Her Religion is Love - NaPoWriMo Day #12

I've been working long hours lately and haven't been feeling the jolt of inspiration that I usually feel when it comes to NaPoWriMo, so I decided to go with today's NaPoWriMo.net writing prompt, which was essentially to open up the index of a book and just be inspired by that in any way that you like. I grabbed the first one that was closest to me that actually included an index, which was Three Ways of Asian Wisdom by Nancy Wilson Ross, and this is what was born from that quick peek at the index.

Her Religion is Love actually turned out to be one of the longest poems I've ever written. I tend to keep them under one page in length. The only one I have written that is longer than this one is the one in tribute to Michael Jackson after his passing, which I have not yet shared with the world. (Soon!) It also, in tone, reminds me a bit of a song that I wrote nearly 20 years ago, which I believe was called Caravan. I'll have to dig deep into the archives to check on that one!

So this one, tonight, is quite special for those two reasons. I hope you enjoy it and find your own meaning within it.
 

Her Religion is Love

In a Turkish tea house,
she savors the delicate flavors
of vanilla, rose, and pomegranate—
inhales intoxicating aromas
of the richest, darkest çay
that the Black Sea coast
has oh-so-lovingly
given birth to.

Within her own soul,
this abode of Jehovah,
of Bhagavan,
of Allah,
of Om,
she invokes her own
avatars,
deities,
and idols,
and longs for home.

In this space of Ananda,
of Nirvana,
of Zen,
she recalls distant lovers
and wishes for a friend.
That empty space,
she fills with books—
with words,
with chapters—
with choruses,
with hooks.

Awakening,
awareness—
she seeks them both
in bright sunlight
and moonless, starless blackness.

In Sri Lanka,
she dozes under a Bodhi tree,
lulled to sleep by Ceylon tea.
China brings its bountiful Buddha
and enlightenment through tea leaves green.
The noble truths bring comfort and peace
and she longs to stay,
but her heart says flee.

Lakshmi calls gently
and she flashes silver through the skies
to India, the land of the sacred and the wise.
She visits temples, swims in seas
drinks chai hot, creamy, and spicy—
lets go of every vestige of the ordinary.
She chants and hums in watts and ohms,
electrical as her blood and bones.
She finds peace
and gentle sleep
but still, she misses home.

In Israel, she visits Christ's tomb
and makes new friends,
both Muslims and Jews.
They sip smooth café afuch
or bracing mint, steeped—
and converse about
the many, many things
that they’ve all seen.

She bids them farewell
and is swept away to Saudi Arabia,
to Medina, to study the Quran—
to find out what Gabriel
told Muhammad—
to imbibe cardamom-infused
Arabic coffee
while contemplating the pages
that led her to these lands.

All over Africa,
her eyes and ears were dazzled
by the many religions and beliefs
which pepper the birthplace of humanity.
Christian and Islam, familiar and fruitful,
and Voodoo and Santeria
had nuggets of golden truth for her.
Rich, red rooibos beckons her to remain,
but home is singing an unusual refrain.

Returning to her birthplace,
she stopped in Salem
to catch her breath,
and learned of both real witches
and the falsely accused
who burned for their beliefs
over the fear of a few.
She celebrated a Sabbat,
dipped an athamé into a chalice of mead,
and consecrated a circle of salt
to the God and to the Goddess.

Returning to her hometown and
the familiar faces she’d always known,
things seemed smaller because she’d grown.
She held bits and pieces of each religion in her breast,
in her heart and her mind, in her hands and her chest—
but what she found in the end
is that her religion is love—
that there may or may not be an afterlife,
that all that matters is what is done.