Daemons

This post will also be Glittering Commentari 10, Waiter Rant. Speaking of ranting. I’ve decided most bloggers just don’t feel like sifting through their gold mine of comments to submit to the Commentari list, so I’ll do it.

From Waiter Rant, these comments appeared, among 200 some, after a post called Legion. It took me awhile to sift through them. There are dozens of quote worthy ones, but these had some reverberation on their own. Enjoy. (some were anonymous, with no link to a blog, or only an email address)

Faber

In the ecology of spirit, just as in the ecology of matter, one eventually discovers that one cannot simply throw something away. The corollary is that, with regard to both matter and spirit, there is no such thing as junk.

Bamecca

My favorite quote from God is from in the Garden of Eden after Adam and Eve were hiding from Him and he say “Who told you, you were naked?” A lot of times we don’t realize how badly we are confining ourselves because of the demons (literal or figurative) that we listen to.

God’s sense of what is important and not is always amazing to me – because who told me that rich was better, who told me that I am more important than the bum on the street, who told me that I am not worth of love? It wasn’t God – because as you said God thinks that I am everything.

Jendobre

I used to think that religion was a load of bullocks. But sitting in a service today (friends of mine were singing) I realized that it was the opposite. It was a massive cry of hope from the human race! Religion is our way of saying “there’s no way life is just a sparkle in some organic cells which then shuts down into total darkness a couple of decades later”. We do not want to believe that there’s no-one who can hear us when alone, or that there’s no fate and stuff will keep piling up. I’m not too good to express my opinion but I think that’s pretty much it! I thought it was so beautiful…

Ginamonster

That the world is round, and therefore we are all going in circles, which makes everything “around the bend” and, the best way to find what you are looking for is to spiral out from a starting point and circle about in ever widening circles. traveling in circles does not mean you are staying in one place or chasing your own tail.

Big Sky Country

As someone who does have that unconditional love, I can tell you that those demons don’t disappear, they just morph into something else, namely, how am I going to screw it up and lose the thing that I love the most? Most days I’m happy and content with my lot. Others, I just know this is temporary. The adversary will always work to destroy love.

The real demon is that none of us can have perfect Christ-like compassion, so we are alone. We cut ourselves off from others because we know they’ll hurt us like we would hurt them if they opened themselves completely. You are right, Heavenly Father’s economic plan is nothing like our own. Money, wealth, are no objects to him. People are the real commodity. If we love ourselves unconditionally, then we develop that compassion and we can love others unconditionally as well.

Unfortunately, therein lies the problem. I know every single one of my unlovable qualities, even if I can hide them from others. I know better than anyone else why I shouldn’t be loved. The trick is learning that God loves me anyway. I have a long way to go before I can figure that out. I am Legion.

There’s been lots of talk of ghosts and demons going around the blogworld. Jessamyn at Theriomorph has posted a number of thoughts on ghosts, including one a few weeks ago, which inspired my post, Ghost in the Mirror.

Our demons are our doubts, our fears, our angers. When I lose my temper, I’m possessed by a demon. When I doubt myself, which I do much, much too often, I’m allowing the demon to have control. When I judge someone, that’s a demon.

Then there are voices in our heads which also tell us the truth. The voices of our conscience. Those voices are, sadly, often ignored along with the demons. Such as in Ned’s rant about two butt-holes who knocked a disabled woman down by going too fast through a revolving door, and didn’t stop to help. They even thought it was funny.

So, yet again, balance is the key. Last week I ruminated on the subject of things Better left Un-named. What I left un-named in that post was the little dramas we all feel when jilted, when ignored, when we don’t get the attention we think we deserve. Even if they are petty little sad vignettes, they happen, and they hurt. There are so many little voices, so many quiet joys, so many unhealed wounds, so much material lost in the great stream.

But as one of the commenters, Faber, above said, none is ever wasted. That’s comforting to ponder. That’s the meaning of a healthy spirit, when you know none of your pain or suffering is ever really wasted, it’s noticed by something, someone, somewhere.

