To understand another,
The greatest obstacle we face,
Is our own perspective.

Reverberations

Where that love exists in many colors and depths
It sinks like perfume into the crevasses of my soul.
The sweet smell anoints my face
Like wine, an elixir on my lips
My thoughts are drunk with the warmth of you
And my head seeks its peace upon your chest
Can you hear my heart beat faster
When your soft words caress my ear?
What truth is this you speak
Upon the night wind and morning breathe
That seeks my soul and finds it yearning
For every moment… every word…
I hunger for your presence
My love… my Hebrew man.

Unexpected

Wrapped in golden linen,
Guarded against the world;
I reached out for a moment
And was caught up in the breeze.
A gentle hand that clasped mine firm;
A deep strong smooth voice that whispers.
The clear calm smell of summer rain,
And the undulations of ocean tides
Are not sweeter in this moment
Than falling into the warm sun.
Watching autumn leaves
flutter like heartbeats
And each moment
I fall a little more
Into you.

I wrote this piece after dreaming it about 2 years ago when I was pregnant with my son. I have kept it hidden away because I did not understand the meaning of it. This week a very dear Hebrew man showed me new meaning in what I had written. It is a humbling experience to be shown the true sense of something that I wrote. Indeed I do believe the veil is beginning to lift... and my ears are beginning to hear. You are cherished among friends my Hebrew man... may YAH bless you greatly and continue to restore the years the locusts have eaten...

THE CATHEDRAL

Every brick was placed in the Father’s name. The masons worked long days mixing mortar by hand and setting the large gray stones in place to build the cathedral by hand. Opulent and majestic it has stood for nearly 1000 years; built strong with faith, and the best that the time could provide. I’ve been inside this stone house of God. The inside is filled with candles, and pictures of battles fought in the name of religion. Above the alter hangs a life size replica of the Christ himself, hung on a cross, thorns on his head, spear in his side, blood pouring from his wounds. His head leans to one side; his eyes are closed in death. People come in to look, but rarely stay any length of time. The services are like empty rituals; repetitive words, a priest in white cloth swings a lantern of burning incense over those few that gather in the pews for Sunday morning. The symbols displayed do not equal life. Inside this church is death… life exists outside its doors. Around the church are the houses of people who busily go about their daily chores. They hang laundry out to dry, feed animals, weed gardens, wash steps, sweep the walkway, seed the fields, and tend the graves. The cathedral rises above them, and they continue their work in the shadows of its magnificence.

From my outlook far above the village on a hill, I look down at the activities of the warm summer afternoon below. The enormous cathedral, its stones now covered in moss, stands alone, high above the other buildings, like the backdrop to some gothic movie. Images of gargoyles landing atop the roof and perching there, race through my head. I feel the deadness of the place; the coldness of the symbols; the absence of faith… the absence of God. Years ago, God was taken from these people, taken by a man who gave them death in return. Sometimes I think I see a small glimmer of hope in the hearts of the people, but in most… I see only the bare emptiness that replaces that which was once so vibrant and true.

Clouds begin to roll in around the steeple, and the sky begins to darken. The bells of the cathedral begin to sound a warning… gong, gong, gong… they ring over and over. The bells warn of the impending storm… a way to communicate to all within its earshot that they should be quick to pack up. People below me scurry to take in the washing off the line, to pen up animals in the yard; they scurry around finishing the tasks of the day before the impeding storm. Slowly, one by one, the people disappear indoors; doors and shutters are closed, and the village is quiet. The day seems dreary, and oddly silent after the bustle of morning activities. The clouds have now completely covered the sun, and the day is dark as night. Standing here on hill, observing the village below, I can see rain begin to fall in the village a few kilometers away. A flash of lightening suddenly brightens the clouds above and the ensuing thunder deafens my ears. The cathedral bells continue to sound… gong, gong, gong.

