The Cea
The cursive c
Like an ocean wave
Forever in the sea
As real as reality?
Or personal as personality?
Simple, sweet, pure
or confounding duality.
Aim your mind to what is real.
You can know what you can feel.
Progress confounds us
While Energy surrounds us.
We find what we need
when we sacrifice our speed.
That journey more than destination.
It is living anticipation.
Slow down, tune in, exist.
For life passes like a mist.
Do not cherish what you achieve.
Reality is what you believe.
Fine. Let us first talk
about the character of
you and your neighbors.
The night grandma peppered the trees
That grew bouquet-tight behind her house
With buckshot. Aural ink blots:
The epithets she shouted in harried
Twang into a dark infested with the standard
Medieval goblins and goons and good
Ol’ 21st Century meth heads as well,
Country dark where the known coordinates
Of God’s green Earth—shaggy yard,
Fencerow choked/clotted with honey suckle and clematis
Slender county highway beyond the back forty
Give way to what can’t be contained,
Distances reach back past lunar dusts and Olympic Mons’
moribund slopes and stars destined for disintegration,
dramatic and savage lustrous silences
ripped apart by the big bang staccato
of blasts in my general direction.
So goes the story of the time my grandma
Didn’t try to shoot me.
I didn’t yell for fear of giving away
My location. We were all ultimately
Totally safe: the meth heads and monsters
Never actually arrived.
We were talking a few days later
when the topic of shooting at things
came up. I asked her what
She had been shooting at that night.
“Thought you were a stranger,” she insisted
In that endearing grandmotherly
Kind of way.
“What did a stranger ever do to warrant
That welcome?” I asked, syllables
Eroded by bites of apple pie that felt
Conciliatory, even if it was just routine.
“Just be glad you weren’t a stranger,”
She said, carving up another slice,
“else I wouldn’t have missed.”
What is passion without resilience?
There is only so much pushing a man can do
before he begins surrendering to the pull.
When a hand latches to a doorknob,
so certain of its resistance,
struggle forgets where effort ends
and identity begins.
Suffering grows louder
when the shape of the dream drifts beyond reach.
What is passion without purpose?
There are only so many roads a man can walk
before distance begins disguising itself as progress.
When footsteps echo through familiar weather,
certainty starts borrowing from wandering.
Direction loses its integrity
when longing confuses motion for meaning.
How quietly confusion settles into the cortex
when arrival only remembers what could have been.
What is passion without knowledge?
There is only so much borrowed light a man can trust
before the shadows begin asking questions.
When fraudulent hands carry lanterns through narrow halls of accusation,
confidence learns how easily it can imitate wisdom.
Some doors open too easily
for the soul to believe it earned recognition.
Doubt waits patiently
while faith tries to stop the bleeding.
What is passion without sacrifice?
There is only so much comfort a man can cradle
before the pain of same stings more than the pain of change.
When warmth lingers too long around fragile ego,
desperation forces humility.
The weight of what I can’t let go of
begins to mock the things I desire.
The spark gives in to exhaustion,
and silence starts sounding deserved.
What is passion without commitment?
There are only so many tomorrows a man can assume
before hope starts feeling vacant.
When promises are the only foundation,
you give mercy to illusions.
The clock has a way of downplaying reality
when motivation feels indestructible.
Though somewhere beneath this enthusiastic pulse,
I can feel the rush of my undiscovered critics
just waiting to feast.
What is passion without integrity?
There are only so many mirrors a man can polish
before reflection exposes appearance.
When language grows smoother than truth,
the power of suggestion manipulates the ignorant.
How clever I felt wearing this mask
that gently resembled survival.
Though loneliness would inevitably follow
as guilt and sorrow begged for applause.
What is passion without love?
What if…
What if this is the real problem?
What if the struggle was never discipline,
or endurance,
or knowing enough,
or wanting it badly enough?
What if I…
What if I am simply afraid?
Afraid that if I finally reach for something fully,
it will still not be enough.
