Places in the Heart

"There are places in the heart that do not yet exist;
  suffering has to enter in for them to come to be".

[Leon Bloy]

God in heaven

      Watching you and me

God in heaven

      Is sad as he can be.

                ~

The hurt we feel

      Does pierce His heart

But the hurt we feel

      Is just a part

Of the hurt inside His heart.

               ~

God feels our pain

      And others' too

It may be feeling hurt

      Is all He gets to do.

              ~

The world he made

      Has gone astray

So sad he feels

      To see what people do and say.

              ~

So sad is He

      That He's depressed

That He's worn out

      And sad as death.

              ~

Perhaps our God

      Is like us too

That when He's sad

      And feeling blue,

He cannot even tie his shoe.

              ~

Perhaps He lies

      In bed all day

And can't make hay

      Or even play.

              ~

Perhaps these hurts

      He feels

Are such,

      He can't do much.

             ~

He can't get up,

      Get dressed, get food

And all He does

      Is lie in bed - and brood.

             ~

The worries that A God can have

So heavy, heavy do they weigh

      That He's depressed,

      That He's inert

For all the long of a Godly day.

             ~

He may need help

      But cannot call

Who's thought that

      God needs help at all?

             ~

It makes me very sad to think

      That God's so hurt and lonely

      (And no one thinks of this at all)  

That nothing does He get to do,

      But suffer only.

             ~

To suffer for eternity

      In hopes the world will change

And all He gets for this

      Is hopes and prayers and

Curses for the things he doesn't arrange.

             ~

I don't think I would like to be

A God like this - who cries all day 
And sees all pain

      And suffers still

      And still again

And suffers every, every day

And feels our pain in every way.

             ~

It's bad enough

For me to know

That suffering

That has brought you low.

            ~

If I had had to know - What He has seen and felt

I don't think I could bear to know

And feel - and still go on.

            ~

I'd get depressed and cry all day

And feel so sad - in a Holy way

And I'd give up and say:

      "I'm tired of being God this way!"

            ~

I'm tired of knowing all the woes

       And all the hurts and all the pain;

I'm sick to death of suffering.

       Please can't I die?

And not go through all this again?

            ~

But God can't die

He only lives

For all eternity

Alone and sad, a whole world's pain

He bears for you and me.

            ~

I could go on - in the middle of the night

Telling you all about God's plight.

Like I, He cannot sleep

So sad is He, so sad, so deep.

            ~

Imagine being god

      Where day and night

      Without surcease

He watches all our sufferings

      And takes them in His heart

And can do nothing more - That is his part.

            ~

So when you're sad - and He can't help

           At least you're in - His suffering heart.

1-31-94

Written for one who suffered much.
Dedicated to all who suffer without comprehension.

I have learned a little - in my work - of Divine Compassion:
Love for - and with - those who suffer.
This suffering love, in which I have participated,
This compassion, which has enlarged my heart,
I cannot call it "mine" alone.
It teaches me - from whence it comes.

Travel to a Maine Island - in your Mind

Getting to the island is an adventure.  From the mainland you first arrive to an A-Frame base camp, a tiny structure surrounded by a small lawn of mowed, fading weeds.  From your vantage point high above the shore you can see many large islands, where tall pines and weathered fishing boats abound.  It's clear this is not a picturesque tourist town.  Piers are old and sagging.  Fishing boats are well worn and practical.  Even the few summer inhabitants take pride in having a Maine lobster boat (specially made of course) as their water transport.  It's hard to believe you're looking at the ocean.  All you can see in every direction are pieces of land - islands beyond islands - looking more like just another piece of the land you're standing on.

Having taken your fill of the view, you now head for the steps down to the seashore far below.  Many, many, many steps - down and down and down - you're glad you're going down them, and you wonder how much energy it will take to get back up on your return.  If it's high tide you hardly need to walk to get to the boat - a simple open aluminum boat with an outboard motor, life-jackets, and a removable ship-to-shore radio.  If it's low tide, you've got quite a hike across muddy, sandy beach.  You've got on wading boots too, because there's no dock for the boat, so it's anchored out in the water.  You resist the temptation to look for shells and stones - although it's pretty hard.  Then - wading in the water, you enjoy the feeling of the boots sinking into mud.  And you see the sparkle of gasoline rainbow colors on the surface of the water.

