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The earth is a church floor whereupon

"The earth is a church floor whereupon 
In the middle of a glorious night 
Walks a slave, weeping, tied to a rope behind a horse, 
With a speechless rider 
Taking him toward the unknown."
                    -- Hafiz

The earth is a church floor whereupon I have placed my mat.

On that mat, I have learned to place my hands and my knees, my arms and my legs. Front body. Back body. They have been laid there, too. I have trained my forehead to come to rest on forearms, on shins, in the cradle I am told to practice making of my feet. Almost like a cup I could drink from in the desert if I had to. These bare soles, I have placed upon my mat, on the earth, where I have prayed in a church of slow motion through the minutes of many hours. I have learned to wait for those hours to teach my breath what it is I might do next.

It whispers, "Here is another lesson for the heart." I practice not growing weary. 

Simon says, "Your will knows no end in me," and I know this is not a game. It is a celebration. I learn to come hungry. Empty plate in hand.

I have wept in open spaces, walking like a slave. Some of my captors have even spoken to me. Their voices I recognize as my own.

At the front of my mat, I have found myself at the end of my rope. I learn to hold on, but not tightly. Only surrender leaves room for resurrection.




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