Sundays are not for work

Sundays are not for work. On Sunday we should give up efforts and humbly forsake all striving. Why not?

What is to lose by doing this?

Only our blindness that leads us to think our busyness is more important than it is.

Sundays are for laying back on the grass and staring at the sky.

They are for alighting in conversations about love and not about money. Yes, they are separate…or were before we always worked.

Sundays are for being in the garden. They are for noticing a new mark on the face of someone you love. For watching ants, for picking wildflowers while singing.

Even for the faithless, there's a convenient refuge in the shade of this lovely day out....a moment to suspend disbelief...and belief because, who cares when the bliss of life accidentally enters the unsuspecting heart....who minds the reason.

We need special times, when the phone is off; endless hours are open to aimless giggling swaggers down and up the beach. No schedule, no plan, no big decisions to make. All debate on hold, all weapons down.

Nobody to be, no hurried statements that could herald tears. Just a tiny calm in a tiny cup of stars at the tiny tea sipping break of your loving, living, precious life.

Where is love kept?

It isn't kept.

They were right to say it lives in the streets and scavenges.

It is an outcast of respectable and high society.

It is the thing that people least know it to be,
that which they most think it is not.
It is that which often it is hoped that it isn't.

Though they want it, they know not what it looks like.

All the advertising hype is a smokescreen.

For today

On the weekends we dream.
We dream we are able to make the world perfect.
Go to the museum and look at pictures
that make prosaic,
bodies and lives torn apart
We believe that we can heal the world,
and ourselves.

We feel wonder at each other and tightly hold
hands, lest the perspective of the room should swallow one or other of us into a lost world.

Apart, there's a lessening of strength but together we easily become children again, bound by a secret.
This little kindling group of warmth, these children accidentally now adults
become farmers ambushed, who must defend themselves with homemade weapons.

They long to hold the sedated polar bear as though it was a toy.

Do they feel pain on the other side of the world? It is such a distance to feel pain from.

We dream of making a perfect place, that would shelter and heal and keep dreams alive.

charterparty

Sages Crossing


Sages always cross great rivers.
Going from one point to another.

Often a river would incidentally be in their path.
They would take shelter in the shade of a tree,


Narrowing, their gaze, in the midday sun, before crossing,
a diamond light highway.


Feeling, here I am.....again meeting a great river; my counterpart.
Nearby children playing, their voices lapping under hot sun....

A mother washing her new baby's head.


White sand.

In prayer. One point, then another then another, then another.
Singular points of awareness, plotted...impressed points.....beacons, and codes

heartbeats of eternity.....charting......setting marks that sing out holy notes to stars...
.........formulae, encoded and indicated nodes......concerto





Marlo