In the boat you put on a life jacket and take a seat - in the front or the middle - since you don't need to steer.  And you're off - going pretty fast - in the bright sunshine.  The wind whipping your hair.  The noise of the motor drowning out speech or the sounds of nature.  You're glad you've got on your windbreaker and a sunhat that's safely tied. You let your hand dangle in the water for a while and you watch the seagulls, noticing from sea level how high up the piers and the houses on the shore look.  Closer up, the houses begin to look small and sad and old.

You're weaving in and out and past islands; you've lost all bearings now.  Where did you start from?  Where are you going?  It takes maybe half an hour - going at a pretty fast clip - before you begin to leave the inhabited islands behind.  The islands around now look more beautiful, perhaps a bit lonely, but no longer dejected because of sad old piers and rundown houses.

You have to approach the island at high tide, and in one particular spot, where the boat can sit next to some smooth slate-colored bedrock that drops off very steeply in the low tide.  Even at high tide, it's a slippery trick getting up the rocks, hanging onto seaweed, taking a hand from someone in the boat and someone else already on shore.

You realize how dependent you are - on the boat, on the radio, on the life jackets, on the engine, on the wading boots and helping hands, on the food and water others have brought here.  The water is very cold and there is no way you could leave by swimming.  Only at low tide,  and then only with wading boots, going very slowly over the mudflats, could you get to the larger island nearby -  an uninhabited place.  It is comforting that salmon pools nearby are visited twice a day, when the salmon are fed.  For you are here - unable to see land, unable even to see open water - surrounded by lonely seas and quiet islands, stretching all around as far as the eye can see - even with powerful binoculars.

Nature is a wonderful gift.  But this patch of nature also brings appreciation for fellow travelers who've taken you in, will provide you with shelter and food and transport and good company.

Waterfalls - a Meditation

Written for use in hypnosis. Read slowly. Allow the words and images to relax you. Or record them for yourself... slowly, peacefully. One phrase at a time. Lingering over the pauses. Or have someone who cares about you do that. Let your mind vary the imagery. Change whatever it needs to. For your benefit.

Entering the woods... you feel an immediate difference in temperature: As you walk under the green leafy trees. Enjoying the crunch of last year's leaves beneath your feet. Noticing the colors and shapes: Of bark on different trees. The soft green ferns, and little seedlings close to the ground.... And the sunlight - filtering down - here and there... amongst the shadows - cast by trees, towering overhead.... and glimpses of blue sky high above the treetops.

As you walk in the sheltering forest, you listen for songs of birds, and watch scurrying chipmunks, rabbits, deer, and busy bugs. And you begin to hear the sound of water. First the trickling of a nearby stream. And then - as you walk deeper into the welcoming woods - you can hear the rushing sound of water... falling... and crashing... onto rocks.

You walk closer to the stream, straining to look ahead where the water is falling. And you catch a glimpse of a waterfall just ahead - as you continue to walk - picking your way, around trees and over rocks, sometimes holding onto branches to keep from falling into the stream. Looking for a spot where you can stop and sit for a while and gaze with wonder and enjoyment on this lovely waterfall. Listening eagerly to the sound of water falling from the cliff above onto the rocks below. Watching it foam and froth, bubble and splash, as it streams down... down... down... in a spectacular display of natural splendor.

Restful sky.  Peaceful trees. Water rushing over rocks and falling - in an ever changing water ballet. Creating its own music. Reflecting the sunlight. Sprays of water leaping into the air - where you can see a lovely rainbow begin to form, hovering in the air, framing the waterfall and the surrounding scene - like a glimpse of heaven, lingering for a while, and then slowly fading.

You close your eyes and you can still see it - in your mind's eye - as you listen to the water gushing, and the birds singing, and the wind in the trees - smelling the freshness of the air, and being reminded of other times and places, where you felt a similar sense of awe and wonder - of peace and tranquility.....

You can do an internet search using "woods" or "waterfalls" - and find photos to make use of - extending your own imagery or this experience. If you want to. Or you can simply rest in the images your mind provides. Again. And again. There are so many beautiful photos available on the web..... And so much beauty in nature all around you. Or in your mind's eye - any time you want it.

