Facts may be true,
But they are never big enough
To hold the truth.
The question is not, ‘Is it true?’
But, ‘Are you true?’
That is where the real difference is born.
It’s such a silly dance I dance,
Trying to decide if its you or me
Who takes each step, within the flow.
So, thinking too hard about the steps,
I forget that dancing is less about my feet,
And more about the music.
My focus, once again, awry.
Only, on occasion,
The beauty takes my from myself.
I find that I am whirling in your arms,
Alight with joy, full of you,
And … fully me.
I do not lose myself.
I loose myself,
When I turn my attention
From my feet
To your embrace.
Then, I find the music
And I can dance.
Are you befuddled, like I am?
Were you caught off guard
By the once-again willfulness
Of these, (of us) your dear children?
Are you saddened by
Our angry rejection – each of the other
As we each try to be right enough
To gain your approval?
When will we wake up to the love
Already wrapped around our shoulders?
When will we learn to giggle together
Under the blanket of your grace?
Stories touch the truth so much more deeply and fully than facts. We think that we can grasp facts – hold them and turn them in our hands; use them as our tools.
Stories hold us. We know their touch. They resonate in our souls. But we do not control them. They are beacons and they shine forth from a source that is beyond us, though it includes us. We participate, we shape our own role to some extent, but the story is beyond the tiny corners of our possession.