calling down the firebird

i'm really not an interesting read unless you care about metaphor. i'm probably not interesting to talk to, unless you want to speak about merton, poetry, or the deep things of the heart. i don't do chit chat. unless it is with God. because His answers are profound, no matter what we're talking about.

His yes, awash with power. His no, the same. a tidal wave of certainty comes and carries me away.

i have realized i don't talk much. only to my sister and to those people you have to talk to, the librarian, the grocery checker, the postal worker. my daughter gets me talking sometimes, but i have realized it is probably not as much as it could be. she sits beside me often and we read for hours. we walk and ride in silence many times. we spend almost every waking moment together but those hours are filled with much silence. perhaps the most together sound we make is laughter. i'm an extreme creature, so i have been trying to curb the yelling. because i could seem a bit like jekyl and hyde with all the laughing and then silence which yields to peals of thunder.

so i'm working on that. i've realized also, that i don't answer questions unless you ask the right questions.

do you want to read to me?

my daughter asks.

no, not really.

do you want to read a hans christian anderson fairy tale?

absolutely.

do you want to go outside?

nope.

will you go with me to the park?

sure.

and on and on it goes. she has taken to tricking me, which i don't like.

come with me,

she says.

and i follow. but she won't tell me straight out what the deal is. there is this tricksteresque quality to what is happening and i don't like it.

that's the whiteman's way,

i told her one day.

she stopped doing it.

the maiden king is the bly book about uniting the masculine and feminine. in it, he remarks,

liturgy is a way to call down the firebird.

the firebird arises from ash and flame. the firebird wafts one away across uncrossable regions. the firebird is ablaze with mystery. not many get to the firebird experiences of life. i hope i do. i really hope i do.

i see myself going the way of merton these days. fancying, more and more the solitude of a little hermitage in the woods somewhere. writing, praying, monkifying (that's not even a word). i heard it said recently that the way of life merton and many hermits embraced is long gone, not for our time. but i tend to disagree. it is. i think we have not understood it. like so many things in life.

on the navajo reservation there is a pink, hot pink, stand out from miles away pink trailer resting in the shadows of the ancient giant.

that's where i'll live when i'm old.

i told my beloved once when we passed it.

what miracle would have to transpire for me to live on the rez, i do not know. it is not the sort of place one goes without adequate spiritual preparation. but i do know this, God has means and ends we know not of.

i wouldn't put anything past Him. and now i come to find these many long months of praying the liturgy and not knowing why, i've been calling to the firebird. calling to the mystery. think about it, the church doesn't know either.

what a surprise we are all in for, when she finally wakes up and the firebird arrives.