As I turn to make my own way indoors, I am suddenly blinded by darkness and my ears are covered. Fear grips my heart. Sulfur fills my nose. When I can see again, I am standing on top of the cathedral, my body is exposed and my belly is swollen with a child. My arms are held out straight from my sides and I cannot move. I am cold, standing there naked in the dark; in the rain. The lightening and thunder have intensified and the rain is pouring down my body. It has soaked my hair and I am unable to wipe it away. “OH GOD!!!” I scream, “What is happening to me?” I see an angel standing beside me…

Out of the dark night a beast flies at me, his gruesome face is carved deep with lines; his eyes are burning fire; his yellow teeth are bared. He flies directly into my face. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. He comes so close that his sulfurous breath fills my mouth. The angel lifts its staff and the demon is knocked away. My heart is pounding and I am thankful that this creature is standing next to me to protect me. From behind I feel a claw press deep into my flesh… cutting a wide gash across my naked back. I feel the warm blood pour out and the cold talons grip at my skin. As the angel turns to fend him off, another catches him from the side. The tail of the demon swats wildly at the angel and again the angel fends him off with his staff. Suddenly the skies are filled with the dark bodies of flying creatures. The air is filled with the stench of their bodies and their cries and screams are deafening. The demons are flying into my face, at my body from all directions; they are clawing their way across the roof towards my feet. My cheek is seared to the core as a sharp tail cuts deep into my flesh. I turn my head to watch the angel… Its white glow is scarred by the claws of the enemies… The demons have scratched him as much as they have scratched me. The angels face is worn with deep scars, his eyes show that his strength is waning. My body is bruised, scratched and bleeding and yet I still cannot move. The attacks continue, until there is nothing left inside me.

Then from somewhere in front of me, from under the cathedral emerges the huge scaly head of a dragon. His eyes are full of furry, and out of his mouth and nose spews the fire of hell… I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to get away, but I can not move. My blood runs cold with fear… my spine feels as though it will separate from my body, and I will be ripped apart. I try to pray, but the baby inside me screams so loudly that I cannot hear the answers. I try to call out, but my voice is not heard. I am alone. The angel beside me tries his best to stand in front of me… to protect the child. But what is one angel against the vast power of the dark Lord? What power do I have now? Everything inside me screams for freedom… screams out to God… but his voice, I cannot hear.

From somewhere out there, in the deep dark sky there comes a voice whose deep echoes shake the very earth… I hear the words… “Where is your warrior now?” I don’t know who said them…. But the words are soon picked up by the demons, who echo in taunting tones… “Where is he now? Where’s the warrior?” The air is filled with maniacal laughing… I hung my head down…. I could not hear the voice of God, I could not feel his presence… and my warrior… was nowhere to be found. I feel deceived… like I believed something that wasn’t true. I believed him to be the warrior… I prayed for him, as a warrior… where is he????? I call into question everything that I have heard from the Father until now. Was I imagining it? Could it be that the truth was skewed? That I just did not see it? I scream out to God to give me answers… but my ears are blocked and I cannot hear his replies. My eyes are covered and I cannot see the truth. I need my warrior to call out to him for me… to tell me what he hears… WHERE IS HE??? The screams continue... the taunting continues... "Where is your warrior now?", the maniacal laughing continues... I want to scream out... "HE'S COMING..." but I don't know where he is, I don't know for sure... I'm lost... or he is.

May your unfailing love come to me, O YAH,

Your salvation according to your promise;

then I will answer the one who taunts me,

for I trust in your word.

Psalm 119:41-42

The seed... this is the first paragraph... the inspiration for things that I hope will grow to more.
It has yet no title... the characters are merely sketches, and the plot is ever twisting in my head... and yet I believe that for all the theatre that has played before my eyes over the last couple of years, there deserves a tribute be paid, to the truth... to the players... and to the undying faith that fairy tales really do exist... and my warrior has never changed. For that I merely chose to look upon the false countenance and believe him to be the right man thereby missing the point... and the plan... and the bus... and very nearly my mind. And all the while, my warrior stood, awaiting the moment when I would have the veil taken from my eyes to see... but indeed... on with the story...

The truth is a wicked thing; a two sided sword that never sleeps. The harshness of truth ruins lives, speaks words that should never be spoken, and gives the illusion of relief to those who commit acts of unfaithfulness. The truth does not tell stories. As I sit here curled next to the fire that rages on the hearth against the bitter cold of the winter wind whistling outside my window, I find myself not searching for truth, but trying to forget it. I try to forget the acid heavy in my throat as I listened to a woman take a sword and cut the very heart out of my chest, lay it beating in the ashes to be burnt with the fiery embers and return it to me as charred remains of a life that could have been. It is not the truth I want to remember now, it is the dark tale coaxed from my imagination. The fire sparked by a series of horrible, life changing, tragic events that spurred forth a story worth telling. For a storyteller does not live by telling the truth, but by the regaling of a tale that captures a spirit and holds it deep within the treasure chest of time itself.