Not My Story

Part of me wants to be moved by this post. It’s beautifully, honestly and powerfully written. Poignant, I suppose, would be the word I’m looking for.

But more of me knows: that’s someone else’s story now.

I grew up on Jesus. I loved him passionately. I “asked him into my heart” so many times. Wrote passionate poetry about his loving sacrifice.

But I was in love with Prince Charming. In love with Robin Hood. In love with King Arthur. In love with a legend.

There was a rabbi named Yeshua. He hailed from Naṣrath. He taught about love and compassion. He was a little crazy. Most people who are so willing to defy social conformity are. I don’t know why exactly the Romans crucified him. I have a story in my mind these days of him willingly giving himself up so that they wouldn’t execute his followers, including the woman he loved. A human story. I like it. Maybe I’ll write it down someday. It would be fiction, though, and I wouldn’t suggest anyone “believe” in it.

Easter is coming, and the word should stop Christians in their tracks. You’re about to celebrate a pagan holiday. I have no problem with that myself, these days. It’s all about life to me. Life on Earth. Life in the Solar System. The cycles we experience here. The changing of the seasons. Going from the bleakness of winter to the vibrancy of spring (here in the northern hemisphere, that is).

Stories. We tell ourselves stories. Stories are awesome. Stories can change lives. Stories make life more than just biology.

Jesus is a story. One that has changed greatly over the centuries. One that has undergone so much political reshaping as to be impossible to trace back to historical fact.

Celebrate Jesus this Easter if that is the story that teaches you to embrace life, to forgive self and others, to find ways to hope and go on in the face of suffering.

That is just not my story anymore.


To Be Free, Be like a Tree

So, why am I now posting on Tuesday, you may be asking, instead of Monday as I had originally planned? Because Tuesday is Týr’s day. Who is Týr?

To me, Týr is the God of the Tree. What do trees worship? They worship the Sun. Are trees male? Yes. Are trees female? Yes.

Trees represent the ideal state of being to me. They represent perfect balance. What else do they do? They grow Up. They grow closer to God.

And when they die? They sacrifice themselves to fertilize the soil so that New Life may emerge.

What do trees not do? They do not speak. They simply Are.

I’m going to switch modes with this blog now. So I am a woman in a man’s body. So what? That is one way to balance male and female, like a tree. Do I need to dress differently or make myself up differently to be myself? Maybe. Do I need to change my anatomy? Maybe. But for now, I just want to Be.

There is only way I know how to Be and to speak without speaking: poetry.

In my previous blog, I tried to come up with a new form of poetry called holoku that I could never seem to get quite right. Let me take another stab at it.

What will this form of poetry be called? Cruciform poetry. What is the purpose of a cruciform poem? To sacrifice a word by nailing it to a tree of passionate language. Sound sacrilegious? Fine. Go read whatever holy book you prefer. I’m done with them all myself. I’m going to write my own, new religion-that-is-not-a-religion, in which I sacrifice all the symbols of the past to generate a New Living Word for myself.