Sunday, January 29, 2006


the oil on my forehead

marks me with a life that is not

mine but life is that is transcendent in nature


and personal redolent

with perfume that is both healing

and funerary which recalls both the fragrance of life

and the

stench of death i

am become transformed immediately

yet the core remains the same the weight and


that is laid on me

is/is not a burden and to me

transformative in nature yet transitory is its passage

as perfume

oft is dissipating

on the wind or perhaps the

fickle breath that comes and goes and we

know not

transformative and

maybe it will mark me with a moment

of forever and that will be all that is necessary

for me

to be healed

transformed by that which is other

and yet that which is always with/within/above/beside/beyond


i become that aroma

that smacks of radical yet it seeks

to be before dispelled upon that breath is it forgotten

the next

day the spice follows

me marking me for eternity or perhaps

just a transcendent rememberance of what it is to be healed

Written a while back. We had a healing service tonight -- after the chili cookoff. It's always a moving service. I enjoy the silence, the candles, the intentionality of it. It was beautiful. It's just a awful, awesome responsibility to do the laying on of hands. It's a time when I really feel a conduit -- when I wish self could melt away.

I wonder how much we conflate healer (little h) with the Healer (big H). And how we confuse healing with just a physical state of being.

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