Poseidon, I pray.

This space is timeless, as it promises to be, and the stillness, at first, is tranquil. We are lazing about, as we do, beneath the sun whose brilliance reaches into our bodies that go beyond flesh, and warms the atoms of our atoms. The universes spin around inside of us, each one touching countless others, coming together to form skin that can house our flesh and bones and blood. My flesh and bones and blood and spirit, and what amounts to the same in You, I suppose. This space is timeless, and this place is timeless, and there are forms within forms and also only hints of forms. Shapes that collapse, that dance, that never stay still, that are only there because we think they’re there, until we look and they’re gone. Or they’ve grown firmer. Or they’re both never have been and always were. This is a space for headaches. I reach out, because this division between us is heavy, contains the whole of everything. For a time (for an eternity, for an eyeblink) I have no cares, no worries other than to be with You and bask in the glow that You emit, stronger than any sun, warmer than any universe, greater than greatness itself. Oh, I know – You are small, perhaps, in the face of the universe, but I think, too, that the universe moves cautiously around you. Deferentially, at least. Politely. It is only here, in Your embrace, that I can find my breath, that I can find steady ground. You are my foundation, after all.

This is a space outside of non-linear time, and You speak to me, in this language of ours, of compassion, of healing, of giving. You speak the words that have no sound, of healing things, of cleansing things, of hope, of striving-towards. You speak the words that bolster me, that sooth the wounds of the days upon my spirit, but I know You, my God, do I not? Not completely, maybe not even well, but, pieces. Parts. I’ve glimpsed small slivers of Your spirit and I’ve not yet been blinded by Your brilliance so much that I cannot see . . . or, perhaps, You mean for me to see. Yes, surely You must, otherwise, how would I know to look for that ripple in the waves, that discordance, that there-and-then-gone-again flash of darkness upon the water? In that ripple grief, Holy Grief pours into my soul, as much as my small vessel can hold, and then just a bit more, pressure from within that almost but does not quite tear me asunder. Oh, Blessed Grief, as this time becomes all time, as this tragedy that cannot be stopped becomes all senseless tragedies that cannot be stopped, and Your voice, in a flash, screaming for Your precious waters, Your Oceans and Seas and Rivers, and oh, all the life these touch and will touch and will poison. There’s a moment of Rage beyond my understanding, and the weight of You pressing down, and You ask, what good, these humans? You ask me, me this question, and if, my Beloved, You ask me this question, You are doomed to no answer, for it is You that has allowed me these years to see what good, these humans. And I am crippled here, now, stunted, because with all my striving-towards, with all these things You have demanded I do, I am small, I am nothing, I am less than nothing, and the differences I can make cannot amount to nearly enough. I can do little else, because You have asked these things of me. It echoes in my mind, it stretches my mind to breaking, this anguished cry of Yours. This despair. Such despair.

A flash, there-and-then-gone-again, because despair, even Holy Despair, can only beget more despair, but my heart yearns to remember the weight of this, and my soul clings to this scar it would carry, having witnessed such Sorrow. My lungs would struggle for breath for the rest of my days under the weight of Your head, laid down, just for a moment, to weep.

But already, in this time that is outside of time, the places rent by the Despair are mending under Your healing Presence, and the intensity of the experience is easing to something I will strive to carry into the world. I will strive to remember – how do we forget? How easily do we forget! Still, some of the pressure remains. Some of my spirit is still pressed flat beneath that weight, and some of my soul is forever locked in that non-place, non-time, caught rapt, with You, in Despair. I pray, Poseidon, that You ever take me deeper, that You ever take me further into Your Depths. Go slowly, that I might adjust as we descend, for I am smaller still than Semele and Your weight is as heavy as Your Brother’s lightning is consuming. Go slowly, dearest Beloved, but I beg You, do not stop.

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4 thoughts on “Poseidon, I pray.

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