You and Our and the Magical Arithmetic of Hope

You and Our
And the Magical Arithmetic
Of Hope
By
Joseph Anthony

You and Our

And the Magical Arithmetic

of Hope

 

In the shared space pain takes up,
Camaraderie prevails.
And it isn’t so much
That the pain doesn’t matter,
Those partaking of this bitter bread
Give thanks for the nourishment it brings.
And even as they accept me
Into this holy fraternity,
This circle of understanding,
This affiliation of grace,
I stand myself apart and say: Your
Rooms, your fellowship,
My pain, your pain.
One of them brought this
To my attention and I am grateful.
So much depends upon unity,
Upon the shared understanding
That weaves through and through
Each agent of mercy, each emissary that carries
The gifts of sadness and transcendence.
And so I stand and take fledging steps
To the edge and then into
The Community of Our:
Our pain. Our rooms. Our healing.
And as I take my place amidst and among,
I sit neither below nor above,
I am simply one of the many,
One of a band that grows, like
Ripples in a pond,
Like the fragrance of honeysuckle in spring,
Like the good thoughts of forgiveness
And humility, like a song sung by the One
Who is the Ultimate Our and You and I
And We and Every Living Thing,
And on we go,
One tapestry of hope,
One table of plenty shared,
One perpetual thanksgiving
Of you becoming our
And our becoming more
Than the sum of its parts,
And the sum of its parts
Becoming the magical arithmetic
Of hope: things subtracted
Become the variables that give way
To the addition of constants
Like love, understanding, acceptance, humor,
And miracles, yes, miracles
Are a constant,
That when combined
Multiply a thousand fold, pressed down, shaken together,
And running over into a joy that equals
The priceless gift
Of serenity.


 


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12 / 13 / 14

12 / 13 / 14
by
Joseph Anthony

12 / 13 / 14

The tissue paper wing of the dead cicada,
The dry, decomposing leaf that reveals the hair-thin frame,
The tailspinning snowflake landing on my coat,
The seedling finally threading through the ruckusy goings on of the thick forest floor,
The hatchling robins shaking, blind, void of feathers, hungry,
The surface of the pond as I just lay my hand, like so, upon its face,
My hand as the cool water enfolds it with the darkness of sensation,
The small Christmas present, all crinkles and tape, loosely and lovingly wrapped by a child,
The quavering moon held in the fingertips of the winter branches,
The trembling hand adding the last, tiniest detail to the drawing,
The onion skin paper between the pages of the prayer book from the 1800’s,
This heart, this mind, this fluttering soul,
How does one allow for such vulnerable tenderness?
How does one be in the presence of such beautiful, holy fragility
Without feeling the impulse to crush?
How, dear Lord of sparrows and lilies,
Does one protect such delicate things?





 


