Expansion

 Expansion

 

(“But the wisdom that comes from above is first holy, then peaceful, gentle, compliant, filled with mercy and good fruits, unbiased, sincere.” James 3:17)

 

What would I say if I knew you could see everything
in my heart? It’s elastic, and there is more than enough
room for you. But you will have to make do with darkened corners
and lamps askew. Too many see and ask for new lodging.

 

There are as many thoughts as there are minds,
as many dwellings as there are hearts.
I enjoy most neighborhoods with sky above and dirt below.
But my abode takes some getting used to;
to be honest,
I’m not quite comfortable there myself.
No wonder I seem to slide through the sidewalk cracks
so easily. Where are the gentle spirits unafraid to sit under
the holes in my ceiling?

 

Up against the sky, look at what the light can do, in that moment
you may hear everyone’s heart beating. You may hear your own
when the minute gives way to fire-lit dots on the hills.

And what you thought a single star was the universe
exploding like a chrysanthemum. Your explorations are simply
thimbles of truth.

 

We know less than is known, fewer than can be counted
minus the mistakes we’ve made in our reasoning.
We expect God to move in with us, packed in the uhaul with
the rest of our holy and righteous stuff. We expect God to
agree with us while we shoo away the shit-hole countries from
knocking on our white suburban doors. We find our holiness squandered,
call dissidents rioters, and heretics inhabit the shacks across the tracks.

 

But hearts are elastic, not ceramic. Hearts are created to expand.
The universe started smaller than a dot and has made room for
every imagination, every circus act and traveling band. There are
clouds that weigh a million pounds and
thoughts that float weightless, synapse
to perception, (can you spot the difference between the two pictures?)

 

We are so sincere we make that wax melt in our candles,
we are so fervent we keep our doors locked tight.
We are so sacred we erect borders and fences,
we are so correct we write with indelible ink.

 

Let us go to the laundry, you and me; let us stake our claim
on our purity and precision (do you still have the original buttons?)
Or, as with all cloth and earth-wear, are you willing to swear that
imperfection is our common wardrobe hid beneath capes of incomplete
polyester. 

 

Up against the sky, again, you and me; let us be little again
and let night swallow us until we see
the universe expanding to take all of existence in its grace.