You can trust with certainty
those with nothing to gain.
We have no reason to cheat.
There are two kinds of people without hope.
One avoids hope out of weakness.
The future cannot be imagined; they are too confused.
The mind still wants to lead; they might live
to hope again.
The other people are very strange,
few and far between,
or living in groups
that draw them in.
They have not given up chasing hope
due to exhaustion or inability.
They are older in this process.
Hope arrives at the back door. They run out,
beating it like a mangy cur,
cursing it--chasing it...away.
At first they seem cruel and petty.
They stay close to home, but there's nothing
inside.
They interact very little and don't seem to care.
They won't lie to you, but they may not
say anything.
It's like this for a reason,
even though the reason is not about why.
As long as you desire more,
they have nothing to give.
They won't convince you otherwise.
They don't provoke or entice.
As long as you desire more,
they have nothing to share with you.
They live in a very small place. Like
the point of a needle. You must be
very near to be near. Too close
for comfort.
If your hope comes around, they'll chase it away.
It is the same with wild animals and mountains.
If you want to understand, you must be very still,
patient with that sense of time. Obdurate
in your own right.
Hope is about a different time or place.
There is an intensity in the poverty of
here and now. Anything else just seems
added on. Window-dressing.
We aren't decorators or tourists.
We leave window-dressing to others, sightseeing too.
If you want to know what is inside,
come here. Closer.
This is how it goes. The process
is like winemaking. Something falls
and begins to rot. The rotting
uncovers the hard part. That
must be broken. First, the earth,
then, the seed.
Nourishment arrives in the dark. We move
towards what we cannot see,
darkness moving in darkness.
The earth is broken again. Get used to
this breaking! Grow.
You must take every step. Before leaves,
you can't feel the sunlight on your leaves!
Be moved by what is underneath.
It will push you. Unfold.
You start to see signs, and then, fruit.
Small and hard at first. You must suffer
the birds and bugs.
Voracious and clustered chewing.
Sometimes devastation, sometimes drought.
Some seeds survive.
Persist. Get through it. The seeds are hard
to survive the eating; because they are hard,
they must be broken. Being scattered,
we grow in new regions, under new weather.
But back to the fruit. Just at the apex, when
the taste is sweetest, the vintner returns.
Ahh! What tragedy to lose this connectedness,
this wholeness! And with this loss,
despair. It gets worse.
So many individuals, beauty unto themselves,
are thrown together, crushed--this
breaking again. It can no longer matter.
Stomped amidst stomping, mixed together
when each could have been savored, alone,
bringing joy to the lips of Cleopatra.
When you were a seed, long since, you didn't feel
the hand of the one who planted you.
Because you were hard, you don't recognize
the return. That's okay.
Grapes don't need to be prophets,
so don't worry about the plan.
But there is a plan.
This fruit, brought to its peak as fruit,
softened by warmth and charity,
is finally ready to be caught by surprise.
The jumbled mush is strained, worked, and
packed away to age. After more time--
but this time together--in the dark,
a change comes to us all.
We reach perfection
together.
Without all those breakings at just the right moments,
in just the right situations, you would be
a lesser gift when finally given away.
It is this way because
you are meant to be
the crowning joy.
I tell you: the bride is most beautiful,
and the groom was true even before
he understood truth. They have come here,
today, for union. There must be
a feast. And wine. No ordinary wine will do.
Not today.
You are the father's gift. On the day he gives away
the best of what he has known--so that
she can know this ultimate bliss--the only
appropriate gift
is the best of what he has ever made.
When you know all this,
you don't need a special place
for the wedding celebration.
Any place will do.
If you are here, every place is the Heart.
With a promise so poignant,
time cannot touch it--future imaginings, past hurts.
Hope has no place in this love.
This needlepoint passes through us
so many times, separate stitches
can't be seen.
The design is so intricate, it takes all our attention.
We don't see the rug; we see the beauty.
We don't count the stitches; we are the stitches.
Now I want to tell you about cottons and linens.
It's a fantastic story about white dresses.
But then, I'd want to talk about the seamstress!
Ask me why the flowers grow.
I may not utter a word.
I'm stingy that way. Maybe, instead,
I'll smile for you.
It's the closest I can come.
Or, I'll kiss your hand.
If you're already smiling, maybe your cheek!
Stop there, please. If you keep reading,
I'll have to keep writing,
and we'll get back around to
the part about you not being here,
right here, with me.
I am all needlepoints and stinginess,
cursing and chasing hope away, but that part
makes even me cry. It would break your heart.
It's amazing. We can share
even that story.
But you must be the one to give it.
You can trust with certainty.
We have no reason to cheat.
Nothing more to lose or gain.
Copyright 2007 Todd Mertz