God’s Song

These laments that I mispronounce with fluidity of tongue and pen are the spectrum of color playing tricks with the white light of the page. To me, these misspells are life: you either love what your doing or it becomes a prick under the finger. Sometimes, everything I do seems wrong. Things happen to me that I curse under foggy breath. These are just the days of shadow under the Sun, the sand left from the ebb of the tide. Negativity being wrong or bad is child’s play with words. Negativity is simply the other end. It is not something you should duck from or hide under the tabletop, where illusions are served, in reflex to. It is as natural as the rain.

Before the Sun comes out, you might want for it. Those nights of stagnate sleep make the grog of morning seem to shine in your headspace of anticipation. I eat breakfast while thinking of the day before me. I wonder what I’ll find, today, hidden under some stone unturned. I vow to be the one to find it. When I bend my back and stretch my legs to lift this unturned rock, I find underneath it a simple reminder.

            You are not what you are, but you are what you are not.

            When did poetry climb into the dampness where the insects hide? I swear to you that what you are searching for is already taped to the back of your head. You simply need others to tell you in words what you have had all along.

You see, there are those who are great. First, they are friends. The generosity these beings have are taller than the oldest trees. Then, to those who know not the great man’s history, he becomes a teacher. Sometimes, these great men are mistaken as priests when their words of deep conversation become misrepresented as sermons. Sometimes, though, priests are not these great men (that is beyond my point however). The greatness of this man (or woman, in just as many cases) can churn and rise in the hearts of man (or woman) with such sprite that they are remembered as gods.

Well, as a boy (man?) who has turned twenty-one, and is to you simply a writer (although I am so much more (and, at the same time, so much less) than that), I cannot help but look at these men and women of greatness in reverence. Who was Jesus Christ? What was Gandhi’s favorite color? What would Isaac Newton’s most personal journal entries look like? (That question is probably already answered, for a great man’s simple journal gets misread as theology! How lovely we children of women are!)

And like so, what would the gods be like to converse with?

“What is the meaning of life?” you would ask.

“A good morning to you!”

“Oh,” you are embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I forget that you are a real person. Good morning, God.”

He nods, his smile reaching even beyond the wrinkles next to his eyes.

“Um, what is the meaning of life?”

God laughs with sudden force so that he startles you. “Why, my dear friend, I just answered you that!”

“I don’t think I understand,” you stammer, feeling more and more like the child that you so forgot existed within you.

“You asked me what the meaning of life is, yes?”

You say yes.

“It is a good morning to you, that is all. Would you go on to ask what the purpose of a good morning is?”

“No,” you smile. Because a good morning is just the such that you find life’s meaning in.

God picks up his guitar and gets lost in his own melody then, that the now past conversation feels to you like the most beautiful introduction to a song you’ve ever heard. And you were a part of it. You have always been a part of God’s song.

When he feels like it, the guitar is set aside. You realize you had been drooling a little.

“Where were you just then!” God asks you with laughter in his heart.

Humbled and shy, you blush. “May I?” you ask, reaching for the guitar.

He hands it to you as quickly as one hands a mother her child when it is crying to be fed.

You have never been a fan of the guitar, although your father made you learn it when you were seven. It has always just been a chore. But you don’t know what has gotten into you. The reverberations of the music God played is still vibrating your spirit and you have to put forth into the world this incredible feeling. With a voice you developed only behind the blinking red lights of morning traffic, you piece together a song that follows no strict rules of musical theory. Like a bird can hit the notes in your heart deeper than any so called ‘singers’ on the radio, you sing.

The guitar shivers under your grasp. Its strings dance like a man (or woman) in the quivering note of today. You don’t forget the world, but it seems to forget you while the song becomes something of some suchness that is clearer than beauty, more raw than wonder. As all things do, the song ends.

You are reminded of the world and God is sitting there in his tears for you. His heart is melting and falling from his eyes!

“How did I do that?” you manage out, behind an emotionally vulnerable voice.

“Just how I do you. Through forgetting and remembering.”

You are struck with a new vision. “I am just one of your deepest moments of meditation. And the realization I have of my self is the same feeling of waking up from a half-clinging dream.”

“You are remembering who you are.”

Suddenly, you stir. There is confusion, some almost recollected set of images, an emotion that shadows your memory ever so sweetly. You shake your head as droplets of water fall from your face into the porcelain hollow drum of a bathroom sink. Carefully, you look in the mirror.

“Where were you just then?” you ask yourself.


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