Copyright © 2019 Carolyn Conger, PhD. All Rights Reserved.

    Featherweight

    February 10, 2016

    “You are a ghostless man. You do not have much time,” says the doctor.
    I am struck with the terror of the unmottled diagnosis.
    Like a shot glass of pure spirits, her language distills truth.
    Past, present and future become irrelevant, non existent, inconceivable.
    The mystery work of clearing old debts with my ancestors is nearly complete; my life fulfilling their promised land.
    The two children are included.
    Let’s see if I can stand up with the news.
    The human work of living into my death has just begun.

    It is said that the Egyptian Goddess Maat
    weighs the heart against the feather.
    Yes,
    at the moment when the Breath of Life
    is leaving the form we carry as the Body,
    she places my blood charmed organ onto her scales.
    The feather, of course, has been there the whole time, the all time, the no-time,
    the time before wings, or birds or feathers.
    My feather is black and white,
    like the colorings of a skunk or an orca or a partially albino crow.
    It is taoist.
    It is modest.
    It is inclusive.
    It is the principal of balance within itself.
    It is an earmark in the page that begins with the heading:
    I love my Teacher.
    And then simply:
    I love.

     

    He would say,
    “Simultaneously, prepare for life and prepare for death.”
    Brew of the Heart.
    A recipe for finding the invisible tickets that gain us entrance to Loveland.
    Similar to an all star Graceland.
    But that grace is granted through an unrelenting lack of trying,
    a complete failure,
    a true surrender.
    An ultimate acceptance.
    Then form reassembles itself into a Beingness that rolls along the sky.
    Coupling with the sun in it’s optimistic course,
    uniting all sentient beings with the universal pulsations that cry:
    yes! please! and ultimately: Thank you.
    This pleasures and revivifies the Invisibles and they say: Let us breathe through you.
    To which one can finally answer back, crowned with the successes of becoming Human: I am.
    Forget the marriages that must comply with an: I do.
    Thy will be done, in service to the poetry and jokes the Master lover creates.

     

    Digestion. Then absorption and elimination.
    Released from the jaws of something, there is a small robin.
    The upside down, young bird sleeps in the palm of his hand.
    Perhaps it is dying now.

     

    Who knows what is waiting for us.
    What knows who.
    You help me remember what made me.
    I am born in service to that.
    We are living into the One Flame.
    Conceiving, gestating, bleeding through, birthing and dying and resting.
    Floating inside the center of Mystery’s wish,
    lighter than a feather.

     

    © Victoria Joy 2016

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