Goethe, of Faust fame and acclaimed last Renaissance man of Europe, wrote, “As a man is, (let us amend and say, person) so is his (or her) God (or Goddess).”

If a person is far away from their humanness, their Deity is far away from the pathos of humanity. If a person is abstracted from their native animal, their Numen is devoid of earthen body.

If this person is a prisoner in one of the walled cells of patriarchal time, then God is an imprisoned alien. Although their condition has common boundary, poles of the dialogic do not meet. Although their condition provides a common language, these two antitheses have no discourse. Those in denial are denied and lack the value of friendship.

Heaven, an attaining of dynamic balance, is the freedom to soulfully participate in the gestalt of Being. Four creative toys await those who come lightly into their Heaven: a magic flute that sounds the tunes of forests, streams and mountains, a drum of the eternal flame to call into gathering spirt forms and kindred souls, a hoop, fashioned of images and moods, shapes and colors, derived from memorable experience and gifted to dance into and dance out of, and a robe of feathers, empowered to suspend the law of gravity.

Nothing awaits anyone in Hell. In Hell there is only what you bring with you: the bitter rind, the rancid odors, the festering that fallen halflings clung to, even unto the final breath, the viscid shadow that clings to them in their lifelong dying—cultivated wounds of wasps nests made hovels for housing demons of twists and masks and plaster shells.

Myths of wilderness are spoken quietly by old ones in the cave of the heart. Within dream-spheres, ageless archetypes of truth reside beyond the oxygen deprived confines of logic and bestow on light-questers powers and imagination to heal.

Everywhere throughout this flowing life there are numinous signs and symbols of illumination. Opportunity too for poetry! Who but those, frightened since childhood, who have swallowed the tongues of their souls, would not arise to crack the eggshell of time, to open before The Open, and to sing the world?

The road we travel today lacks the quality of genuine rehearsal. None of these things that hold us have vigor or grace or eloquence to dance or to sing. Is it a surprise then that God is missing or that our mirrors are made only of glass? Shards reflects shards and micro-images reveal a hurt life dashed to pieces. This, all dis-integral, yet nothing more.

One afternoon I descended to the reflection of water and wind that carries seasons in its melodious throat gifted a new identity for my throat to sing. Ancient powers are unabated! Yet the shadow of dereliction has outwitted the cosmic webbing that once upon an innocence provided placement. Authenticity and with it our grounding dimension are exiled by the banal cults of gadgets, cleverness and manipulation.

Sunken faced, reliant on cosmetics, how desperate are the subsistent, the lonely! Those who dare not rise to the first stuttering of dialogue chatter incessantly but with nothing to say.

Tell me, traveler, who or what is sacred to you, before what do you bow and how do you pray, and I will tell you who you are in the deep down you keep searching, in what direction your face is facing, and how this sorting out Earth plans to treat you.

Process work needs to be done and it is the god (or as you would, goddess) who is as is the person, turning garden beds and pronouncing the workers’ names.

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Check David Sparenberg's NEW BOOK
The Fate Of The Poets - Selected poems 1974-2019
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A Source Book of Performance Ecosophy
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