Little Wing

I really don't care about the darkness. I don't care if it thinks it has power over us. I know it wants us to believe the lie--the lie that it is stronger, bigger, faster and more powerful, than any dance in the light or praise to the sky we could offer, than the earth and all the creatures therein, including us. Oh, especially us. The rest of creation knows its power; it bathes in the Spirit we must invoke with our words, our steps, our laughter, our joy, even our pain.

The lie tells us to stop dreaming, that all that's real is itself. How dare we think we're more! How dare we think ourselves Children of the Divine, much less actual Creators ourselves. Put away your silly wands and your fairy dust and silence the songs you think are of your heart, but are nothing more than the idle, unrealistic wishes of children. Still your steps. Put away your little plays and your costumes. Take down the stage.

And that flower that has grown in the crack of the sidewalk won't be there long; don't waste your time investing in it. Or growing others. The blue sky will turn stormy again, or the rain won't fall. And if the sun shines, it may beat down on you and burn you alive. Why bother to even eat, or drink, [sleep or wake?] or have children? The field is darkening as you dance. Give it up. It is all for naught.

But I will not. Or maybe the rhythm of the Music is just to persistent, to possessive to let me go, to insistent to move through my body into my world. And to that I find myself compelled to lift up arms to the sky, and say, AMEN.

Then I take off my shoes, and caressing Mother Earth with my feet, I dance. And I sing, in an off-key voice She doesn't mind, under a rainbow only I can see.

Author's Note

Not sure I categorized this correctly, but oh well.