Blackened gold

 

 

The gates were open, then brutally, closed.

My burnished heart had sung to you; longing despite the heavy weight of memory.

There was a willingness to risk even while uncertain that nothing can last beyond what is inherently broken. 

I tried. Freedom, I tried to not say “Good” nor “Evil.” To have empathy, to live compassion.

“Don’t point the finger. Do not lay the blame.”

But my eyes cannot take back the violence that I have witnessed, one incited under a vile guise. I replay the tapes incessantly.

Beating, laughing, beating.

This is also who we are. But not who we have to be.

The ultimate division is not moral, finally but a chasm within our collective humanity warmed and waiting.
“Love” is no liar but now I remember “Hatred” – that fire-breather, roiling, so quick to claim.

How many tears I cry in the shadow of the gallows.

My soul is blackened gold. 

Bitter yet bright shards remain.

You may find a spoken version of this post here.

And please do see below.

Thank you for reading this far.
I was deeply inspired to write this after the attempted coup of January 6th not only after finding one burnt out window in the streets of Avignon but more by one of my favourite stories by a great teacher, Tara Brach:
“The Golden Buddha: Remembering Our True Nature
One of the stories I’ve always loved took place in Asia. There’s a huge statue of the Buddha. It was a plaster and clay statue, not a handsome statue, but people loved it for its staying power. About 13 years ago, there was a long dry period and a crack appeared in the statue. So the monks brought their little pen flashlights to look inside the crack — just thought they might find out something about the infrastructure. When they shined the light in, what shined out was a flash of gold — and every crack they looked into, they saw that same shining. So they dismantled the plaster and clay, which turned out to be just a covering, and found that it was the largest pure solid gold statue of the Buddha in all of southeast Asia.
The monks believed that the statue had been covered with plaster and clay to protect it through difficult years, much in the same way that we put on that space suit to protect ourselves from injury and hurt. What’s sad is that we forget the gold and we start believing we’re the covering — the egoic, defensive, managing self. We forget who is here. So you might think of the essence of the spiritual path as a remembering — reconnecting with the gold . . . the essential mystery of awareness.”
We may feel burnt (I have honestly been very down and I am worried about the days to come) but we still have light within us. 
I am holding on to it tightly. And will try to share it forth.
With great Love and Gratitude,
Be well. Stay safe. Be kind.
xo Heather

9 comments

  3. Oh this is why I adore you so very much Lisa. Perfection is indeed overrated. And yes to acts of kindness. Always.

  4. So beautifully said my friend. And as we can see now, there is still much to fall away. This work will not be over soon. But we are here and yes, to adding our voices as a balance to the struggle, beauty (hopefully) to counterbalance the pain. xxo

  8. First the cracks, then the dismantling… so easy to write, not so easy to live, and how to figure out what our roles are? Acts of manageable kindness stack together, I think, they make the platform from which we can wrench the old clay off, and transform the energy of violence.
    -Says me, who recently burnt a cruel effigy of a politician, luckily perfection is overrated:-) xx

  9. Oh Heather…

    We shall talk but let me just rejoice with you in the fact that these beings who we are, we possess a voice that is heard through the taping of the keys, the pen, the microphone. Your voice here is that liquid gold that is molten beauty. There is so much to say and to share but now I recall that it is YOU who inspired me a while back to do recordings. I will go to hear this version through your musical voice. I love this story about the Buddha; I think it is an image in the mind that most of us can agree to. There is something underneath this layer of dying flesh, this cracking exterior. Much love to you my friend.

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