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Garden of Growth

The seeds grow in gray, rough soil.
Most will perish in fruitless toils.
Their compost holds kernels of mealy progress,
micro machines, tiny books of dreams
to clothe tender roots, trichomes,
which suckle death’s fruits to renew and redeem,
to claim their stake of beauty, or weedy nonchalance.
This war marches on and the drama rolls dreamy
each rising and falling in a seasonal dance.
I used to cradle those leafy twigs,
laughing and crying at their rhythmical trance.
I fiddled and darted, lost and ready
to control that volume of verdant folly.
Never did I stop to see
nature would have its way with me.
I staked stems, preened buds, willed red berries on holly.
I coveted and thrashed, sprayed and mulched,
beamed with delight at delphiniums blue night
but daily squished aphids with no melancholy.
I toiled from dawn to dusk to clutch this magic.
The branches of Hinoki would finally reach an archetype,
which deemed necessary the scene be balanced
by the tragic hacking of nearby Hamamelis.
Miscanthus had to clump here, always just so.
Trailing Nasturtium must ramble freely
over carefully chaotic, moss tufted patio.
Cardinal Richelieu finally gave up the ghost
after five uprootings, a necessary evil to aptly pair
his wine purple rose with more heathen hosts.
Temporary solutions were compulsive conditions
to conquer the moment, cling to its passing.
My love for the machine was a frivolous desire
for mighty dominance, a narcissistic persistence
to reign with sturdy diligence over ancient fires.
This chimera dwindled with thousands of hours
of pushing days in a stubborn wheelbarrow,
driving my load to pattern and style this living sculpture.
Time ground me down in its meticulous way.
My back and a bad hip took the fun from the play.
As I feared, things went wild, they flattened
and ruptured, and cheated my rules.
The Lungwort took advantage
and had its way, finding time to mat and
colonizing a corner with spotted progeny.
At first I complained and planned my revenge
taking solace in winter’s clutch of frozen sheath.
Then, tough rubric knots let loose their tether
as my life became twinned by other events,
and the Plumbago’s happy rush beneath
pink Asters fence seemed their own private
dispute, their outcome, their worry.
I grew accustomed to this unkempt gloss
as the garden grew daring and shone a soft gleam.
Now that I merely watch this scene from afar,
I am more in it than I was before
as roots can grow deeper and top more secure.
Five years have passed since I relinquished power.
Ten years before that I clutched at this stream
while its crumbled message flowed through my fingers.
These quiet stories have matured with age
and their gravitas draws my eyes to wonder
at authority I could never imagine,
from my hubris grew this quiet lesson.
The constance of change has more than one page.
I come away sage, having learned not to confuse
dreams of perfection with nature’s carnival muse.

A few days ago I promised a report on how my garden defines me. It turned into this.

I would like to dedicate this to my father, Francis Hugh, whose ripening wisdom grows regal with age. He turned 78 on September 26 while I managed to miss that important date. I sent him a card saying if age is a contest, he’s winning.
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Thoughts on Connectedness

Blogging is limited by what is posted. If it’s not mentioned, it doesn’t exist, at least here on this blog. Though it may seem cliche to post about what everyone else will post about, it’s imperative that we acknowledge what must be acknowledged. We must express our various thoughtful and heartfelt meditations for the massive tragedy in Pakistan, which is, amazingly, still pale by comparison to the death toll of the Tsunami last year. And which I’m sure most of us hardly think of now, including myself. The disaster in New Orleans was a drop in the bucket by these standards, yet it took it’s toll on our culture and national spirit. The problem is how to keep these good intentions alive for more that a week or two. We live in a relatively stable political world, by historical standards. But the rage of the planet cannot be negotiated or quelled.

I was just over at Animated Stardust and read her moving meditation of the interconnectedness of all life. I pass the microphone to her, for I cannot find better words to express what I feel now.

Serendipity

Should I never see you again,
Every moment I have spent with you would
Resonate in my heart.
Echoes of your kisses
Never leave my lips.
Daring to have stepped into the fire
I know I shall never return the same.
Perhaps this is exactly what
Is meant to be…
Today what seems but love’s seed may
Yet become tomorrow’s passion flower.