(PS Why don't we all try writing poems before the end of the journey?)
The Journey that Does Not End
“I
am always a traveller to America.” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá
Hibiscus blooms turn and fold up only a
day after they open.
Our dog came to us as a tiny pup and
died at barely nine.
A thought emerges, then leaves without
a trail.
Winter will come, killing off all of
the grass, and
the birds will have to search hard for
water.
Dead leaves get stuck in the French
drain.
Dreams are forgotten before they
appear.
Our skin will soon sag, our energy
dissipate.
Words will be hard to hear, our vision
will give way—
until it will be simpler not to breathe
at all.
Life, after all, is transitory
ephemeral
evanescent.
But there is a mystery—something ever
green,
a cycle occurring again and again.
He traveled, in 1912, and travels again
each year,
April to December—three seasons, then a
dormancy.
(No doubt He is packing for the next
trip, preparing
to greet another round of swooning
admirers and curious onlookers.)
But what if it was never just a
physical journey, what if the lesson
is not in the where and when and who
and why
but in a mystery folded and unfolded
like a linen napkin at an elegant
dinner party
where there is always a new bottle of
sparking elixer,
fresh grapes upon pyramids of luscious
fruits—
But
I have fallen into tangibles
When
I am TRYING to describe the eternal.
“I am always a traveller to America,” He said,
“and am assuredly associating with spiritual and illumined
friends.”
There’s the rub.
How
to be spiritual
How
to be illumined
How
to be a constant friend.
When His ship arrives or is always
arriving
When the train pulls into the station
in D.C., Boston, or Philadelphia
When the motorcar creeps between Dublin
and Eliot
When a young Mohawk boy falls off a
fence in surprise,
catching a glimpse of a wave and a
turban,
When an illiterate miner hears His
words in Persian and understands them in English
When a determined poor man rides under
and above the trains to meet Him
When a wealthy woman fetes him at her
country estate
When a portrait painter depicts His
servitude to God
and a disciple begs to be recreated
When He heals the maladies of those who
seek Him
and dispels the cobwebs of superstition
When He meets men of science
and women intent on getting the right
to vote
When children encircle Him, fascinated
When the black, brown, yellow, red, and
white races
are all embraced in His flower garden
When gingko leaves flourish and fall
When the moon of His life reflects the
sun of his Father’s
When stars dance with delight—
I want to be there:
standing
with Him at Niagara,
dining
in the garden at Glenwood Springs,
envisioning
the future on Monsalvat . . .
And all we have to do to entice Him to
come again and again into the journey of ourselves:
Be
spiritual
Be
illumined
Be
a constant friend.
Anne Gordon Perry
Whole passage that is referenced:
O thou who hast sought illumination
from the light of guidance! Praise thou God that He hath directed thee to the
light of truth and hath invited thee to enter the Kingdom of Abha. Thy sight hath
been illumined and thy heart hath been turned into a rose garden. I pray for
thee that thou mayest ever grow in faith and assurance, shine like unto a torch
in the assemblies and bestow upon them the light of guidance.
Whenever an illumined assembly of
the friends of God is gathered, 'Abdu'l-Bahá, although bodily absent, is yet
present in spirit and in soul. I am always a traveller to America and am
assuredly associating with spiritual and illumined friends. Distance is
annihilated and prevents not the close and intimate association of two souls
that are closely attached in heart even though they may be in two different
countries. I am therefore thy close companion, attuned and in harmony with thy
soul.
(Selections from the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá,
102)
Beautiful poem. Frankly, I wept.
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