you are allowed
a weekend away
in a centuries old manor house
with a ghost named mad maude
who was burned at the stake
for falling in love with a monk
passion has always been
a dangerous game for women
our host is part poet part philosopher
with irish and yorkshire roots
who currently resides on a mist shrouded island
somewhere in the pacific northwest
‘poetry is the language against which
we have no defenses’
he tells us
as i imagine an invasion
of words and phrases
and welcome the oncoming incursion
‘your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone’ recites the poet-philosopher
before inviting us to have
a courageous conversation
with a stranger beside us
all around me are strangers
hazel, dawn, regina, wren
their very names
sounding like a poem
to my right is a pink haired artist
from brussels belgium
by way of san antone
‘put down the weight of your aloneness
and ease into the conversation’
and we do
dipping into our souls
speaking from that deepest well of ourselves
the voice beyond the automatic call and response
of modern day life
hello nice to meet you
how are you
very well
and you
well as well
then walking away
without admitting to forgetting
the most fundamental part
of who they really are
their name
and you may ask
as the bard long ago
what is in a name
but we name things
to know things
and often we walk away
not knowing or being known
feeling more alone than before
and it feels like 1984 all over again
‘perhaps one did not want to be loved
so much as to be understood’ wrote orwell
but in a wood panelled chapel
beneath age warbled stained glass
we speak to the strangers beside us
as well as the strangers inside us
and we seek to understand
the promises we made
to ourselves
to others
to some version of life
we outgrew long ago
‘to break a promise
make a place for prayer’
says the poet-philosopher
before sharing the story of a priest on his death bed
who confessed that he had stopped praying long ago
to the surprised faces of his loved ones he explained
that his very life had become a prayer
that spoken words
could not compare
to the praises
he silently lived every day
what if my daily actions are my prayer
i close my eyes and try to see
the holy book of me
the psalm of my soul
the illuminated manuscript of my life
in gold relief
and I take a breath
before handing it sheaf
by precious sheaf
to the pink haired artist
tears glistening in our eyes
to truly see and be seen by
the stranger beside us
as well as inside us
is an exquisitely intimate thing
more recitations
from the poet-philosopher
in his deep sonorous yorkshire voice
accented with an irish lilt
i imagine all of our prayers
floating through the rarified air
and into the rafters
Hallelujah on repeat
‘turn sideways into the light, as they say
the old ones did and disappear
into the originality of it all’
the poet-philosopher says
before ringing a bell
and telling us it’s time for tea
i slip out the narthex
Into a sunlit afternoon
a voice from somewhere
or nowhere
out of thin air
whispers in my ear
you are allowed
i replay the day’s
revelations and conversations
which promise must be broken
which prayer emboldened
do i follow my calling
and risk being called mad
you are allowed
such a simple invitation
I think of maude
and turn sideways into the light