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Her Grace Writes You

Well, I am a writer. That’s all. And sometimes writing is very fluid and it takes me somewhere and how grateful I am in those moments, and how amazed. But then sometimes it is like chopping wood. It hurts and it’s repetitious and the wood pile grows so you and your beloved will be warm another day and night but that’s all you can say for it. And it’s enough but still. Still.

What I am saying is, if you care about the product, the object – about the poem, and who reads it, and who loves it, and who buys it, and how much acclaim it affords you – then you’re in trouble. No matter how much attention you get, it won’t be enough. You will die hungry, empty in a not-good way, like a beggar just outside the banquet hall, crows calling dibs on his bones.

But if you care about the writing as a process – like loving a river not for where it goes or for what it gives you but just because it’s fast and lovely and changes with the light of the day and the season of the year – then you have a chance. You have a chance to learn what happiness is, and Truth. You have a chance to catch a glimpse of what is eternal and joyous and loving. And that glimpse will be like a light making safe and clear the next steps, which are not a journey, but a sort of dance with God, a sort of slow and sensuous tumble into the arms of the Beloved, where you belong, and where your writing longs to take you.

So you have to write, a lot, more than a lot, and you have to write when it is cold and difficult, and you have to be willing to be alone, and then more alone, until your loneliness is like all the ice in the world enfolded around your heart, numbing your brain to where all that remains are your favorite words – not even that much – your favorite sounds, one or two syllables only. You have to become mute, fallen, cast out, broken, shunned by your savior, vilified by family. You have to give up everything, even writing itself, and not just metaphorically but really. None of this is a metaphor. If you think it is a metaphor then you are in trouble. Real trouble.

And I am saying that after a long time alone, with only a blunt prayer remaining, with the name of the Beloved the dimmest of dim memories, then a hand may emerge from the darkness to lift you. I don’t say when, I say may. May. You will write it not because you are a writer but because you emptied yourself to make room for what is given, and what is given now manifests through you in language, as for others it manifests in painting or song, or baking or dance, or running or sewing. Who cares? You can’t possibly care when at last the Beloved has given you Her hand, has allowed you to touch the Hem of her gown which is the universe itself, which is life itself. How blessed that moment is, where what matters is the touch – endless exquisite ecstatic – and what does or doesn’t emerge from it is simply flotsam, no matter how excellent, no matter how lovely.

You live forever in Her grace, not in what you make of Her grace.

Are you called? You are called. She always calls. She is always looking for you in the ash heap of the world, the ruins of your cheap loves, your compromised kisses, and the soiled echoes of your crappy songs. She is always out where the forsaken have lost even their faith in begging for mercy. And She comes to you so softly you nearly miss it. You have missed it. You always miss it. And yet she comes to you again, as if what is broken does not interest her, as if what matters is the calling, not the call and not the answer. Listen! In the darkness of 3 a.m., listen. In the frozen forest, listen. Always and everywhere, listen. She says to you that your suffering was only a dream. She says to you the long and hideous drama never occurred. It isn’t over, it never happened. Write it down so you remember, She says. I am you writing, She says. I am writing writing, writing you. And so you do. At last you do. You write. You write yes. And yes. You write yes. Yes.

{ 9 comments… add one }
  • Annie February 1, 2015, 10:03 am

    Yes !

  • zrinka February 1, 2015, 5:06 pm

    If I died right now
    Everything would continue
    with the same loveliness.
    Sweet summer evening would stay equally sweet and familiar,
    Food for soul ever Abundant,
    Even without
    me here.

    This way, I am right now
    is a such a sweet and precious Something because it lives for only a while
    Before it transforms
    into something else

    Am I a butterfly or a cocoon now,
    right now?

    This way, I am right now
    is such a sudden and frightening Something because it is only for a while
    that I am awake this way
    as this precious something, among other precious somethings,
    And what should I do
    What should I do,
    right now.

    Right now,
    it is Light
    In your arms, my Love.
    It is Night
    In your arms, my Love.
    All sweetness disolving in your arms right now
    All preciousness sparkling on your fingertips
    All desire moving Everything into Something, else
    And It is without fear, my Love
    right now.

    Please listen,
    Is there anyone here, right now?
    to see me
    here me clearly (there is no mistake)
    Or is Clarity simply the way I remember you my Love,
    Following My reflection in your eyes,
    to Where I will no longer see
    But myself
    is you.

    • Sean Reagan February 2, 2015, 8:15 am

      Zrinka this is so lovely and perfect . . . you take my breath away when you aren’t making me long to write even more . . . honestly there are times when I feel that all my writing and thinking is merely a footnote to your own . . . what can I say? I am here, I am listening, I am with you, I am here with you and I am so grateful, and so amazed . . .