Truer Than True, A Poem For the Earth

Truer Than True
A Poem for the Earth
By
Joseph Anthony

Truer Than True

Roots are upside down trees
Spreading into vast, dark sky.
A sky thick with loam
That loves to give way to shovels and tillers,
A sky packed with clumps
Of cumulous clay,
A sky studded with the constellations
Of rocks and bone,
A sky woven with hidden rivers
And jubilant, Gordian worms,
A sky populated by sleeping cicada nymphs,
Burrowing rabbits, and moles
That tunnel blindly with dirt in their whiskers,
A sky punctuated with light-hearted seeds
And heavy, densely packed bulbs and tubers.
Yet, in the end, what is
This terra firma sky?
What is this rich, moist soil
That smells so heavenly?
What is it the roots grasp and let go of
Simultaneously?
Stories.
The earth, the soil, this stuff the rocks and bones,
Rivers and creatures all subsist in stories. It’s all stories
Building up over scrolls of millennia,
Libraries of centuries, composing,
Revisioning, edited by graves
And buried treasures, frackers,
And coal mines, wells and chasms
Of underground mountains yet to be born,
Only to dissolve again into
Infinitesimal grains, like
So many syllables dropped
From the whispered lips
Of bards, minstrels, and children,
And those who die face down
In the mud. Stories.
That’s what roots are surrounded by
And nibble on and assimilate.
And all of them truer than true.
Like flakes of mica, snowflake obsidian,
Fossils and caskets, tears and keys, arrowheads
And shards of pottery. True like rivers
That astonish us for finding ways
To flow underground and soak roots
With slathering kisses. True, like
Underground lakes surrounded
By rainbow-tinted cathedrals.
True like blood slowly seeping
Into cool, autumn leaves.
Stories are the soul of the earth,
The soul of sod and the ground of being,
Stories are the stuff of earth,
The very ground that lifts us through
Our every step and sorrow, our every
Joy and blunder, our every wandering
And seeking, our every discovery
And revelation. And they nourish
And compose us, form and speak us,
Sing and cry us, lament and celebrate us.
And each one of us, each and every
One of us, born from the soil,
Born from the ground,
This endlessly mothering earth,
Is a walking story, a living, breathing,
Story, stumbling, dancing, rising
And falling, and each one of us,
Each and every one,
Is truer than true.


 


Poem After a Therapy Session Addressing Old Trauma Memories

Bowed before the Wizard King
Who says: Lift up your head.
It is my honor to gaze
Into such a brave and beautiful face.
I am the honored one.
I am proud to know you
Dear Warrior of Song,
Warrior of Words and of drawing,
Warrior of laughter, and of heart
And of mind. You carried
an impossible weight–
A task that was thrust upon you
At the tender age of nine.
You trudged, hidden, seen,
frightened and ashamed, cold
and alone, utterly alone.
Yet you did it.
You carried the weight
and brought it to me.
Now it is finished. Now it is over.
You are free to go, free to play,
And to run for joy. Do whatever it is
You want. You have earned the crown:
The boy king is now a man,
A man with a powerfully innocent heart.
Go now and rule your world
With grace and compassion,
With breath and with roots,
And with the hand of complete kindness.
Rise, Warrior of Spirit.
It is over. It is enough.
You have done beyond well.
It is over. It is done. Rise
Fierce warrior of soul
And go, go wherever you want.
You are my hero. And we are one
Ever and always. One heart, one mind.
Rejoice and celebrate.
Your kingdom is Yours.
Thus were the words of the Wizard King.


 


It All Started With a Box of Darkness

It All Started With a Box of Darkness

by

Joseph Anthony

Last night my dear friend Mindy sent me a quote by Mary Oliver (the best poet in America of the last 100 years, maybe even ever):

 

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”

 

I read that and as so often happens, words and images started flowing. Sometimes they come like a flood, right away, rushing and gushing–exploding all over the page; other times it’s a more gradual build, images and words finding their way into me slowly, like the dawn. Last night it was the former. It all came out in one brief, satisfying, healing torrent of images, words, and insights.

 
I went with the current on Twitter. Sometimes the constraints of the 140 spaces is a perfect discipline to channel the flow. Other times it’s silly to even try. Last night, the Twitter format worked fine.

 
So thank you Mindy for the initial share; thank you Mary Oliver for writing your wildly luminous poetry; thank you Muse for coming to me in the form of Mindy and Mary; and thank you also, Dear Darkness, of whom I am learning so much from, thank you for being full of light. So many times the depression feels only like utter and complete blackness. I am learning, little by little, the more I simply keep walking, that as soon as the darkness begins to feel overwhelmingly isolative (isolate=from the Latin: to become an island), that exact moment—if I tell someone, find a way to share the hidden pain, the secret suffering, then the darkness blooms into light, into lessons, into invaluable help for myself and others, and I can breathe again. For deep depression is nothing more than the suffocation of the soul.

