholic woman. Who really knew the level of grief. When grief was described by Thomas Lynch, a guy who was involved with family decisions about burial in Michigan, as the tax that people paid on the richness of a life. And grief was an ongoing tax that no one knew you were paying, in the rummaging for God. On issues of birth and death. And fertility.