Another dream about my favourite not-my-savior.
There's a lot for him to worry about here on the Earthly plane, and he likes to have someone to hash things out with from time to time. You know, he never gets snarky - and if anyone has the right to a little snark, I would think he does!
So we had another little get-together, he and I, a few nights ago, and I figured I'd share it because I'm a little shy of blog-fodder right now, and why not put my delusions up in The Blue Nowhere for everyone else to laugh at?
"Hey, J, how's it hangin'?"
"Now, K, do you really think that's appropriate to ask me, of all people?"
"Why not? You got 'em. And I bet no one pays much attention to 'em. Good grief, most of the people who claim they're your adherents refuse to acknowledge that you're a man in every sense of the word. That must make weekends a bummer."
"Yes, well, I have other concerns."
"I know you do. But I don't think it hurts to remind you that you may embody your father, but you are also human, the link between mortal and divine."
He gives me the look, you know, the one that says a body's getting a little sassy but making a good point? Yeah, that look.
I offer him a cinnamon roll.
"Thanks. Can we take these to-go? I feel restless."
Sometimes he can't sit still. I think when he has a lot on his mind, he needs to move around, work the thoughts out physically. We go for a walk.
"K, why are you Pagan?"
"You really have to ask?"
"I don't mind that you don't worship me or anything, I'm just wondering."
"Why?"
"It seems like so many people say they follow me and worship my father because that's what they're told to do."
"Uh-huh."
"Well...you were told the same things growing up, right?"
"Yup."
"So why didn't you listen?"
"I have this annoying need to think and make decisions for myself."
"Bothersome."
"You have no idea. Oh, wait...maybe you do. Although it seems to me that ultimately you were deprived of the very thing the rest of us have in spades - free will."
"I can see where you'd think that, but I had a choice."
"If you say so."
"I do. So you decided that my father's house wasn't for you?"
"Pretty much. Many of the things done in your name? Not okay. The abuses sanctioned by the church, or covered up by the church? Not cool. I'm not into judgement or anger or hate, and those things seem to be rampant in the places people say they worship you."
"I wish we had more people who came to my father's house because they chose to. I like knowing someone follows me because they want to and not because they think they have to."
"Well...you know...that's the trouble with dogma, JC. No room for thought with all that rote."
"I wish your Karma would run over my dogma."
"Lame."
"Sorry."
"So why don't you speak up about some of these things going on down here? You know...gay marriage? Health care? Oooh...or a really hot one, reproductive rights?"
"What am I, crazy? You think anyone's listening?"
I have to stop a minute and give him a hug, because he's damn near tears and I feel sorry for him. All he wants is for people to be kind and to live decent lives, maybe help each other out once in a while, even love one another without judging. It can't be easy. Imagine if you had all those people asking you to smite, punish, hurt others because they think that's what you do, when really you're just kind of a Buddhist-Hippy-Free-Spirit who wants to drink a little wine, eat a nice non-fish dinner, and maybe sit by a fire and talk about everything and nothing with people who have no expectations beyond the next drink.
"J, I don't think you're going to find any resolution on this Earth. I think too many people have abused your name and spirit for there to be an easy answer. I think you're going to have to come back, roll up your robes, and start smacking people upside the head with the figurative mallet (or, you know, the real one if you prefer) to get your point across, and that's kind of contrary to the message, dontcha think? If they'd even believe that you were you in the first place."
He sighs and sits down on a swing hanging from the branch of a tree that isn't there. I go behind and give him a push, then another, and one more, sending him arching high up over the nothing in which we dwell.
He give a whoop and a "Whee!" and we're both laughing because how can we not?
I love this boy so much. As with my own children, I want him to be happy, to not have to carry his burdens, to make sure he knows that I am a safe person, a safe space...because, as with my own kids, I cannot protect him from his choices, from himself, from the demands of Life, the Universe, and Everything. I can only give him these tiny moments and the compassionate honesty he so craves, and maybe the tools to help him navigate rough waters - the ones he can't just calm himself, I mean.
"You're not wrong." He says when he climb off the swing. He offers it to me but I'm not really into it at the moment. I'm more interested in not getting sticky fingers from carrying an imaginary plate of cinnamon rolls. "I should go, let you get back to whatever you were doing before I interrupted."
"I don't even remember. Dreams, such ephemeral things. Go on, then, and take the rest of these with you. I just know I'm going to wake up and feel the need to wash my hands." I shove the plate of cinnamon rolls at him. The frosting has gotten everywhere, including my hands.
Another sweet smile, another joint-popping hug, and he's gone. He'll be back. Maybe next time I'll make cardamom thumbprint cookies with orange marmalade and vanilla/clove drizzle...and make him carry the dang plate.
Also, I was right - as soon as I woke up I just had to wash my hands.
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