Metanoia

Swimming on this sea of shadows,
facing down,
encircled by Not-Now,
I breathe the dark and choke:
Only my head can turn and gasp
for the clear sweet air that whispers along my spine.

These churning hands,
weighted with the responsibility of forward movement,
keep me entangled in the dark divide,
struggling,
fighting wet resistance.
Who is it longs
to float upon my back,
to turn away from dark and shadows,
to bask and breathe in air and light?


Listen, cries the voice of wholeness:
Step out of this picture; turn it on its side.
Nothing there is, that is not God!
That impenetrable boundary,
slicing all we know in two,
is just the floor where light and darkness move into the dance.
Any surface will do,
and this could just as easily
slide clockwise to become a wall;
Those fanciful dramatic colors,
elusive waves of hope, despair and pain
are merely painted on
the tame facade constructed by your dreams.

Distracted by the worldly stage,
you cannot see
the pleasures of the street behind you.
Deluded, drawn by this perceived duality --
blinded by contrast, lured by the illusion of color,
the promise of riches in this heavy door --
you miss the cold threat of snow that lies beneath the shadow.

Stop groping for the key.
When will you learn?
The air "in there"
is just like yours,
though dusted with decay,
Why wait for some benighted stage manager
to engineer a strike,
to hack the wall,
revealing paper, paint and boards,
the fabric of illusion?

Foolish child,
just step away:
Turn your back and step into the real.
Turn and follow the road away
that leads to fields of joy.




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