 
Last night, I didn’t drown in the darkness. I was able to swim. Thank you everyone who helps me to do this. The trinity of diseases: addiction, depression, and isolation, often go hand in hand and can lead to the final darkness. I needn’t go through anything alone again, ever. You don’t either. May my journey through the heart of darkness bear witness to this truth: bring others with you—not dragging them into the chaos, no, bring them with you into your heart, invite them—the safe ones into where the secret hurts live, and the burdens, whatever they are, will become light, the yoke becomes easy (easier). For wherever two or more are gathered–there, in the midst of them, is salvation from the fears of being vulnerable, of showing one’s weaknesses, of being so-called-perfect. There, in this place, this holy space of breath and of embracing–the common experiences, the threads of compassion, identification, love, and eventually ultimately wonder, creativity, and dancing, weave us together into the shared fabric of humanity.

 
Thank you all.

 
The Poems in order of their appearance:

 
Wherever I go, I carry a box of darkness handed down by generations. Inside are echoes of sorrows; and light, beautiful, hidden light.

 
***

 
I speak, the box of darkness closes; I am silent, the box opens. I weep, the box closes, I sleep, the box opens; I sing the box disappears.

 
***

 
I reach inside the box of darkness and find a key. A door appears. I stand, set the box down, and go, go to fall into the shimmering light.

 
***

 
Three words: “Box of darkness,” open secret passageways to the soul. I’m going, take my hand, let’s go find the way back to now.

 
***

 
Where are you? I cry. Here, says the Beloved. Where? I demand. Here, says the Beloved, Where you left me, inside this box of darkness.

 
***

 
One day, I slipped the box of darkness under my bed, not wanting to see it again. When I got home that night, my room had become the box.

 
***

 
I never know when it’s going to come, this rush of images. I only know to slip into it and allow it to river through me to wherever it goes.

 
***

 
Goodnight. I open the box of darkness, slip inside with a blanket. I close the lid. And when I open my eyes to the darkness, I see light.

 

 


 

 



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Dear Readers of the Wonder Child Blog,

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The Journey

The Journey
By
Joseph Anthony

A cool, spring breeze draped the dew-dappled dawn. The little girl and the Angel sat in a meadow on a blanket talking and weaving garlands of flowers in each other’s hair. A deep sense of rebirth and drowsy awakenings filled the bright blue sky. The Sun spread beams of light carrying fairies and sprites up and down their radiant columns. The Moon listened distantly to the conversation of the little girl and the Angel. Along with the bees and newly hatched butterflies, flowers unfurled their curtains and called out with their sweet fragrances for all to come and partake of their honeyed nectar. The song the Singer sang that morning thrummed through all things leaving everything polished and luminous. The song was particularly alive in the little girl. It swirled around her like daytime fireflies. It roused a desire she had been holding within her and lifted it to the surface. The Moon leaned in closer. The Sun took notice and turned his face upon them.
“I think I’m ready,” said the little girl.

“Come,” said the Moon to the little girl.

The little girl left the Angel (yet the Angel, magically did not leave the little girl) and scrambled up into the lap of the Moon. The Angel stood in their midst, eyes slightly closed, yet keenly interested in what they were saying.

“You want to go learn from there?” asked the Moon, pointing to the earth.

“Yes,” said the little girl.

“And what do you want to learn?”

“Everything.”

“I see,” said the Moon, “and you also want to grow?”

“Yes.”

“How tall?”

“Tall enough to be a grown up.”

The Moon laughed a little, as did the Angel, and then all three were silent for a long, deep moment.

“You know,” began the Moon, “You will suffer.”

“I know,” said the little girl bowing her head.

“Do you?” asked the Moon.

“I, I think so.”

“You will know pain,” continued the Moon, “and longing, hunger, thirst, loneliness, boredom, fear, and shame. Youwill taste death and decay. You will also, of course, know exquisite pleasure, sheer delight, wonder, union, bliss, creativity, and vast amounts of fun. You will also lose your way (and as the Moon spoke tears formed in the Angel’s eyes. She looked away). You will also do things unimaginable to you now which you will regret and not be able to reconcile for a very long time. You will also do things of remarkable grace. Are you sure you’re ready for all of that?”