      • zrinka February 2, 2015, 3:31 pm

        I heard your laugh, out in the forest:) I loved it!

        Thank you always Sean

        I started writing again, poems, after almost 7 years of silence and frosted darkness. Hibernation came to an end, Something changed, and it became safe, loving and clear (in me),
        and now I feel ready to live this Life that I am given. To be here. To engage and fade away, engage and fade away, engage and fade away…I do not fear it anymore. I am a part of the process of Life and this realization makes my heart explode of tenderness. I no longer feel pain and regret because of how it is. I am relieved. Who knew?, while in pain, that this same Life that I feared, would become the very truth that sets me free, to feeling loved and accepted simply as I am.
        There really are no conditions for our presence here. No demand. How generous it is. What a wonderful experience this Life can be, if we accept it for what it is. So I am grateful to be here. Even excited about it, which I wasn’t for a long time, even forgot how good it feels… to feel good and lighthearted and untroubled. I even forgot how good writing feels. How much love can be in every movement, in every doing… And how there is no limit to this feeling good, once you grow into it and accept it (this gift) as a normal state of living*being:) So I’m smiling too, because after all self*doubt – now I really feel that I fit.
        I fit perfectly in Everything that is, as All does, and that is the truth of the unconditional… love…life. it’s a perfect fit. You helped. You help. So much. I wouldn’t be here now this way if it weren’t for You and your writing*thinking*feeling*sharing. You changed my perspective immensely. In a most wonderful way. I received so much love, help, guidance and support form you. If you are a footnote, than a footnote is the best thing to read. Your willingnesss for Clarity is a gentle yet unshakeable force of Nature. Thank you for hearing me and for being so generous:)
        This is life these days https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Tt2ZN9mxAM

  • Cheryl February 2, 2015, 8:43 am

    I came back to this, Sean, to say maybe sometimes through all of this, we forget to laugh, at ourselves, gently and lovingly, forgetting that in truth we are just children, babes lost in the woods. We find a few breadcrumbs, a light in a window or maybe our hearts open and the river rushes in and we say Yes to the flood.

    But then an ebb, frustration, and we have to give up more of the self we’ve carved out of space, and after awhile it becomes pretty clear we’re going to have to keep giving it up until we are just space, that we must “sacrifice” (although it’s not really sacrifice, it just feels that way) every last shred of Cheryl-dom or Sean-hood and how, how does one do that?

    And waiting here is Zrinka’s poem, exquisite, holding all the tenderness we need to offer ourselves — and one another — and, well, what a gift she brings, what a gift she is and how lovely this walk home, this dance can be, when there are such lovely, loving hands to hold.


    • zrinka February 2, 2015, 4:18 pm

      Cheryl, I always see you smiling and so playful, beautiful. Isn’t that a wonderful gift in itself?:)
      When we give all away, it is not the end. From this emptiness, we emerge again, we come back to This, as you did :)—- simply renewed, refreshed, innocent, flowers, and our bodies and mind are refilled with inspiration and gratitude. But you already know this, it is written in you and in your words 🙂 When you said *how does one do that?*, I looked above and saw the title of Sean’s that is: Her Grace writes you. I loved the synchronicity, the two felt connected. Perhaps we just let our Grace write us:) As we do, as we do, don’t we? 🙂 Grace is most wonderful act of faith and I do believe it is our true face. There is nothing we can’t do when we allow grace and clarity home us. Aware that we are gifts among gifts among gifts… That – is – exquisite 🙂 Thank you so much for seeing and hearing me and offering your tenderness to me, always in such a generous way. Love dancing with you!

      I linked this song in my response to Sean, but I will put here also, because it is my response to you also:)


    • Sean Reagan February 2, 2015, 5:56 pm

      Yes – “keep giving it up, until we are just space” – I like that very much. I am feeling that lately, the space I am as just being, a sort particular eddy in broader currents themselves enswirled in deeper oceans, the bounds of which unknowable . . .

      and yes . . . the gift of Zrinka, which is of course the gift of Cheryl and Sean (and Annie and Michael and Eric and on and on and on . . . I have said to you in the past and reiterate: for anyone reading: I am only here to be taught by those who know and are patiently letting me get it clear . . . I am very thankful, very very thankful . . .

  • Cheryl February 3, 2015, 9:41 am

    Dearest Zrinka and Sean,

    What can I add to this conversation except to say that swimming in this river with your presence, your words, your light is one of the most self-loving, soul-enriching, heart-opening aspects of my life.

    thank you, thank you, thank you….

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