“I want to write about faith,David Whyte
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night …”
I want to write about Faith.
Yet I cannot speak what I do not know.
Faith inhabits the moment — she has no eyes to future.
Nor does she take shape at the whim of my grasp for predictable tomorrows.
Embodied Faith is as evanescent as mist rising from a pond in the wee hours of morning.
Always fresh, invigorating and completely brand new.
Each time I reach-out for clarity that is not within me, I cajole a still, small voice.
Whose song, in that moment, plays only as I have breath to hold onto the next note. Whose lyrics lay capture to no thing, but recollection or dream.
Dear Faith, how may I come to know you?
When you slip so facilely through the clench of my insecurities?
My mortal mind, wagering its only shot at serenity on that little flicker of hope so glibly bestowed on others.
I recite love poems to you at midnight. Petitioning for a thin slice of favor to encourage my rootedness and self-quieting.
So as not to awaken in the dim light of morning, with a cold sweat and an empty hand. Too shaky on my feet to face another day without the assurance of your steadying sobriety.
There is no madness to your mystery.
You charming coquette!
Playing hide and seek, as you do. Behind dusty stacks of logic whose certainty has throttled us for centuries.
You Faith, waiting, always in the shadows for someone, anyone, to catch-on to your magic.
Daring to disarm disbelief. And take just one bold step into the blackness without a candle.
Inching forward with an open hand, I angle my body into the wreckage.
Astonished to receive your tender welcome. Together, with two wings and a prayer.
You, gentle Faith, ever beside me. On the whisper of wind. In the sigh of a tranquil heart.
“Let this then, my small poem,David Whyte
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.”
“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”J.M. Barrie