The relief of realizing you can never know what must be said, and that all you have to do is speak, so that what must be said will have a way of sneaking out,
the relief of recognizing, for once, that there’s no rush to become who you are, because you already are, so just feel it and know it, exactly this,
the relief of staying with the question, “What is being asked of me here?” instead of endlessly wondering, “What is mine?”
the relief of asking for help, even if it doesn’t come,
the relief of weeping with your mother over her death before she dies,
the relief of knowing you’ll weep for your father, too, so best learn how now,
the relief of meeting your own death as the beloved one you’ve been looking for, the one who will hold you at the very end, the one who is holding you now,
the relief, the relief, the great relief of grief,
and of living it, for a moment, because you just couldn’t say no anymore.
Am I feeling some Stephen Jenkinson? How was the weekend?
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Yes!
May the peace that only comes from God be with you.
I don’t why your poem brought St. Francis to mind, but it did.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
That is beautiful.
I am wondering who it is who is expressing this deep wisdom. Not a 27-year old, no way, but a very, very, very, old soul seeking his place in a world gone mad, and writing what he receives to pass on.