Journal of a Departed Friend, Part 1
An antique journal (Renaissance?)
Sister Alma Rose recently received part of a journal from the year 1985 that was bequeathed to her by an old friend. Here is an excerpt:
Loyalty to petrified opinion never yet broke a chain
or freed a human soul. —Mark Twain
Blackeyed Susan growing wild along a country road
Where is it, then, this human soul
(if, indeed, there is such a place,
a spring of pure motives and selfless love,
a sanctuary of rest from struggle and anxiety)?
“I can’t explain myself,
I’m afraid, sir,” said Alice,
“because I’m not myself, you see.”
I control what I wear and what I eat,
when I rake leaves and how I set my
house in order. The soul is a place of uncontrol (I believe) where yet is not chaos but cosmic arrangement. It is
a place of selflessness from which
emanates the genuine Self, and it is
THIS Self that I fear and that I
hide from, behind activity and blind
allegiances and alcohol and
organization and television… that I
bury and cover with the borrowed
skins of the souls of others,
calling them Identity.
Rainbow (photo source unknown)
But this Soul, this Self, will not be
denied; it draws one irresistibly.
I have found demons and have
unmasked them, and at each turn I
wonder if there are more-fearsome
demons and angrier fiends. I have
seen the sun disarm them and the
rain dissolve them, and I believe a little
less in the strength of demons and
more in the power of the sun and the rain.
Glasswing butterfly
It doesn’t do any good to run away,
after all. It is like the man whose
suspenders are caught on the doorknob: The faster he runs, the suddener his return. “No matter where you go,” it is truly said, “there you are.”
O, Power, embolden my encounter with the soul.
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