Bless my beard!

"But if I / should not hear / smell or feel or see / you / you would still / define me / disperse me /wash over me / rain"

This is the effect of our lives. How can we be such sentient beings when our lives are but a moment in time? And we feel so intensely, so tragically, we are defined by such metaphorical moments and images and memories...yet we are human. 

Flesh. Blood. "At once the dust of the earth and the breath of God." 

Christ is the grace by which we live, the love by which we are defined yet...it is a choice. To live every day is a choice. To love and to breath and to smile and to commit and to not sink in to the world and hide away is a choice. It is choosing the light. And in this choice, in this choice, we are defined.

This week has been nothing. And in that nothing I have worked, I have caught up with my past, I have yearned and fought and dreamed for what will be. I feel...change. Change is coming. But how am I to facilitate that? That is yet another choice. A great big tick to be ticked, in either box A, or box B. 

Of course we always know which box should be ticked. But it is the never-ending paradox - wouldn't it be nice to have both? Or perhaps neither?
Keats summed it up nicely...
"Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art .... still steadfast, still unchangebale, pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, to feel forever its soft fall and swell..." The ultimate paradox, the desire for love and eternity. Yet to love and be loved we must be human, and to be human of course, we must succumb to the reality of death...to love, means to die in due time. To live in eternity means to die to love...
But then comes Christ, bearing the gift of eternity, the act of love.

How do we react to this, being human?

It is heart-break we search for. How strange is that? We search for love and heart-break and change and we want to be born afresh. Coming home, I have been broken. Heart-broken? Perhaps I have broken a heart. But broken I am, indeed. And in comes Keats again;
"Give me Women, Wine and Snuff / Until I cry out, 'Hold, enough!' / You may do so sans objection / Till the day of resurrection; / For, bless my beard, they aye shall be / My beloved Trinity."

If I were Keats, perhaps I could find such answers? But hey. My trinity is somewhat more expansive. I like to think that it accentuates humanity.

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