bhain-sidhe-whimpering-012807.mp3
an odd flash of contemplation.
he said i kill communities. he said i divide and conquer them. funny how the only ones dead are the ones i never touched. funny how the ones that stand unified and strong are the ones i give presence and nourishment.
he said i was stalking him. he said i was ‘an agent’. funny how the only time we’ve spoken since cold water was at his initiation. funny how my being remains free while his squirms and flinches for every space in which we share. perhaps i am yet the agent of change… for all he suffers to try avoiding it.
he said he was suffering. he said it as an accusation. as if it is my fault. not his own. funny how denial works. funny how quickly, how easily that finger points. as if the whole, remaining hand is not pointing right back at him. as if the entire hand and arm are not his own.
he said many things over time. most of which have become lessons. he said them ignorantly, in self-cherishing, unkindly, compassionless, wrestling with his own mind.
even i, bhain sidhe that i am, tire of anger. which is interesting, and strange. the bodhisattva smiles from across the aisle, sitting calmly on her zafu, hands in mudra resting, but tears trickling over her cheeks.
for these many days, she and i have fought, though it seems i am the only one sweating, bleeding, flashing gritted teeth. she is calm, serene, moonlight over water. i want the peace she seems to possess.
her eyes open… multiverse sparkling, spinning in them, fractal depths that gleam with a light of amber bliss. she whispers to me, softly, sweetly, loving-kindness a throbbing timbre in her voice, speaking a reminder, a promise, a blessing, a gift…
“it is already yours.”