I held a young soul suffering, and my Achilles heal I bared. I hugged a breaking heart and it punched right through my chest. I held a breath of deep despair and shared a lifeless void. Surrendered to a stolen moment and entered a sacred place.
I allowed words to pierce my guard and a trembling hand met mine. I shed a tear as pain took hold and it softened another’s fall. We sat with silence, moved with fear, and together we returned. We captured moments of relief, and I held the hand of hope.
( Poem written for a young person on a Youth Focus camp. Reposted from 2014. ‘In My Room’ book. Art by Harley Manifold, original in colour.)
A woman was gossiping with a friend about a man she hardly knew. (I know none of you have done this). That night she had a dream….a great hand appeared over her and pointed down at her. She was immediately seized by an overshelming sense of guilt. The next day she went to confession with the old parish priest, Father O’Rourke. She told him the whole thing. “Is gossiping a sin?” She asked the old man. “Was that the hand of God all mighty pointing the finger at me? Should I be asking for your absolution Father? Tell me, have I done something wrong?” “Yes you ignorant, badly brought up female. You’ve borne false witness against your neighbour. You played fast and loose with his reputation and you should be ashamed.” The woman said she was sorry and asked for forgiveness. “Not so fast”, said O’Rourke. “I want you to go home. Take a pillow up on your roof. Cut it open with a knife. And return here to me.
So the woman went home. Took a pillow off her bed. A knife from the drawer. Went up the fire escape to the roof and stabbed the pillow. Then she went back to the old parish priest as instructed. “Did you cut the pillow with a knife?” He said. “Yes Father.” “And what was the result?” “Feathers.” “Feathers.” He repeated. “Feathers everywhere Father.” Now I want you to go back and gather up every last feather that flew out on the wind.” “Well,” she said. “It can’t be done. I don’t know where they went. The wind took them all over.” “And that …..”, said Father O’Rourke, “….is gossip.”
Your great mistake is to act the drama as is you were alone. As if life were a progressive and cunning crime with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely, even you, at times, have felt the grand array; the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding out your solo voice. You must note the way the soap dish enables you, or the window latch grants you freedom. Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity. The stairs are your mentor of things to come, the doors have always been there to frighten you and invite you, and the tiny speaker in the phone is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation. The kettle is singing even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots have left their arrogant aloofness and seen the good in you at last. All the birds and creatures of the world are unutterably themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
