They think they are broken,
Aching and finished, despairing.
They sit with me and their energy fills the room,
Sweet liquid blackness,
Tortured and strong.
Their tragedies spoken,
Quaking voice, just barely daring;
Their imagined shortcomings revealed to me,
Secrets to witness,
(Keep us safe 'til we are whole
Gently guide us to our goal)
How dearly they struggle.
They conjure my silence
Into just what they need:
Father or saviour, hero or scapegoat,
The faithful mirror, the love
On which they feed.
They never know it at first,
But they are perfect; there is never anything wrong.
Just as they are, they are perfect;
Perhaps they'll realize they were perfect
(No, no, no, no, no, no more
Will we wage this fruitless war)
When I first started, I thought I could help them.
Believed that their suffering was wrong;
At last I can hear them,
Always convinced I can cure them,
Undivined divinity reviled,
They are exquisite,
Violent or mild.
(How we suffer, oh so needy
For sweet comfort we are greedy)
There is no medicine.
Nothing can save them, they are saved;
We sit padmasana, invite revelation,
Celebrating regret - the endless mistakes they have braved.
We may never realise we are perfect,
There is never anything wrong.
Just as we are, we are perfect.
Perhaps we'll realize we were perfect all along.
(We will heal, we will see
What we need is to be)
- Suzanne Foxton 2013
A few words on the meaning of life from my favourite flawed film guru, Woody (I'm Happy Being Miserable) Allen.
Yo, namaste peeps! Nice to be back blogging. I've been looking after my ailing husband, the unfoldings are bearable (I know...I know...by whom?) but preoccupying. Let all and sundry know I'm writing again, "coming out to play" as one commenter put it. Love a good play.