Morning. Light hits my eyelids. As I swim up to waking, I mistakenly believe I am alone in the Universe.
I grew up believing that if there was something I wanted to see happen in the world, it was on me to bring it about: me alone. Years of adulthood roll on by before I even grok that this is a burden and a messianic imagining. More years before I understand this to be an actual impossibility. Going it alone is just not possible.
We are irrevocably linked to one another and held together in God or Reality. Nor can God go it alone. She needs our arms and legs, our hands and voices.
Morning has broken
by Sara Eisenberg
I wake to find myself
wearing a tattered garment.
During sleep it has become
my skin, no seams,
the barest of hemmed edges
gilded with holes,
where the garment hangs
by turns sad, reluctant, fearful as
Such is the effort of waking as
if burdened by breath and pulse.
Once showered, properly
dressed for weather and agenda,
no one but You knows the undergarment.
Even I forget as the day goes on.
It doesn’t exactly chafe like a hair-shirt
but hums low, occasionally growls
and gives off a whiff of – Bear,
persists because You are in the holes and tatters
and persists because it makes a difference that I breathe and pulse
and slog and soar and walk tenderly and blindly
in this reluctant body,
and because it makes a difference that I know You are in the tatters and holes.
Still, I long to
because there is One who longs
to wake into a world frayed yet made
Banner photo: Crooked Sky, Cold wax and oil, by Jude Lobe. Hillsborough Gallery of Art, Hillsborough, North Carolina