A poem for the solstice

The solstice idea makes me think of inward, quiet happenings that slowly unfold. The way of nature, growing gradually during hidden, silent times, coming from darkness to light.

Much of organized religion falls into an outward movement (groove: see stanza 5). So at the end of the poem I’m called to let everything become God or Spirit, become enveloped in the ultimate prayer. I’m called to let it happen like an unstoppable solstice. We love the light side, but the dark is a vital part of our spiritual training.

Talking to Myself as Prayer (2008)

“Who are you talking to?” she asks.
“Myself, a great conversationalist,” I say,
partly miffed, partly to fend off
a call to the white-coat people.

Yet spending more time alone
in old age leads to a different grasp
of religion and evolution.

A wider scheme confirms
our outward focus from the cave—
fire to avoid, small animals that cuddle at night,
the shaman talking about a hunt for wild pigs,
the wooly mammoth spotted yesterday,
and the news on that wandering tribe.

For millennia few lived very long,
so spatial mind dominated the ages.
I’m here with coffee, the boss in his office,
kids at school, looking toward game day.

Religion falls into that groove
with the divine “out there” in church,
synagogue, mosque, temple, in
popes, preachers and collection plates,
in the up there, over there and even
down there for bad guys.

Few of us talk to ourselves any more
except a few oddball mystics and old guys
with time on our hands.

As I’m no longer saving the world
with grand gestures,
moving among myriad things,
a weird and scary God breaks
into my solitude and self-talking,

one immersed in every
suffering cosmic molecule.

Everything becomes God contending, coping,
expanding, laughing, praying, consoling.

In remaining days, I hope to be
more aware of this ultimate prayer
that envelops me as the universe itself.