A volunteer of green clings to
the edge of the sidewalk
at an out-of-the-way place
the weedeater may miss
long enough to sink roots
deep enough to support
the flower.
The seed was planted in
mystery without intention
or design but still somehow
managed to land in a
spot conducive to growth,
just enough soil and water
for life.
And now the decision,
to let it remain and do
as it will, to attempt a
transplant into an
established bed, to dig
a whole new bed around it,
or kill it.
The latter is inconsistent
with my soul, the new bed
is a commitment not yet
called for, the transplant
is risky and could cause
its death, and so, for now
it remains.
As is, growing in the squeeze
of pavement, bringing
beauty to a barren place,
offering itself just as it is,
just where it is, to help
joy flower in a heart
craving joy.
Flowers fade, but some
come around same time
next year, returning
again and again to a
spot that welcomes it,
volunteering again and again
to blossom anew.
Anyway
You had the perfect response
almost. I believed I’d be
safe with you, and I know you
believed I was. But almost
perfect can turn un-
certain in an instant, in
a word.
You listened to my story
with gentle eyes, eyes care-
fully set, and a mouth firmly
neither a smile nor a frown. You
wanted to be seen as taking
me seriously. I held your
attention with a panoramic
memoir of my life in love.
I offered my journey as
evidence in the trial of my
authentication. I explained
and explained and explained my-
self.
And you gave an almost perfect
response. It should have been
three words, but you added
a fourth, and that one word,
that fourth word turned a corner
you didn’t intend, I am sure, but
still, it careened right into
qualified acceptance, head-
long into good will with
a short half-life.
I love you
anyway.
I hear
Even though you’re wrong,
I love you
Even though you’re strange,
I love you
Even though you’re less than,
I love you
Even though you’re abnormal,
I love you.
Even though you’re weird,
I love you.
Even though you’re gay,
I love you.
To which I say,
(sigh)
I love you for trying
anyway.
Unlimited Compassion
I posted a meme to social media recently quoting an influencer named Pastor Brandon. His quote, the one I liked so much that I stole it, is “When I stand before God, I’d rather answer for loving too freely than explain why my theology made people feel unwelcome at His table.”
It reminds me of another favorite quote by another minister, Rev. Eston Williams: “At the end of the day, I’d rather be excluded for who I include than be included for who I exclude.”
Though my personal spiritual journey may differ from these two Christian pastors, I welcome anyone into my energetic circle who maintains inclusive guiding principles such as these. Because, let’s face it, our world could use all the welcome-home, lemme-give-you-a-hug, soup’s-on kind of acceptance it can get these days.
Of COURSE, someone had to leap onto my post and make this comment: “Loving does not mean condoning. Compassion can coexist with strict adherence to God’s laws.”
But can it? Can it really? And what precisely does one mean by “God’s laws”?
Let’s deal with the laws first and get my response to the poster out of the way. My reply was: “Humans made all the laws. The closest thing we have to a divine law is when Yeshua said to love God and love our neighbor as ourself. Everything else is debatable through various lenses of interpretation and culture.”
But the far more important question here is the one about compassion and just what it can and can’t coexist with. Compassion and judgment don’t seem to be natural friends. Judgment comes from a place of moral superiority, a sense of rightness in the face of another’s wrongness. It comes from believing we have the ultimate definition of “God’s Laws.” The Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön said that “Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals.” The delusion of moral superiority cannot exist in the same space as true compassion because it assumes inequality.
Another part of the commenter’s phrase that slips by almost undetected is “strict adherence — Compassion can coexist with strict adherence to God’s laws.”
I’m probably stepping into a deep pool here, but I’m a swimmer, so let’s do it. In and of itself, there is nothing wrong with “strict adherence.” I’d like to live a life that strictly adheres to love and joy and freedom and spiritual expansion. Yet I’ve found that doing so inherently leads me away from words like “strict” and “adherence.” Compassion, just like love and joy and freedom, requires suppleness, flexibility, an artistic walk with the sacred rather than a lockstep adherence to a prescribed set of dos and don’ts. Compassion requires an ever-present awareness of how my sacred urging can meet the needs of the one in front of me, not a creed or manual or how-to book. Compassion requires that I stay awake to the moment, not that I memorize ten commandments or twelve steps or eight beatitudes.
Mostly, I wonder what compels someone to rush judgment into a declaration of inclusion. Why the urgent need to counterbalance an expression of love?
So much in this life leans toward the other side of the scale. It just seems to me that unlimited compassion might be a good way to go.
Soup’s on. Get you a bowl.
Barbara
I make myself sit still to
write, to think, to feel
who you were to me all
those years ago when
I was a lost child with
emotions too large for my
body and no place to store
them until I could understand.
You gave me a space to be
honest and verbose and lost
in safety. Lost
in arms always open.
Lost in love with no
conditions.
You gave me the country and
tick checks and canoeing
the Finley with the children
everyone thought were the reason,
your children, a year above and
below me, who provided cover
for my true purpose — to be held
to your bosom, to be mothered.
Hearing you died landed as
an anvil. Despite the memory
you had already released and the
hospice and the impending
truth I knew would come, still,
knowing that for the first time
in my life I was on the earth
without you forged iron grief.
Before I knew you, you were
here. After we moved away, you
were here. And during those sacred
years of blooming in a sanctuary
you built for me, you were
here, always here. And now
I’m here without you, and
I feel a little lost. Not sure
what to write, what to
think, what to feel.
Nothing has changed.
You lived your life there,
and I lived my life here. We
stopped being daily parts of
each other decades past.
No, nothing has changed, but
it didn’t need to. Because
you loved me enough in two
years to last a lifetime, and that
changed everything for me,
how I understood love and
the world and my space in it.
Everything changed when
you loved me back to myself.



