The Grace of our need… is Love

I would seek for you and me a world that humans too seldom enter, for it exists only in the moment when strong men and women seek uniqueness, strive for freedom and join themselves in the struggle for interpersonal dignity, integrity and worth.

It is a world that transcends geography and calendar, society’s arbitrary categories and the small desperate narrow minds, who perpetuate terror because they cannot lead and will not get out of the way of those who do.

It is therefore a place of lofty heights and paralyzing depths, of light and darkness, of joy and pain,

of exhilarating success and disheartening failure.

It is a world where intimacy moves beyond the confines of sexual boundaries, of superficial romance, yet is free to use sight and sound, smell and taste, and touch,

to participate in the joy and the knowing of each other.

No one human wills it into being, for it exists only because of gifts – when one willingly gives of their “self” to another and that gift is accepted in trust and nurtured forever as the precious thing it is.

It is a world that most scoff at, few are willing to work for and no one can purchase.

It is that place in which we could, if we would, find the meaning of life and the very reason for being.  It is first, last and always the place where divinity dwells, for if there is one word that must describe the

Grace of our need,

it is Love.

 You are not alone1

Lynnette Bukowski © 2014 All Rights Reserved

Changing Hats

God knew as I
before I came to this world
my hats would run out
The dirty Easter bonnet
The Black Beret’ with Sass
The lovers timid veil
Designer Ribbons flare
A Mother’s backward cap
A Wife’s honorary Trident
A widow’s brimmed ache
so liquid now it melts
around my hair and eyes
and down into my soul
and there I am like Jonah in the whale
folded in half
with prayers so thin they are
whispered until I am
the string between two tin cans
rusted with regret I cannot find

What now does the Mother
of a dying son’s hat look like?
Oh, Mother Mary hold my hand
you know this part

all of the imperfect in me is naked and I am left
with nothing but a leaky love
that drips through my final hat in hand
onto the dusty floor
and scatters with such missing
that I am afraid
I may not gather enough love to
fill another cup of life.

Lynn Bukowski
© September 11, 2011