For Goodness’ Sake

I sink with the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers—the ice-cold pain of rejuvenation sets its hook in my soul.

I now know the questions of my dreams are ones that only God can answer.

Goodness is achieved not in a vacuum, but in the spreading of hope, always attended by love. 

Some sort of mirrored reality stares back at my reflection—hollow with eyes blue as the void.  I see the edge. My mind walks along some celestial cliff. Paralysis attacks my legs.  My stomach swims through an ocean of butterflies. I feel my heart pound with the rhythm of the crystal blue, white crested waves of persuasion churning below me, as they crash with winter’s effervescence.  

My imagination falls upon a field of metaphors and instead of picking these written wildflowers for you, I leave them scattered about for you to decide? Which are worth picking and which are worth leaving behind to bloom?

This life, this story, this blank piece of paper, these words, what significance should they all carry? What is it all for?  It has to be for something not wrong, but right—right? I am able to do what’s right, or should I stand wrong, maybe corrected?  What is a man to do in the fashion of goodness’ sake? 

As I fall from the cliffs of some astral dream, like hundreds of times before, the cement painted sky above comes to collide with the baptismal blue waters of the place I call home.  I sink with the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers—the ice-cold pain of rejuvenation sets its hook in my soul.  I wake up in a cold sweat.  I now know the questions of my dreams are ones that only God can answer.    

Creative Outpost

All through life, we are established and broken.  Then we are broken and rebuilt. Such is the American dream, in its current blood red state of self-destruction. Its obsession with the self-destructive particulars of the wounded man has grown to be comical. These words were first written in some creative outpost, so it’s time we get down to business.  If love were ever to become a revolution, I can’t think of better time to fan the flame. 

Somebody asked me the other day, if I thought I was some kind of warrior?  My response was, “Absolutely not. The moment I decorate myself as a warrior, is the moment the ego bears judgment on my being. One does not self proclaim themselves to be a warrior.  This is full of idolatry and pride.  The soul speaks chivalrous or it doesn’t.  It is as simple as is it sounds. I just want to do right by the boy and by God. Although love is his namesake, it is for goodness’ sake that I do this for Him.” She looked a bit lost in my answer but you could see the light shine in her eyes as it came to make sense.   

The Poet Barks

But at some point the poet will contradict himself, and as of now, I cannot think of a better time.   There is no time like the present to revolutionize my mind.  It is my very own idea of love.  It is but a jubilee, maybe a rendition of what love, or even who I used to be.  

Love is everywhere we look.

Man’s association with chivalry is pretty much dead.  The self-proclaimed warrior is associated with uselessness, because he does not respond voluntarily.  A warrior knows his purpose, it is rigorous and it takes a special state of mind that is eternally unbending.  To be a warrior is to be a seed of God’s purpose and to nurture His love wherever one goes with consistency.  I guess where I am going, isn’t this or that way, but it is His way.  Therein lies the difficulty of finding the seed of our purpose in a garden filled with God, faith, and wildflowers, and unfortunately, evil.

Rambled Structure

The goodness in the garden of good and evil wasn’t that far gone, so hope had stuck around, and because of this, goodness held a solid chance.  So with these words, please allow me this dance.  

Americans! With our outrageous ideas of love, saturated in the outpouring of domestic tragedy.  Who are we to think so highly of ourselves, after all of the wars, the wholesale revolutions, devastation and death camps? We’ve soaked the earth with the blood of both the innocent and the guilty. 

And still it spills forgiven from our hands?  In the cremation of love, evil lingers in the scent of ashen hate.  Hate but a hungry beast, fed through the vacuum of fear, racial indifference, and disbelief, and never in the sense of preserving goodness’ sake.  What do our personal troubles amount to?  Do we really suffer, compared to the others some consider of equal or lesser value? America’s democratic abundance does have its own peculiar complications. Does it not?

God’s Experiment

America is God’s experiment, such an experiment of dogmatic unity gone wild.  Many of the wounds created by the dogma of elder civilizations have long been healed with this newfound wound, which is a mystery in itself.  America didn’t like those who walked with this curious value that lacked pride.  It ostracized those who embodied the special interest of compassion.  America has lost its ability to understand the truth in the love of liberty and finding one’s self.  

The goodness of man was created in scarcity.  So what shall we anticipate from the false facilities of man with his plenitude?  This is why the world could always use a couple more writers written in as poets, to maybe point out the flaws of the hardened heart.

