Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Stirring the Pot

When first I rise my head from off the pillow
And gaze through foggy eyes out on the day
I scarce have woke my brain when thoughts are stirring
Beckoning me to meet the tasks that weigh.

I stumble in to wash my teeth and face and hands
I grapple with the tending of the coffeepot.
The animals beckon me out to nature's calling
As thoughts spin round my brain, enrapt, enthralling

As walking in the rain I view my garden,
Then thoughts of the bright blooms there entice me.
I imagine I must be weeding, tending, fauning,
this task inclined to be the most important..

Next moment barely pausing, I hear my phone ring
And another's plight is harkening to me
I'm rapt by the intensity of their story
And pulled towards the whirl of another's mourning.
I truly have had days like this,
Where each moment drifted on to next, then next, then next
And seeking I failed to find where I was going,
Or what I believed was my own true path.

Like a soup of many bright ingredients rising,
sinking, swimming, falling all within it
My mind spins from its vortex outward, mixing
Striving to make a medley of the chaos.

There's work, there's play, there's toil, there's service,
Each seems as important, each seems the best.
Soon the simplest decisions have overwhelmed me
And I'm paralyzed, seeking the more right path

Such is the movement of my human mind each moment
It scarcely takes a second's pass to hear a voice
Of each 'important' notice, each electron firing
Scattering thoughts, then gathering, sorting.

This is the nightmare of the ego,
Which seeks ever to be the most important
But failing to consider the greater whole
Spins aimlessly in the great morass

So I seek the God of my understanding,
I filter the soup through  well-wrought strainer
Built of a mesh of time worn lessons
And an inner voice that speaks of we, not me.

The soup of my life needs stirring, yes.
But it also thrives in careful tenderness.
The soulful simmering of new ideas
adds seasoning and flavor and subtle tastes.

I'm captivated by the stirring,
Much less enthralled by the patient seasoning.
My ego's a fan of the freeze dried, microwave meal,
But my soul depends on careful preparation.

I'm the one who puts the stew-pot on
And gives it a quick whisk, pours the fresh stuff in,
Then pulled by a new task, turns my back on it,
Forgetting to turn the heat down, 'til I smell the mess.

So It's I who need the soulful simmering,
The tenderness of a soft spoon stirring.
It's I who take the careful tending, and the
tolerant watchful eye of a well-trained chef.

Prayer is the act of that patient chef,
Tolerance the fruit of the awaited gift,
What seems to me to be just adequate
might on waiting be exactly love's intent.

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