a growing edge... slow to speak

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Just the other day I spruiked to Ethan and today to Michael about Ian McGilchrist's book The Master & His Emissary and my story with it. And by or before I finished I got the feeling that they had to endure my long quick speech, where I didn’t have breaks, & trust them to adjust the topic, or steer it differently, or indicate that it didn’t interest them, or that it wasn't easily followable, or where I might instead have communicated better if I had broken it down & metered it out (like feeding chicken bones to the old German Shepherd dog, Gruber) in such a way that it was apt, helpful, timely and appropriate for them (not me). 

After I finished, to move forward, I had to realise what I had just done, admit it to God (reality, love, faithfulness), but then I just wanted to  forget it and listen to an audio-book. Here I am on the loo, about to get an audiobook going, but, instead I think that you, and love and faithfulness, and truth in the inward parts is calling me to process these few occurrences, learn from them, and take on God(Reality, Creative Love)’s alternative view,  and take deeper into me the kind of actions/responses that are like the core of reality & creative loving personhood. Hence these sentences.  (Please help me "Lord")

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Well, here we are: my friend, & you, & me.

I see my friend, and too myself, but you

are quite invisible for me to see

unless I run the data fully through 

the sieve of my own making that must be

adjusted to the bigger world he saw

& spoke of, view of that reality

that is behind this world, & was before.

    The kingdom of the heavens, or of God,

    the life of all the ages that persists;

    that dreamed up life on earth so that we’ve got

    a Universe that we say now exists.

We’ve flattened ev’ry metaphor into

some words to say, as though the words themselves

were not just symbols we trust folk to use

to point to more than some thing on the shelves.

    We want commodities all ranked in lines,

    to walk amongst, to make us feel like gods,

    where we can make our choice, at least sometimes,

    and we are at the centre, in these bod’s.

I see I’m not the grown up in this world

where I can bring humanity to bear

among the animals and robots hurled

here by whoever likes to put them there.

I am a tiny little kid, of yours,

maybe with speckled colour on my hide.

I need, I must, I will look up, because

you are my ABBA. In you, I’ll confide.

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