I'm sitting here in my second day of euthymia (normal mood). I am trying to slow my mind down, to experience the miracle of mindfulness--the spoon dipping in the yogurt, each touch of my fingers on the keypad. I've tried this before but this is still very new territory for me.
Kathleen says of me, "There he goes, galloping off in all directions at once." I never really understood her comment before, but the retreat, my depression and the medications have all conspired to make me slow down, to notice my environment, to be less injury and accident prone, which is my nature. How did I get this way?
Beyond my own biology, my mother communicated constant anxiety to me, my father communicated impatient anger. Though they did not intend it, the result is great internal pressure for me whenever I attempt a task, especially when I am not euthymic. The pressure has not been crippling only because I was born strong-willed. But life would be so much easier if I simply took my time and paid attention. Even yesterday I gashed my head on an awning by not looking around first; then because of my height, my head is a collection of bumps and scars, so I have an excuse. Even so, I have hope that by slowing down, by not getting ahead of time in my head, by not living, because of pressure, in the immediate future, I may change. I pray it is so.
Today's sonnet is below. The first draft morphed into a completely different second draft, because I made up the first quatrain while driving and things change on paper. For those who don't know "rood," it's a Middle English word for "cross." I am grateful for your audience and your comments.
Thine in Truth and Art,
How can we love ourselves and hate God?
Because the self has long replaced the rood.
There is no demon daddy to wag the rod;
The ghost in the machine was rendered crude.
How can we hate ourselves and love God?
Humility is not humiliation.
Luther tried with whips that cost him blood;
Devotion doesn't equal flagellation.
On Golgotha our efforts were rejected,
Religion vanquished—we can’t keep the Law.
On that foul hill we saw God unprotected,
Humiliated, lacerated, raw—
He hated himself for our sake to no avail;
In this new age it’s just a fairy tale.