The Ascent

We begin with jellyfish: translucent creatures,

And grey skies — filled with red clouds and undiminished stars.

Ascend, said she, goddess of all, who is none other than nothing at all,

Ascend the staircase to an unimagined heaven: the living room.

With wallpaper, carpet and incandescent lighting, lumps of sugar cubes

Sitting on the table; you ask, “Who brought us here?”

It isn’t me, or her, or the highway made for lost souls seeking respite.

If you look up or around, you still won’t see it, the source of good.

Come away, let us retreat to a quieter place, and you shall see,

The endless ocean bearing down on Gatsby — don’t cry.

Someday he’ll learn, says those with splintered hearts and broken dreams.

History repeats because we think we’re better than before when we’re not.

And that’s ok, she says, that while cities grow, we remain small.

We remain small, and now feel even smaller. That’s ok.

To make mountains of molehills and forests of sticks,

Or to make molehills of mountains and pebbles of stars...

To become unstuck, we must cease resisting —

Not to die or to give up, but to float; become lighter than light.

Shine, diamond, and shrink (but not sulk) in this emptiness,

This barrenness, our baroness, the ruler without measurement,

This expansiveness, that wholeness and unity in which we ascend

The moment we decide our hands are only hands.