The little girl kept her head low, but she mumbled just loud enough for all of them to hear: “Yes, I am.”

“You will forget me,” said the Moon looking up into the sky.

“Never!” cried the little girl.

“You will,” said the Moon, “but not completely. I will always be with you in your dreams and creativities. Once you go however, you will turn your attention to the Sun, for I will take you as far as the gates of birth and leave you with Angel at the shore. Angel will go with you across the ocean to an even further shore where you will live out your time there; then, when the time is right, the Sun will take you to the gates of death and from there Angel will carry you home, and we will all be waiting for you once you return.”
The truths of the Moons words stung the little girl’s heart, yet, at the same time, the pain was somehow full of light and a strange, dizzying expectancy.

“Will you stay with me while I’m in the other world?” she asked the Angel.

“Of course,” replied the Angel. “I have been with you since before the beginning and I will be with you beyond the end.”

“Thank you!” said the little girl leaping into the Angel’s arms.

“You’re welcome,” said the Angel, “but you will forget me too.”

“And me,” interjected the Sun.

The little girl stepped back from the three gathered there and stared at them. “Why will I forget you?” she said, unable to hold back her tears. “You are my Mother, Father, and closest friend. Why must I forget you?”

“If you truly want to grow,” said the Moon, “and learn to be free, you will need to cultivate your own remembrances. You will need to awaken us within yourself, and once you do, we will be closer to you then than we are right now. Angel will help you through all of this. She will be your constant companion. She will do her very best to keep you on a good road and inspire thoughts and feelings within you to help you remember us and where you have come from. But it will not only be your angel that will help you remember. There is another teacher as well.”

“Who is that?” asked the little girl.

“It’s not a ‘who’,” said the Moon, “It is a what—pain. Pain will help guide you to us, so will your dream and desires, teachers and so too, will nature and the holy books written by inspired people. And of course, the song from the Singer Who Loves Us will guide you too. It’s just that sometimes we cover our ears to is music.”

“I’m afraid,” said the little girl.

“This is only the beginning of fear,” said the Moon, “the fear you will come to know will be great, right from the very beginning. Fear will fill your first gasping breaths. Angel will be with you though, guiding, supporting, and giving you just enough courage to make it through. You needn’t fear your fear or let it stop you from doing what you truly want or need to do. But be aware, many people there worship feelings like gods, yet they fail to realize that feelings are as transient as the wind. The fear you will feel will leave and return throughout your time there, just like happiness and joy. All of the feelings come and go. Angel will help you know what to do with your feelings.Angel will be teaching you the entire journey.”

“You’ll do that for me?” the little girl asked the Angel.

“I will do that with you,” corrected the Angel, “we go together. I am not your lord, I am your companion, and I will be with you always.”

The little girl took a deep breath.

“Keep doing that,” said the Moon, “You will need to learn how to breathe a whole new way. The more you practice and the more you learn to remember to breathe with your whole body the easier the journey will be, and the more you will be able to remember us.”

“When can we go?” asked the little girl, practicing taking another deep breath.

“As soon as we’ve gathered the provisions for your journey,” said the Moon.

“Here,” said the Sun, “You’ll need this.” And he took a piece of light from a little box that appeared in his hands.

“Open wide,” he said, and placed the piece of light onto her tongue. She beamed, relishing the sweetness spreading through her, sharp, alive, quick. She held it in her mouth like candy, allowing it to slowly dissolve.

“That will live in you,” said the Sun, “and serve as a homing beacon when you begin your search for me.”

“Thank you,” said the little girl, “it tastes like honey.”

“Good,” said the Sun, “remember that sweetness.”

“May I have another piece?”

“Yes,” the Sun smiled and dropped another piece into her waiting mouth, like a mother bird feeding her young.

“Each piece makes me want more,” she said.

