In the meadow

Jesus is sitting on a park bench.
All the happy children are playing,
swarming all over Him.
Three mothers stand approving
behind them.

(I am in counseling,
reporting what I am seeing.
G says the mothers are Primary Identities.)

As I watch, the mothers merge into one.
The little ones--most of them--
are sucked up into her
and now are bumping around
inside her like
a litter of puppies,
each in its own bubble.
Jesus hands the last one through.

Nothing is left outside but--what?
A brown fluttering--a dead leaf?
Fluttering, fluttering
on the ground,
above the ground.

Now it has become
a brown butterfly.
Now it is growing,
now brightly colored.

We are all in a farmyard.
Jesus and the mother walk together,
leaving a trail of brown manure.
One of me is left behind in the mud puddle
(does that make it a muddle?).

The one left behind 
caused the mud puddle.
Jesus is leaving it behind
because He is pure and clean
and so are all the rest of us.
All but me.

Something is churning in the mud.
Every now and then I see
pinkness poking through--
a child? a pig? a flower?

Little pink shape.
That's me.
In the dirt
but not of the dirt.
IT'S NOT MY DIRT.
But I am mired in it,
the manure in the pig pen.

(August 11, 2012 #2)

In the doorway

I watch myself from inside the dark stable.
It is really a prison, lined with cells
but there is straw on the floor.

I know mine.

I don't think there is anyone in
any of the other cells.

But I live in mine.

All the doors are slightly ajar
and the walkway between the rows
is open at one end.
Outside is blue sky
golden with sunshine
and the sounds of
happy children.

I see myself
standing in the doorway,
looking out--
emaciated figure
in open shoes
several sizes too big.

What is she starving for?

She wants to go out
but she is afraid
she is too small
they won't notice her
and she'll be trampled underfoot.

And if she needs to,
where can she hide?

Jesus is saying,
Come hide in My robes.
 
But the cell is dark and familiar.
There is a big, rough, hairy beast in my cell,
only in mine,
but that is familiar, too.
It is fear.

There is a chain from it to me.
I watch
as she uses the chain
to pull herself through the darkness
back to the comfort of the beast.

(August 11, 2012)

Twice-married, once widowed

I lie beside him
watching him sleep,
wondering why
I have had two (stable, godly) husbands
and so many women
have none.

Why am I so blessed?

Tears puddle beneath my neck
as I keep my eyes
fixed
on the pulse in his.
Which will come first:
will his heart stop before
he gets disgusted with me
and leaves?