In the adolescence of America, love was built on the template of a myth. It’s why we fell head over heels in love with the idea of love.  Love is the thickness in our blood, rich with the platelets of self-desire. It was intricately embroidered with the fine print of bliss, but then our boys had to go across the pond and paint the hillsides of Europe with the blood of fascistic imperialistic belief.   

Women were then given an image to uphold and the wild soul of woman was slowly cut off from her genuine self.  The boys, they came back patriotic but broken men, suffered from the inevitable effects of evil, while death was seared into every sight they would see for the rest of their lives.  This was the beginning of the end in my opinion, love put on a mask of comfort and sensibility, covered by the veil of fear and pain. This was when pure love went into hibernation.  And sometimes a poet must carry the weighted stick that pokes the bear of love and lead it back into the wild where it belongs.

Love’s Revolution

In the early days, revolution promised mankind a permanent and interesting life in love with moral goodness. Revolution was the work inspired by love and compassion.  All classified aspects of the societal food chain were in a state of excitement led by the energy of delight in the poetic revolution of life.  Or as William James put it, human beings really lived when they lived at the top of their energies.  

My soul is fed by the energy of love, all souls are.  This is why we often feel so connected to those we hardly know.  It’s the energy of God’s delight, coursing through our veins. But what is there to be so sensible about love if, as I feel, I have waited thousands of years for God to send my soul fallen upon this earth?  Here I am supposed to capture a true and clear image worthy of love before I return, before my human life ended.  Being sensible with something as wild as love does absolutely nothing to mitigate the fear of “missing the boat.”  I believe anyone can see that.

Pure Love   

All of life has been spent in sin and virtue, in good and evil, in labor and struggle, in sickness and in health, in gifts, in sorrows, in achieving and regretting, in planning and hoping, and in love and fear.  

The light of love crashing upon the landscape of hatred.

Suppose a man were at once in his life to disappear into God for the space of a minute.  And suppose he had seen things, considered them, known them, made judgments about them and spoke of them, out of acting wise or not. Suppose he stumbled in and out of prayer, while seeing the smoke of doubt envelop his surroundings.  Yet he walked through clean to the upright side of obedience.  And in this obedience, he tasted the vague sweetness of God, where he found spiritual ease in prayer. 

In all these things, life is but a fabric sewn together with uncertainties.  But in the moment of a knick in time, the minute in which he felt deliverance to God, the fabric of life comes to be woven by the pure love of God. 

“No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.”

Psalm 84:17

Strength In Numbers

It is in this ecstasy of pure love that we arrive at the true fulfillment of the first commandment, loving God with our whole heart and mind, and all of our strength.  Therefore pure love is something that all should aspire to please God, and we ought to desire to inspire all with unconditional love. Not just for a minute, nor half an hour, nor a week, but forever.  It is in these souls that conspire to love, that peace will be proven to be force in this world.

We are the strength of the world, because we have become the tabernacles of God.  We are the ones who keep the universe from being destroyed. We are the little ones, we do not always know ourselves, but the world depends on us.  And though no one seems to realize it, we are the ones for whom it was all created and we shall inherit the land.  

We are the ones who renounce the world and throw away the meager possessions.  We alone appreciate the world for what its nature has given us. We understand joy, and those who are hateful and angry—joy will destroy.  We are the clean of heart, we feel God in our hearts, and our freedom has no limits.  We wash the world with God’s light.

Follow the path and beauty will be in everything you see.

So come, let us go into that body of His light.  Let us live in the cleanliness of His song.  Let us shed the labels of the world like clothing and enter barren into His wisdom.  For this is the prayer answered when He hears the cry: “Thy will be done.” And this is all that one seeks, when he tries his damndest to do something for goodness’ sake.

In Closing  

One may never know why he held the great unknown so close to his chest.  He often grasped at its searing celestial pain under intense circumstance.  Sometimes he would even reach for it and pretend to fill it with emptiness.  Then came the day when he filled it with what he thought was emptiness and instead it was God who filled his heart with joy. And as he felt a sensation like no other shiver up his spine, he knew it was God telling him it was time. 

To be continued…

—BeLove

*Author’s Note-

This is merely an excerpt from the book, call it practice if you will.

    

Author: Be Love

My roots are buried in the Dirty South. I grew up learning the importance of God and Southern Charm. I began writing in my late teens mostly through heartbreak and music. I moved out west 15 years ago and live right around the corner from the Fountain Of Youth. Most people refer to it as Lake Tahoe. I play Chef during the day and search for ways to save the world by night, through reading, writing, and believing. I enjoy the side of life that is less abrasive. I look forward to joining you on my quest through Spiritual Sobriety with the Promised Land as our ultimate destination.

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