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)