Turbulence: Proprioceptive Writing, 1/28/21

Amen amen, You the host of all, 
You the manner in which we speak, 
You the one who carries us on articulated breath. 

Amen amen.

So be it today as yesterday, 
and all days moving forward, 
 though we who are weary 
 may not see it. 

Amen. 

Amen to you who hides behind waves of sadness and grief, 
 fearful of your own hand upon the page. 

Amen amen. 

Amen amen for those who need assurance, 
 and reassurance, too. So be it. 

So be the tides, 
 and the seasons, 
 and the turbulent seas hedged in on all sides 
 and on none. Amen. 

For it is the land, amen, 
 that is hedged in. 
All rivers leading to the same oceans of connectedness. 
All lakes and streams evaporating 
 and ending up who knows where. 
Amen. 

And amen again. 
 For be it rain, 
 or be it snow, 
 it goes nowhere but here. 
And we are all connected to the same Source. 
The Source that is You, 
You whose articulated breath 
 breathes us into being. Amen.

....

Call it what you will, 
but this turbulence of soul 
 of nation 
 of weather, 
 is subject to pattern, 
 to order, 
an order we who are but dust, 
 even of stardust, 
cannot fathom or touch, 
 at least not for long. Not long enough
 to recount it without losing the heart of it. 
Entropy: 
 Thou be my vision. 
 Thou be my dregs 
 of a once cherished clarity. 
But my unarticulated 
 and unarticulate-able 
 memory 
 is concrete, 
 at least I hope and pray. 
I pray for it to stay, 
 stay with me always, for 
          “Rome 
 is in shambles...”

And yet I must trust that transformation is bigger than Rome, 
 more eternal than nation, 
 more essential than plague, 
 and mite, 
 and dung beetle. 
Amen amen.

...

Weariness 
 subsides. 
Hope 
 unfolds. 
Wisdom stands back and allows the children to play in sun-rays... 
 ...for a little while. 
Amen. 

I hear the heartbeat. 
Do you? 
Thready and faint? 
 Thump-thump. 
Thump....
 thump. 
He walks with us. 
She talks to us. 
They carry us from day to day in this consentless 
 life. 

From beginning to end 
to beginning again, “Consent,” 
 I say. 
“The evidence holds 
 that the thump-thump will not hold forever. 
 That entropy will have its way with you 
 someday. 
So consent 
 to this consentless life 
 until then.” That 
 is what 
 I say. 

But I have not the power of amen 
beyond the will of my tongue. 
An invitation implies consent... 
Life, 
 as the articulated breath 
 of Other 
 does not. 
“But consent anyway,” 
I say. 

Will you?

...

Who knocks at the door? 
 A rebel. 
Who carries the torch in the night of darkness? 
 A stubborn one. 
Who cries out for more 
 at the Lord’s Table? 
The knight of faith? 
 Perhaps. 

 When we reach the edge of the sea, 
and still we have breath articulated in our lungs, 
we’ve no idea if the tide is going out 
 or coming in 
 because the clouds 
 cover the moon. 

When we reach the edge of the sea, 
 it is on the beach that 
 we stand. 
Even in our watching—the movement 
 of waves 
 pulling away from us, 
 luring us into believing we’ve come upon 
 low tide— 
it would then be wise 
 to pause first 
 and wait 
 to see 
 if instead 
 a tsunami 
 is next. 
Let not our eschatological hope blind us to apocalyptic 
 sensitivity. 

...

I stand now at the beach. 
The shoreline between insurrection 
 (deemed ‘failure,’) 
and what the breath knows 
 is next. 
Amen amen. 

Can we ever say,
 “Amen to ‘next’!” 
No. 
 never together. 
 not so long as there is tomorrow 
 and yesterday. 
Asynchronous heartbeats are breathed into being 
 on a rhythm the breathed cannot perceive. 
And so someone will always, 
 until Always is all-ways, 
walk into the tsunami and give it strength. 

They will walk into the tsunami 
 thinking themselves a dam, 
 a ‘here and no further,’ 
 a martyr 
 for truth, 
but will instead be nothing 
 but a chunk of steel 
 landing on the one who ran away 
 just as likely as on the one who stands 
 on the shore 
 amen-ing 
 the “next.” 

“But, perhaps, that ‘just as likely’ 
is an imagined calculus,” 
 says the one on the shore. 
But the articulated breath 
 of Other 
 says nothing. 

The silence thus wearies the one on the shore 
 even more. 
 She whispers amen again. 
And again 
amen. 

...She turns now to the sand, 
 and the bubbles of sand-crab 
 burrowing holes 
 in the wetness 
 that remains. 
 Piper 
 and gull 
 and tern flit 
 and float between approach 
 and avoidance, 
captivated by the boon on the expanded shore of edible creatures before them, 
 but pulling back to the skies for a better view between dives, 
 a better view of the coming tide 
       or tsunami. 

Amen amen.