The Hidden Face

The hidden face –

of sorrow
sadness
pain and
longing

Her sunken eyes –

buried beneath a weight so heavy
the pain cannot be told
cannot be named

Nor measured out –

except in tears
of darkest hue

This hidden face -- accuses YOU

You were not there
When she did call
And no one ever came at all

No one knew the woes she bore
Nor did they see the wounds so sore

The wounds are hidden in her soul
her hidden face
her eyes, her gaze

They pierce my heart with guilt and shame
I bear the sorrow that they name

She tried to give this face to me
But then her beauty she did see
And anger too, for fear that I
Would miss the pain that made her cry

And so I wrote this poem to
be sure she knew

1-30-94

In the beginning...

I met an angel unaware.
In earthly form she met me there.

Disguised she was.
I knew her still.

Her eyes of sadness beauty spoke.
She wore her suffering like a cloak.
Yet underneath the gold shone through.

My angel did not know herself.
Through knowing me her knowledge grew.

Until at last she too could see.
Her beauty lost – anew set free.

12-17-92

The Garden

Once upon a time there was a gardener. This was a person who had some extra land, plenty of time, and an interest in nurturing growth. The land wasn't perfect of course, but it had streams of water, plenty of soil, varying conditions of shade and sunlight, and lovely views, some intimate and protecting, others expansive and awesome.

Instead of sitting down and planning out a rigid pattern for the garden, complete with yearly and seasonal routines for planting, pruning, watering, weeding, and so on, the gardener took in sick and orphaned plants and nursed them back to health, enjoying the variety and challenges and surprises which this approach afforded. Some people might have hated such a garden, with its unexpected arrivals, unknown times for sprouting and blossoming. But this gardener loved the unexpected, knew that watching and waiting and patience would be rewarded, enjoyed each phase of growth, appreciated the bare branches of winter, the buds of spring, the falling leaves, the pattern of the branches on snow, the rustling leaves and shifting paths of sunlight on a summer day.

Of course the gardener had a great deal to do, figuring out exactly what growing conditions each plant needed, especially as many arrived so stunted and sick that it was impossible to tell what they were or might become in time. Sometimes it was best to leave a plant in its own pot for some time, moving it here and there to find out how much sunlight or water it needed, how much room it might require once it got to spreading outward or upward. Sometimes it was best to plant it right away, relying on instinct or past experience, because the roots could not take being confined or the plant could not tolerate much change.

Some plants were so used to being in a planned garden, that it took them some time to understand this gardener's method. They continued to follow previous plans from other gardens, assuming that those plans operated in this one too, trying to bloom on schedule, worrying when not in bloom, as if that was all they existed for. Some worried about their roots, trying to confine them to the size of the previous pot or wanting to dust them off and keep them out of the dirt. Some worried about stems or branches, expecting them to stay the same and not to change. Some drooped and wilted in the remembered heat or drought of other gardens, refusing to give in to new conditions, not taking any chances, fearful of growth, expecting to be uprooted any day.

It was with these delicate and difficult plants that the gardener took the most trouble. They required a lot more patience and trust in the gardener's skills. They took longer to grow. They might not bloom for years and years. But since the gardener wasn't preoccupied with blooms, but rather with plants, that didn't bother the gardener at all, though it bothered the plants a great deal, especially those plants who had only been prized for their blooms before.

How sad, thought the gardener. Blossoms come only once a year, sometimes only every few years. Roots need soil and mud. Leaves look lovely in rain. Each sprout is beautiful, whether springing from the soil or on a branch. Each shade of green is special. The play of sunlight and shadow gives unexpected excitement to the familiar. How sad to place standards of beauty by decree, to prize only a blossom, to judge a plant for its shape or size, for whether it bends or stays straight, to grow it only for its fruit or for lumber or for its shade.

And some of the plants took this sadness as disappointment, as not growing according to plan. They redoubled their efforts to recall another garden, as if their whole reason for being were to grace a garden and please a gardener. They missed the point entirely. They forgot to be themselves.

6/25/92

A small difference

It was to the most damaged individuals I always felt drawn - those people who didn't know themselves and fought to keep me from knowing them. People who needed a large commitment of time and caring. The very people our healthcare system lets fall through the cracks. And all my life - even as a child - I reached out to the lonely, those on the fringes, the unwanted, the unloved. And in a small way I have made a difference - but this is a population that does not easily endure relationship. And even for the therapist endurance in the face of such ambivalence is very painful.