The snow should start anytime now. It will dominate tomorrow and force me to change my plans. Tomorrow may be less productive than I had hoped. Today was hopeful. I had a really good job interview yesterday, and set up a one week job for next month. I have a commission in process, and the possibility of another on the horizon. These kinds of things aren’t a steady paycheck, but they are work, and the kind of unstructured structure that I seem to be needing these days. Such an approach can be very unsettling, but it’s giving me the control over my own schedule that I have also been needing. The darkness and the impending storm just feel right. They are fearsome and ominous, but beautiful. It is the season for snow storms, the season for darkness, the season to stay inside, look inside, and listen. It is the time to remember what is really important, and hold that truth in light of all that seems dead or lost.
Forgotten
The attic is my home.
There I have a well furnished bed,
Where I sleep safely,
Surrounded by all that is too good to throw away,
But is no longer wanted.
It is a realm of memories and ghosts.
Below hums a house,
Bright and noisy,
Filled with people caught up in their own affairs,
Busily working to schedules and deadlines.
Efficient and tidy,
Life moves smoothly,
And they get things done,
But they have forgotten.
This house was established long ago.
Its founder was a man of passion,
Filled with love for twin girls.
For them he built this house,
And his days were filled with joy and laughter.
One day they disappeared.
In his grief he dug a deep cellar.
He placed the door to this cellar in the center of the house,
In the main hall,
Where it was connected to every room.
He established servants to watch for the girls return,
For he knew they would find their way home.
Then he retired to his chamber,
And locked the door.
As the years passed,
And nobody saw him,
He became a figure of dread.
Soon no one could remember where his chamber was,
Nor could they remember his grief.
The watchers became guards
And the smooth running of the house became more important than the return of the girls.
The house has long since settled into a comfortable routine.
Everything in its place,
And my place is in the attic,
With the other castoffs.
Everything ends up here eventually.
I listen to the sadness of things once loved,
But now replaced by something shiny and new.
I know the love of this house to be fickle,
I am witness to this unfaithfulness.
As they bustle below,
I wander in the stillness of forgotten loves.
The attic is large,
Larger than the house,
And I never want for places to explore.
There are rooms besides the master’s chamber that have been forgotten.
All that is forgotten finds its way to the attic,
And as I wander I find that I am in the cellar.
The house is full of mysteries,
So it is no surprise to find that going up takes me down.
But the cellar is unlike anything else in the attic.
It is clean and well kept.
No dust has been allowed to creep into corners.
The wood is new and bright,
Still smelling of pitch.
The walls are lined with heavy shelves,
Groaning under the weight of their burdens,
Fresh supplies of every good thing,
Waiting.
They have forgotten.
Watchers have become guards.
The supplies that the master laid up for the return of the girls sit behind a locked door.
They locked it when he wasn’t looking.
They did not know the girls,
And the one who was to wait for their return
Knew only to keep the door safe.
So no one passed,
And the door became sacred.
They have forgotten.
But I in my stillness have found the stairs,
Clean and broad,
That lead up to the door.
As I climb the stairs,
For I must,
I am no longer one, but two.
When we reach the top,
Knowing that the door is locked,
We knock.
No one answers.
We can feel the fear on the other side,
This is out of place,
It should not be happening.
Everything stops,
And the bewildered woman who guards the door stands frozen,
Unsure.
We knock again and wait.
As far as they know the door has always been locked.
No one has ever passed.
They have forgotten.
We have not forgotten.
We have listened and remember.
We know that the founder is in his chamber waiting for us.
We know that the door was made for us to enter.
We remember.
When no one opens the door we peel it from its frame.
It gives way to our efforts easily,
As if it were paper.
We stand in the ragged opening and show ourselves to the house,
No longer shunted off to the attic,
No longer hidden or lost.
We enter the house much to the horror of the guard,
Who threatens us with the wrath of the master.
But we just smile at each other,
For we know that he has left his chamber,
That he is at this moment rushing down the stairs
To greet his beloved.
I’ve spent the day stewing over how openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson’s invocation was deliberately omitted from the media coverage of the events at the Lincoln Memorial yesterday. I’m not really angry, certainly not surprised, more disappointed. But this is not the first time a presidential candidate promised us the moon only to “forget” once in office. Time will tell how “forgetful” he may become. I’m not cynical, but I find it hard to be hopeful. There is too much history for that. I may become hopeful if the media somehow decides to omit the comments of the fundamentalist minister who is scheduled to speak at the inauguration tomorrow, But that seems unlikely.
Orangejim's Blog 