What Spirit Will Do

72-7

push through cement, an unstoppable weed acting out, cracking the dreamless, breaking the rule-bound, and refusing pavement as progress.

stage a protest, evade the status quo, rail against the arbitrary decrees of group-think and follow-the-leader, smash against the rocks and destroy institutional sand castles.

brand you as a rebel and a troublemaker, squeeze the pearls and spit them out polished, make a mess of common etiquette and have no regard for the established hours of business.

loom over your days like a hungry shadow demanding your attention, edge you towards risk, push you over the cliff, and catch you in the free fall.

bend and twist and source the gnarly dark and strain against the windows leaving shards of glass in the driveway, then sweep the glass so that you walk out barefoot without cutting your flesh, walk barefoot into the world, onto the weed-strewn sidewalk, down the street and into encounters with strangers whose stories you’d never otherwise know.

reject pretty because pretty is for pussies.

bridge the underworld with the circle of ragtag prayers who stand in a circle at dusk lighting candles, command that you be joyful when you do not feel joy, create in the margins of the boring yellow pad, and wander off following the light until you are lost and found.

break up and rebound and be the arms of home and the breath of life that rebuilds your bones when they’ve been ground to dust.

strip away your angry and insist on your raw, be the writing on the wall, a descendant of God and God herself saying, go, go, go into the sanctuary of your fury and frustration, go and let the song sung there be the heat that melts you first to tears then to action.

know when it knows.

have the coordinates of your heart tattooed on its palms no matter how many times you move.

walk with its feet and talk with its hands, and stay silent for days, weeks, months, sometimes years, decades, eons.

time travel speaking all the dead languages, embodying the myths and not comprehending these rules of which you speak.

alternate between ballsy swagger and soft cooing, unassuming, sometimes downright invisible, a scull swift on the river, a skull on the alter, a moose crossing, a roadside bouquet.

mirror your mirror dance, your ancient well, your Sabbath bride, and your ass on a cushion.

take the reigns and drop them when you flail, gallop away with your briefcase, and carry you bareback off-trail.

surprise you and break you, fling you from the confines of what you learned was possible, heal you where you thought you were broken, return home with you, whole.

Image from Leonard Nimoy’s stunning book, Shekhina

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