“When you feast on my light, it will always leave you wanting more. And the more light you share with others, the more you will have, and the more you will want. So use it, cherish it, eat–the supply is endless.”

“And you’ll need this,” said the Moon, draping a garland of fragrant, delicate white flowers around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” said the little girl, carefully touching the blossoms.

“When you cross over it will merge into you,” said the Moon, “it will become you. Then you will have the Sun’s light and mine living within you. My flowers will be your connection with me. They will grow into my servant, the Muse, who will help you author your life.”

“It’s beautiful,” said the little girl.

“And so will be the story of your life,” smiled the Moon with a tear in her eye.

“Don’t cry,” said the little girl, reaching up and touching the Moon’s face.

“Why not?” asked the Moon, “tears are another gift each one of us gives to you, they will help water the garden that the Singer has planted in you. The garden Angel will help you tend.”

“Garden?” asked the little girl.

“Yes,” said the Moon, “The Singer Who Loves Us plants a garden in every living thing. “

“Even you?”

“Even me,” laughed the Moon.

“We all have gardens,” said the Sun and the Angel.

“My garden looks like a field of lilies,” said the Moon.

“My garden looks well, like a field of sunflowers,” laughed the Sun.

“And yours?” the little girl asked the Angel.

“Mine is still growing, but I suspect it will look a lot like yours.”

“What does mine look like?” asked the little girl.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” said the Angel, “here, take these.” The Angel handed the little girl a pouch of seeds.

“These are your destiny,” said the Angel. “You get to plant them whenever, however, and wherever you please in your garden.”

The little girl slowly took the pouch into her hands, felt its gentle, unassuming weight, and felt suddenly worried.

“What if I plant them wrong?” she asked, “What if I lose them, or plant them and forget about them?”

“That’s why I go with you,” said the Angel placing her hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “I will guide you and be with you, I will protect, inspire, and enliven you. However, you will be in complete freedom when it comes to how, when, and where you sow your seeds.”

“But what if I waste them? What if I do it all wrong?” The little girl was crying, and for the first time since this moment began, she felt unsure of wanting to take this journey.

“It is not a question of wrong, or of wasting,” said the Angel, “These seeds are eternal, gifts from the Singer Who Loves Us. So they are always right. It is only a matter of time as to whether they bear fruit or not. They all bear fruit, dear one. You may make mistakes here and there and need to rearrange the garden, pull a few weeds; but do it without shame, for we have all done so, every one of us. In fact, tending the garden of your heart, learning how and when and what to plant, is all part of the adventure and the fun.”

“The light I gave will help you,” said the Sun.

“Mine too,” said the Moon, “In fact, with the power of the Muse you will even be able to garden at night.”

The little girl smiled, comforted.

“There’s one more thing,” said the Moon, and she opened her arms, gathering Sun, the Angel, and the little girl into the silvery drapery of her embrace. They held one another, and each one in turn, the Sun, the Moon, and the Angel, showered the little girl with kisses, tears, blessings, and prayers. And as they did they heard a song rise from the horizon. It rolled towards them, unfolding its wings, and it flooded them, came upon them with the force of a river, and filled them with hope and joy; and within its music, the most tender, yet fiercest love wove through their embrace. It spiraled around and through them, above and below them.

And when they finally let go, the Moon gathered the little girl into her arms. The song unfurled into a rainbow-dappled road, and the Moon began walking slowly upon it. The Angel followed close behind, and the Sun ran ahead deep into the distance, until he was no longer visible. The Moon carried the little girl to the gates of birth which opened into an ocean lit with a million lanterns and lotus flowers. A basket made of flowers waited at the shore, and with one last kiss, the Moon placed the little girl into the basket and nudged it gently away, tears streaming down her face. The Angel slipped into the water like a ribbon of gold and took the basket in her arms and carried it through the water. They traveled across the ocean to another shore that opened surrounded by hills and mountains, and pulsed with wild, quickening drumbeats unlike anything the little girl had ever heard. They were hypnotic, mesmerizing, and yet soothing, like a gentle storm. They were strangely familiar and seemed as close to her as her own breath.

