Sometimes, you find a friend who is on a journey parallel to your own faith journey. The journeys don't look exactly the same, but the camaraderie and understanding is there. At least, that's how I feel. Especially when I read her words. Sarah Murray is one of my favorite poets. Ever. When you read her words, if you haven't already, you will understand. She has her finger on the pulse of the world; the dialect of timelessness. I am pleased, and it's the sort of pleased that really looks much more like giddy, to host her words in my blog's living room today. I'm so glad she said yes to being my guest. Please, do be sure to visit her blog and leave her some comment love.
She talked of the wilderness with no inﬂection, A sweet treble set in ﬁrm
expectation of the landing. My dancing ﬁngers were not so sure. The writhing
cloves ascend in exaltation to the peaks of rooftops, Holy set behind the veil. I do
not understand. I do not understand, and as the landings fall on tender places it is
a relief of sorts to be allowed to wander in the presence of such mystery. Still my
ﬁngers danced, jaw clenched and released, the hot burning salt coursed and I
couldn’t catch it.
“This is open space” she said. I think that is what she said but I did not feel so
open. I felt so closed and small. Others bursting through the gates of what I
wanted; my desire has always been for the veiled things and the sacraments.
Are my knees broken? Why will they not bend in the direction of my longing? Why
is the weight of grief and incomprehension so heavy that I cannot raise my body
towards the very place where wounding meets relief?
I do not know.
I do not know.
Eyes lifted beyond the rafters still I search above, without, and why? I have travelled
the world over and yet to see.
Crushing comes the sorrow.
If you are here I cannot hear you.
Rumbling louder are the hammers of my wanting, my anger at the echo back.
Clicking toe tips echo empty away.
I wish you knew the depth. I wish your mother tongue Love were not so foreign.
My heart breaks. A thousand raindrops spliced on blades of grass, remnants.
I do not want to die here, in the hope of resurrection.
Wiping eyes none the clearer, heart non the lighter for the smiling.
The raven crow calls, shrieking of mockery and shame.
How to plug my ears to still such painful vibrations? How to unclasp the necklace of
my shame? How to call the place I wander home?
Give me touch. The roughness of these bricks against my back.
I need to feel something steadier than me.