Response To A Christian

He wasn't angry or hateful. In fact, he came from a rather gentle position. Maybe that's why I felt compelled to answer him. Did I enlightment him? I don't know. But I felt better for expressing myself.

April 4, 2002

I am terrible at answering my email. I admire those who reply within a day or two. Sadly, I am not one of them. Thus it was that I finally looked at a message that had been in my mailbox nearly a month.

The respondant began:

Joan,

Began a search plugging in crystalline and mitosis, as I have read at the time of mitosis (when a cell divides for the first time) a star-like crystal is formed. I have also found crystals in salt (which is in humans and the ocean), and naturally in rocks . . . God has put crystals everywhere . . .

I am praying that He softens your heart, opening it up to receive Him.

May God Bless you, dear one

JB

Maybe other people ignore such letters. At least he wasn't a hostile believer. He must have found my writings initially through a search on crystals, for I collect the beauties, and have shared pictures and tales of crystal collecting through out the years.

Where he meandered from there, I couldn't know. Still, I felt inspired to answer him:

I'm not sure what you read of mine. I don't think I belong to the 'hardened heart' category. Actually I have a rather soft heart, though not accompanied with a soft head, (meaning I am happily open to the mystical and intuitive, but am grateful for the sense of reason.)

But you must mean that I am obviously not YOUR BRAND of spirituality. Nope, I'm not a Christian. I could answer that I pray YOU get opened up to the WHOLE spiritual smorgasboard, but I won't. You must follow your own path, where ever it takes you. Just don't hurt your feet on any brambles along the way.

Sufficiently Soft Joan . . .

Thoughts of this interchange must have been brewing all night in that intuitive side of my brain, for shortly after I woke up this morning, I 'heard' the muse whispering to me. Yes, in the midst of the morning scramble, a poem happened!

My Own Priest

I feel the rain,
I am not immune to its drops.
The fertile soil of my soul
knows not 'hardness'.
What is 'hardness'?
My ears are open
and I hear -
all languages,
though I do not understand
all languages,
their odd sounds foreign.
Still, I hear,
and see
the patterns,
meaning gradually forms.
I know a few things,
not many, perhaps.
So, to your words foreign,
spoken in tall chapels
of ornateness,
(Give me a simple grove, rather.)
if that is the language you want to speak,
fine.
Still, I prefer the birds call
in that simple grove.
Simple sun-heat
tells me who I am,
in good, fresh air.
(Keep the stuffy air of your chapels.)
I will have the sun, moon and stars.
No chorus, but the breeze
to echo what sings in my heart.
(Keep your ornate robes.)
I will dance in plain clothes.
Spirit will know me,
and I will know Her.
(Spare your sermons,
in those foreign words.)
Everything I have ever needed to learn
has come to me
through the open freshness.
(Save those dusty tomes.)
I can be my own priest.
I will write my own sermon,
here in the green, open grove,
sunlight filtering through the trees -
No need of windows.

JAL, 4 - 4 - 02

© Joan Lansberry
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