“Here,” said the little girl, “this is good.”

And with these words, the basket touched the shore and as it did, the gates of the other world parted. For a split second she thought she saw the Sun racing ahead. She thought she saw the Moon leaning in from the sky. She turned and realized the Angel had disappeared and moved to the other side of the gates. She heard moans of ecstasy and pleasure. She felt something shimmer through her, thrilling her with something like sparks and a slow, gradual explosion of wonder and of unfolding into time and space. And the song–the song the Singer Who Loves Us sang, threaded through the drumbeats of this new world with the drumbeat of the little girl’s. Little by little the drumbeats slowed and separated, and she suddenly found herself lulled to sleep. She slept for what seemed like forever. Somehow she sensed the Angel rocking her. Somehow she felt connected and protected by the one drumbeat that now enveloped her with its steady, caressing light. Somehow she knew other drumbeats were near and ready to meet her. Somehow the song of the Singer Who Loves Us thrummed through her newly forming fingers and toes, making her do little, fluttering dances.

And then one morning, she found herself being pushed, lifted, and born into the waiting, tender arms of the world.


 

 

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On Being a Creator: Part Three: Creativity and Having Fun

On Being a Creator

Part Three:

Creativity and Having Fun

by

Joseph Anthony

The third
thing I learned to do with regards to allowing the river of creativity to flow
freely was to have fun.  I lowered my
perfectionistic standards and simply allowed myself to enjoy creating.  I stopped worrying about what other people
thought about my results.  Oh, I still
thought about their opinions, I just didn’t worry about them or let them be the
determining factor as to whether something I created had value.  I learned to enjoy the process of creating. I
learned to have fun and to actively invite fun into the process.  And for me, without sounding too bizarre,
that process of having fun and playing is intensely sexual.  I was not going for bliss when my creativity
river surfaced, just as I wasn’t going for forgiveness, but there it was.  Just as it is blissful to create a baby, it
is blissful to write, sing, and draw. 
And just as I have learned to accept myself, love myself, love my body
and my sexuality, I have learned to be unashamed about how good it makes me
feel to be creative.  It is OK to derive
pleasure from creating. I have learned to have fun and not worry in the least
if something doesn’t turn out as I planned. 
Of course, a lot encompasses the sexual realm—relationships, investments
of time, energy, and much more, and all of these are intimately woven with the
creative process as well.  
So have fun,
feel blissful, create the life you want.
 
You are a creator.


Next week:
Sharing the Flow


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Plum Pudding or Wednesdays With Wodehouse


“I
was jerked from the dreamless by the sound like the rolling of distant thunder;
and, the mists of sleep clearing away, was enabled to diagnose this and trace
it to its source.  It was my Aunt Agatha’s
dog, McIntosh, scratching at the door. 
The above, and Aberdeen terrier of weak intellect, had been left in my
charge by the old relative while she went off to Aix-les-Bins to take the cure,
and I had never been able to make it see eye to eye with me on the subject of
early rising.  Although a glance at my
watch informed me that it was barely ten, here was the animal absolutely up and
about.

            I pressed the bell, and presently in
shimmered Jeeves, complete with tea-tray and proceeded by dog, which leaped
upon the bed, licked me smartly in the right eye, and immediately curled up and
fell into a deep slumber.  And where the
sense is in getting up at some ungodly hour of the morning and coming scratching
at people’s doors, when you intend at the first opportunity to go to sleep
again, beats me.  Nevertheless, every day
for the last five weeks this loony hound had pursued the same policy…”

 

–Opening
paragraphs of the short story, Episode of
the Dog McIntosh
from the wonderful book of Jeeves and Wooster short
stories, “Very Good Jeeves,” by PG Wodehouse.

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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog