What is failure?
What wounds the heart?
The razor’s edge of integrity
a fine line, a vast chasm,
between what is true
and what we wish could be.
How we betray each other again and again.
Lifetimes of layered lies,
regrets, recriminations, revenge.
Born of sorrow, born of pain.
This distortion of creation,
like snaking fire through a wood,
slowly overtakes all that is life-giving,
turning fertility into a dangerous thing
that only creates more suffering.
What is failure?
What wounds the heart?
Truth is a fluid thing,
words medicine or poison,
bringing healing,
or piercing the tender flesh of being,
depending on intention, and timing.
Yet somethings are absolute.
I hold a banner high.
Inviting the fullness of pure fire.
Comfortable in my own righteous anger,
Confusing the quest for impeccability with the living of it.
Many times I have lied.
Splitting my tongue, spitting deception,
needling under another’s skin
to plant deadly seeds.
Countless lifetimes
marked by fear, need,
sabotage, poverty, hypocrisy,
and other veils of the Maya.
Does my past, my endlessly fractaling failure
make me only worthy of the worst of others?
What is sacred?
What heals the heart?
How do I find the glen wherein forgiveness dwells,
the scented meadow where everything has a place
and everything is understood as a gift?
I can hide from the fire,
but it snakes through my veins,
settles into the pit of nausea,
stirs the stench of injustice,
and stealthily laps at the edges of my garden heart,
threatening to make it a barren desert.
Yet this rage only covers the bottomless sadness,
the endless prison of never trusting
never trusting anyone,
until they find a way to prove me right.
Where does forgiveness live
when the wound is ancient, endless,
only inflamed by this latest sin?
Seeking the unconditional in this conditioned world.
Are some actions unforgivable,
words unrepeatable,
windings and bindings
no amount of prayerful fire can purify?
Wondering if it is betrayal of self to continue loving one
who has perpetrated or perpetuated the pain of separation
from the fire of truth,
or an absolution
that would set us all free.
No strategy left but to offer it all up.
All of it a sacrifice.
The despising of self and others.
The layers of blame and shame.
My forked tongue and blood-stained blade,
pulled from my back, pulled from yours.
My longing for a healthier way.
Holding an open, at last unclenched hand.
Praying for the courage to love anyway.