Afraid that effort might expose me.
Afraid that becoming visible means becoming measurable.
Afraid of failing loudly.
Afraid of succeeding and finding out
I still do not feel whole.
And maybe worse…
Afraid of what devotion costs.
Because love asks things from a person.
Real love interrupts comfort.
It asks for patience when exhaustion feels easier.
Compassion when resentment feels justified.
Presence when distraction feels safer.
And if I am honest,
how much of my striving has secretly been about escape?
About proving something?
About becoming someone I could finally stop apologizing for?
I know that everything I have ever wanted
stands isolated on the other side of fear.
I know that!
So why do I keep standing here?
Why do I keep reaching toward the door
only to tighten my hand around hesitation?
Why do I keep saying “one day”
like time owes me courage?
What is passion without…God?
I do not think I am asking for success anymore.
I think I am terrified.
Terrified that one day I will look back
and realize I confused waiting with becoming,
preparation with purpose,
fear with wisdom.
The truth I keep trying to tiptoe around is…
I am tired.
Tired of circling things I ache for.
Tired of mistaking caution for maturity.
Tired of wondering if I am wasting the life
I keep promising myself I will someday begin.
And maybe…
maybe I have misunderstood the question.
Maybe I have spent too long asking
what passion is missing,
without asking
what passion is.
Because I keep speaking of passion
like hunger, ambition, achievement…
something earned through force,
something waiting at the finish line.
But Passion…real Passion,
looked like suffering that refused to stop loving.
It looked like wounds carried willingly.
Like surrender.
Like staying.
Like sacrifice with purpose.
And suddenly I wonder
if the question was never:
“What am I passionate enough to chase?”
But:
“What am I willing to carry
for the One who carried everything for me?”
Because if I belong to Christ,
then purpose was never hiding
on the other side of accomplishment.
Maybe I have spent years
trying to prove my worth at locked doors,
forgetting the door was never the point.
Maybe Passion was never the fire
I was supposed to create.
Maybe Passion..
is what carried me first.
And of course I said yes.
Because staying single,
caged in religious
doctrine and rumors did not appeal to me.
Especially when every syllable of my name on his lips
fisted my chest, squeezed to aching.
Good girls always wait, but my
honor had been ruined, stolen.
I was used goods; chewed up bubble gum;
just a rumored whore. The opposite of good.
Knowing me, just me, he didn’t seem to care.
“Let me love you,” he said.
*
My name is Sarah this morning. Just Sarah.
New. Only a few more hours until I will be new,
or, at the very least, changed. I will leave behind
people who spread their judgment and concern
quietly in prayer requests and sewing circles.
Riding the high of rebellion and tangled-together
sleep, we daydream our way towards home. Our home.
Together we drive between mountains and slip
under overpasses until, at last,
vivid blue skies open to reveal
windows dripping golden honey-sun into the
xylophone of my ribs and exposed nerves.
yellow comfort to chase away everything.
Zealous, we make promises and kiss away the past.
my truth roars like a river
stopped by a dam
i am a week ahead
& a day behind
at all times
my truth whispers like the wind
blowing through the branches
i am looking forward through
my rearview mirror
my truth is concrete
like the quicksand i thought
i would have to worry more about
i am just a thought of a dream
The bitter cold
releases its grip and
the earth smiles, tickled
by the silent spread of ice crystals
turned soggy and soaking deep into
the yellow brown shards of grass long
given up to husks that hug and protect the
surface of dirt and rocks and seeds and roots
the sullen crust that will soon give rise to a mat
of sprouting green blades tangled with ragwort and
butterweed to blanket the vast expanse of rolling hills
summoning the mice and moles, the larva that explode into
butterflies and bull frogs and mosquitoes as the robins, blue jays
and hawks scoop up mouthful day after sparkling day, embraced by
the air resplendent with a potpourri of intoxicating smells that banish
all memories of bleak winter days and long frigid nights to the moment
when the lingering light gives promise that spring is almost here at last
