The Builder

Right impulses

drawn forth from a wayward soul,

each impulse springing from 

the deft blow of His chisel,

a new foundation molded from granite,

bedrock at His command.

The Subtle Saga of Susan - 2

Pain.  What kinds of things caused Susan pain?

The onset of another's socially tailored "approach" to herself, for example, caused Susan the pain of silent outrage.  The "tailored approach" was a person's contrived "gearing up" of face and voice to pose a "sensitive" question ("sensitive," most likely, to the other person) to Susan about herself as though she were an alien creature.  This was always the "Here comes the face" moment, when the other's face would lean in toward Susan with exaggerated intent . . . betraying the poorest acting abilities imaginable, along with rattled nerves.

Susan thought of this as the "kid gloves" approach, the utterly transparent social method of "handling" a presumably "fragile" person.  More often than not, such an approach was actually "the velvet glove that hides the fist," and the "kid gloves" would have been better applied to the emotionally unstable questioner.  Such questioners usually believed they were successfully masking some degree of their own unvented spleen, personal axes to grind lurking beneath the surface.

Picture, for a moment, the camera honing in on an aging female psychotherapist with numerous small facial tics and twitches due to unacknowledged, unmitigated resentment.  Imagine the camera moving closer and closer as the therapist's face grows larger and larger, the lens exposing each twitch of the ever-tightening lips which, themselves, compress the existence of sheer rage, lips which open only against the most extreme inner tension to form the words, "Tell me, dear, why duplicitous people upset you."

This is how the approach of "handling people" appeared to Susan.

Invariably, in such cases, the "ax" floating beneath the surface was not Susan's "ax," but rather the dissatisfaction and bitterness of another who would have done better to mind his own business with discretion and dignity.

(To be continued . . . . . )

Wings

Freed by a spontaneous act of love, the Magdalene burst out of her cage.  The men, still fettered by concerns of propriety ("wrong kind of woman") and economics ("wasting expensive oil"), wanted to put her right back in . . . . .

But Our Lord wouldn't hear of it.

The Subtle Saga of Susan - 1

Conversation, for Susan, revolved around "the real."  If a friend, in a fickle mood, happened to depart from "the real," conversation was neither desirable nor possible for Susan.  She saw no point in remaining physically available for discourse, as only pretense would result.  Pretense repelled her at the most fundamental level of her being.

What, exactly, was "the real?"  "The real" was the true essence of the person.  Susan knew "the real" of a person by the way the person's features relaxed deeply into his face, making way for the soul to come forth; by the fluidity and pace of his speech; by the absence of darting eyes and nervous or pointless gestures; by the way the person "sat" habitually in his own body.

A person, after all, could visibly remove "the real," temporarily wishing it away and adopting a new persona for purposes of social melding.  This practice was routine, Susan could not help but notice, to social butterflies, manipulators, and the more insecure types.  The minute the telltale signs of "persona change" emerged in group scenarios, Susan no longer bothered feeling dismayed.  She accepted the loss instantly, moving on to someone more genuine or -- ignorance being bliss -- to someone she did not yet know. This worked well for pain control. 

(To be continued . . . . . )

"No Room"

A poor man knocked on a rich man's door, smiling and bearing a small gift.  "I cannot receive you now," the preoccupied rich man said to his visitor, lamenting a recent theft of his earnings.  "Please leave the gift with my butler.  Thank you for thinking of me, but I have weighty matters of money on my mind.  Tokens of appreciation cannot possibly make good on what I have just lost."  The small package remained unopened for several weeks, and a maid accidentally threw it away.

The poor man then went to knock on a destitute man's door, smiling and bringing him, also, a small gift.  "I cannot receive you now," the destitute man said to his visitor, ruminating over his empty bank account.  "Thank you for thinking of me, but I have weighty matters of money on my mind.  Small gifts cannot possibly fill the needs I now have."  The little package remained in the outer vestibule, forgotten, and was eventually blown away by the wind.

Little did the rich man know that his gift package had contained notice of an estate settlement corresponding exactly to the worth of his recent loss.  Little did the destitute man know that his gift package had contained a letter offering him the job he had always wanted.

In the end, neither the rich man nor the poor man had room in his heart to receive the "widow's mite."

Liquid Relief (Amidst the Emotionally "Dry")

House empty

and out it comes:

The trunk of tears,

filled to the brim

like a portable bathtub,

locked with a key

so the pain doesn't

spill out the sides and

      trickle

          down

               the 
                   stairway, 

leaving a salt trail

back to the brimming eyes

and the beating heart

and the empty tissue box

and the hand with the key

which must, at all costs,

lock and hide the trunk

sloshing with drowned hopes and hidden woes

before it drenches the closet

and the bedroom,

bursting like a torrent

through the upper rails,

deluging the household,
swamping the yard,

and betraying the owner of trunk and tears

while alerting all local humanity

that the emotional life

really should not have to be

stored in a trunk.

Musician's Balm

Sweet, pleading strains

of the violin, please,

to ease a raging earache,

throbbing and stabbing

like a pierced, broken heart.

Like a River

Friendship . . .

a river that ripples evenly

at tranquil pace,

unruffled by breezes skidding

across its surface,

sweet haven of rest,

buoyant,

reflective,

beholden to life

within and without,

reaching forth

yet content in its place,

ever flowing,

ever renewing,

ever there.