the drugs don't work they just make you worse

a woman was in a large crowd of desparate people squeezing onto a bus to escape new orleans. They were separated at the I-10 cloverleaf. When Williams tried to reach for her baby so he could ride in her lap, she says, a state trooper sprayed mace in her face to keep her from getting off the bus. "They maced my mother and my daughter," she said. "Then the door slammed shut."

oh my god, says mind, that's terrible, and keeps reading. the next story is about a conversation between the sherriff and the city councilman.



wait, says heart, hold on just a minute! "They maced my mother and my daughter," she said. "Then the door slammed shut." she can't find her baby. her baby was left in the crowd on the highway. she is in another city.

what would you do next?

who would you call? how would you bear it? what would you do? how would you find your baby? how would you identify your baby? what if it was a year from now, how would you even recognize your baby? how would you accomodate the fact that your baby is... just... out there somewhere?

heart can't let go of it. "worry" is the word we use for gnawing and shaking and chewing on a thing. how can mind let go of this story, let alone the many stories like this one?



the monotheism that smacks me in the face any time i raise my eyes from my own immediate environs seems to offer mainly ways of letting mind return to complacency. big brother will provide. god doesn't give us more than we can bear. remember when there was only one set of footprints in the sand? whatever.

I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock. I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer. The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me. I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love.

mind is not intimate enough with the divine to have a decent conversation about this matter. and heart just mainly worries the astonishment, the immensity of such loss.



heart states categorically that the only commensurate response is to change your life entirely. mind states that's unrealistic and excessive. heart insists that there cannot be too many rededications in this life, this is in fact the only full reality, every other regard is partial. and mind says, why are you always so damn over-the-top? and heart thinks again about the I-10 cloverleaf and says, if ye find my beloved, tell him I am sick of love.

endless bummer

this waking up at 3:30 a.m. every night is for the birds.

but i am grateful for the sound of crickets. it's a summer night sound i love deeply. so musical.

i wake up with my heart trying to leap out from under my breast and quickly fill with sadness and concern. this is for the birds.

at least the moon is full and even though it has set below the treeline, everything outside almost seems lit from within. the natural world is full of natural safeguards and light and music.

there was a time when spiritual grace breathed in and out of me continuously. i felt so bound to the timeless generations of worried mothers and passionate children and watchful elders gone before. so many universals, and the greatest the these, caritas.

now even prayer comes haltingly if at all, and grace feels very far away, an echo of grace. a lot of chickens are coming home to roost, on a human-species level, national level, family level, and the level of my own bodily integrity - maybe this is a season for deep penance, rather than for asking little favors or innocently loving the guardians of our worlds.

for me, anyway.



or else it's just that it's the end of the summer, and there's a feeling of futility coming from the bursting garden, the final asters, the dark green leaves as broad as quilt squares. soon the crickets will bury their eggs and crawl into their graves.

i fear and tremble to identify the things i keep in my heart. merciless acts have been committed in my name. astonishing griefs have been perpetrated while i sat reading. accidents have happened that i never thought to prevent, and i have wished for things i should not have wished for. great hope and love have been conjured up by me, larger than life, and there they stand, sweet and lovely and vulnerable.

we are helpless in the hands of time - at this time.




let us pray.


the final testament of st. francis of assisi
october 3, 1226

This is how the Lord gave me, brother Francis, the power to do penance. When I was young, the sight of lepers was too bitter for me. And the Lord led me among them, and I pitied and helped them. And when I left them, I discovered that what had seemed bitter to me was changed into sweetness in my soul and body. And shortly afterward I rose and left the world.

And the Lord gave me such faith in churches that I prayed simply, saying, "I adore you, Lord Jesus Christ, with all your churches throughout the world." Later God gave me and still gives me such faith in priests who live according to the word that even if they persecuted me I would still run back to them. And even if I had all the wisdom of Solomon and came upon some poor little priests in their parishes, I would speak there only if they wished me to do so. And I want to fear, love and honor these and all other men as my lords. And I do not even want to think about there being any sin in them, because I see God in them and they are my lords.

And I do this because in this world I can physically see the Son of God only in his holy body and blood, which men receive and give to others. And I want this holy mystery to be honored above all things, venerated, and kept in precious containers. Whenever I find holy words or names in improper places I take them up and ask that they be collected and stored in a proper place.

And when God gave me brothers, no one showed me what I should do, but the Most high revealed to me that I should live according to the form of the holy gospel. I had it written in a few words and simply. And those who came to receive life gave all that they had to the poor and were content with one tunic patched inside and out, with a cord and trousers. And we did not wish to have more.

We who were clerics said the office, and we who were lay brothers said the "Our Father," and gladly. And we were ignorant, and subject to all men. And I worked with my hands, and want to do so still. And I want all the other brothers to do the same. And when our wages are withheld from us, let us return to the Lord's table, begging alms from door to door. The Lord revealed what greeting we should use: "God give you peace."

The brothers must be careful not to accept any dwellings or any other shelter constructed for them, unless these buildings reflect holy poverty. And we should always live in these places as strangers and pilgrims. Wherever they are, they should not dare to seek to secure a church or any other place, to protect their preaching, or to prevent persecution of their bodies; but wherever they are not welcome, they should flee into another land and do penance with God's blessing.

And I firmly wish to obey the minister of this brotherhood, and any other guardian he should want to give me. And I want to be such a captive in his hands that I cannot go anywhere or do anything without his desire and command, because he is my lord. And although I am simple and ill, I desire to have a brother who can perform the office for me.

And the brothers must not say, "This is yet another rule," for it is a recollection and my testament which I, poor brother Francis, make for you, my brothers, so that we may observe the promises we have promised to God in a more perfect manner. And I firmly forbid my brothers to place glasses over the rule or say, "Here is what it must mean." But just as the Lord gave me the power to write these words simply, so you must understand them simply, and observe them by holy action until the end.

And whoever observes them will be filled in heaven with blessing, and on earth he will be filled with the blessing of all the powers of heaven. And, I brother Francis, your servant, will perpetually confirm for you this holy blessing.

oh francis.

when everything seems colored by sadness, i always go back to the notion that linear time may be a construct, protecting our imaginations, and to the idea that if so, i could just call you up, like calling someone on the phone overseas, call you up and say, hey. i'm so worried. what did you used to do, when you were worried? what should i do? because i can't fix all the things i'm worried about.

and you would say, well, you can work with your hands and be a servant to your neighbor.

and i would say, okay. i can do that. that i can do.