I found a hole in my shirt today --
A piece of me fell out and blew away.
Sitting here,
Screaming with the silence,
Holding onto hunger...
Writing words...
Thinking that You, unlike me,
Understand me better written down,
Like it changes what I mean...
Asking questions,
Telling lies just to see if You'll catch them,
To find out if You know...
If I'm here
Because I want to be here,
Because what I said I wanted
Isn't what I want at all,
Then I'll keep writing and keep on leaving.
But if I'm here because I'm almost there,
Then take away my pen.
I need to hear You say my name.
Baby, even angels cry.
Screaming with the silence,
Holding onto hunger...
Writing words...
Thinking that You, unlike me,
Understand me better written down,
Like it changes what I mean...
Asking questions,
Telling lies just to see if You'll catch them,
To find out if You know...
If I'm here
Because I want to be here,
Because what I said I wanted
Isn't what I want at all,
Then I'll keep writing and keep on leaving.
But if I'm here because I'm almost there,
Then take away my pen.
I need to hear You say my name.
Baby, even angels cry.
I once knew a starving man. He was well-fed, healthy, and strong, and still he starved. Not for leanness, but for swelling. Not for meat, but for his own words behind his lips.
When I had seen too much of the hunger in his eyes, I dared to ask him why he did not speak. "Save yourself," I begged. "We are listening."
"I dare not speak," he said. "Like your stifled tears, the first word would be too much. I am afraid I should never be able to stop."
"Then I will trade my tears for your speaking," I replied.
The two were well matched.
When I had seen too much of the hunger in his eyes, I dared to ask him why he did not speak. "Save yourself," I begged. "We are listening."
"I dare not speak," he said. "Like your stifled tears, the first word would be too much. I am afraid I should never be able to stop."
"Then I will trade my tears for your speaking," I replied.
The two were well matched.
In the end we see the stars.
In the end we hear the words.
In the beginning we hear the music, and love the sound.
We are far away, and cannot hear the words.
But at the start it is enough.
We do not need words. We just listen.
We shape our steps and train our ears,
and we move on. Things take shape.
We are closer.
The dance begins. Each one to his own.
We begin to live what we have heard.
Then I find that you have heard what I have heard,
and we dance together, moving on
to hear deeper with four ears,
to see farther with four eyes.
We are closer.
We begin to hear the words.
There are words? We had forgotten there were words.
With the words we see.
What we thought was listening becomes dancing.
What we thought was dancing becomes looking.
We must be close to the player himself.
Surely we are close.
Then we are all together -- this world of listeners,
hearing to see and seeing to dance,
caught up in the wonder of the multitude,
this crowd of people who have come to listen.
We begin to hear what others hear,
to tell what we have seen.
We show ourselves. Holding hands,
we walk among the lines, reaching out, staying close.
In the end we see the stars.
In the end we hear the words and find out
we had learned them all before we heard the song.
It took the music and the dancing
to tell us what was in us,
to make us what is more,
to give us strength to hear the words and go on dancing.
In the end the player puts down his music
and listens.
In the end we hear the words.
In the beginning we hear the music, and love the sound.
We are far away, and cannot hear the words.
But at the start it is enough.
We do not need words. We just listen.
We shape our steps and train our ears,
and we move on. Things take shape.
We are closer.
The dance begins. Each one to his own.
We begin to live what we have heard.
Then I find that you have heard what I have heard,
and we dance together, moving on
to hear deeper with four ears,
to see farther with four eyes.
We are closer.
We begin to hear the words.
There are words? We had forgotten there were words.
With the words we see.
What we thought was listening becomes dancing.
What we thought was dancing becomes looking.
We must be close to the player himself.
Surely we are close.
Then we are all together -- this world of listeners,
hearing to see and seeing to dance,
caught up in the wonder of the multitude,
this crowd of people who have come to listen.
We begin to hear what others hear,
to tell what we have seen.
We show ourselves. Holding hands,
we walk among the lines, reaching out, staying close.
In the end we see the stars.
In the end we hear the words and find out
we had learned them all before we heard the song.
It took the music and the dancing
to tell us what was in us,
to make us what is more,
to give us strength to hear the words and go on dancing.
In the end the player puts down his music
and listens.
She is 21 and, as of today, a mother of two little girls. Adorable biracial girls. She is divorcing their father in a few months, as soon as their year of separation is up. Her daughters came by her mistakes. Yet they cannot be mistakes.
I watched this, her second pregnancy. Watched her grow, watched her begin to walk differently to carry the weight, watched her eat spoonfuls of peanut butter in the mornings for extra protein, watched her lie down on the floor by the copier or in her office when she was exhausted, watched her face crinkle into a shy smile when clients asked her about the coming baby. Every time I looked at her, I think, I felt jealous. If it was a sin, I confess it, but my jealousy was mostly an awed jealousy, a wonder at the miracle I was seeing.
It amazes me, this child-creating life-making. It awes me to think of the warrior placing his seed in the maiden, the king entrusting his heir to the queen, the man leaving his future to the care of a woman's body. He is the strong one, the one to change nations, to conquer enemies, to lead revolutions, but his child is completely out of his hands. His woman carries his child -- his successor -- inside of her alone. She takes on the task of forming, feeding, growing, and birthing his child. He cannot touch his child except through the woman. He cannot love his child except through the woman. The woman offers herself to carry the child of the man she loves, to hold a part of him inside her, to show him her admiration. He is a man she wants to be continued, to be remembered.
It amazes me how lightly we see this. We forget how miraculous it is, how impossibly symbolic it is.
I hope that someday I get the chance to know what it is like. If I do, I hope I take the time to stop, stand on the top of a hill in the wind, look down at my body, and think of the magnificence of what is happening; to let my soul hurt with the stretching of beauty -- this little thing with a meaning so great my mind will never be able to hold it.
I watched this, her second pregnancy. Watched her grow, watched her begin to walk differently to carry the weight, watched her eat spoonfuls of peanut butter in the mornings for extra protein, watched her lie down on the floor by the copier or in her office when she was exhausted, watched her face crinkle into a shy smile when clients asked her about the coming baby. Every time I looked at her, I think, I felt jealous. If it was a sin, I confess it, but my jealousy was mostly an awed jealousy, a wonder at the miracle I was seeing.
It amazes me, this child-creating life-making. It awes me to think of the warrior placing his seed in the maiden, the king entrusting his heir to the queen, the man leaving his future to the care of a woman's body. He is the strong one, the one to change nations, to conquer enemies, to lead revolutions, but his child is completely out of his hands. His woman carries his child -- his successor -- inside of her alone. She takes on the task of forming, feeding, growing, and birthing his child. He cannot touch his child except through the woman. He cannot love his child except through the woman. The woman offers herself to carry the child of the man she loves, to hold a part of him inside her, to show him her admiration. He is a man she wants to be continued, to be remembered.
It amazes me how lightly we see this. We forget how miraculous it is, how impossibly symbolic it is.
I hope that someday I get the chance to know what it is like. If I do, I hope I take the time to stop, stand on the top of a hill in the wind, look down at my body, and think of the magnificence of what is happening; to let my soul hurt with the stretching of beauty -- this little thing with a meaning so great my mind will never be able to hold it.
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