I had forgotten about this poem I found a few years ago. I just spent an agonizing 15 minutes trying to find it, not remembering anything about it except the words ‘blessing’ and ‘glass’, and the general idea of the poem. Somehow, I found it (I’m still not sure how, seeing how there are lots of poems out there about ‘blessings’). You know how you might try really hard to remember something? There are clues as to what you’re trying to remember at the forefront of your brain, but you’re still blocked from complete remembrance? And then, all of a sudden, it clicks into place. I love that feeling, almost like a wave rushing over your brain, smoothing out the wrinkled spots from trying to remember so hard. Anyway, here’s that poem I searched so hard for, by Jeannette LeBlanc. It seems to sum up life quite well:
Blessed be the long, slow slide into desire. The swift plunging wound to the heart. The bleeding out onto the kitchen floor.
Blessed be the fierce of want and the howl of despair and the swan dive of surrender.
Blessed be the indignation of right and the never more naked of wrong.
Blessed be your strong smooth body and your roadmap of scars and brittle bones that give way under the weight of lives unlived.
Blessed be the unmet passion, the relentless boredom, the absolute certainty of regret.
Blessed be the sweet laughter. The hard fuck. The bitter fight. The soft of impossible forgiveness.
Blessed be the restless seeker. The relentless urgency. The unanswered call.
Blessed be the giving up. The hope unraveled. The void at the end. The clenched fists and the desperate grasping and the way it all slides away when the time comes.
Blessed be your trembling breath and your strong knees. Blessed be your siren song and your briny tears and your frantic prayer.
Blessed be your violin body, your electric hipbone, your staircase ribs.
Blessed be your slaughtered dreams and your cynical projection. Blessed be your fire of initiation and your ritual of comfort. Blessed be your secret shame. Blessed be your whispered confession. Blessed be your primal roar.
Blessed be the rejection. The hollowed out, disregarded heart. Blessed be the end of the rope, the absence of expectation, the way it all gives way, eventually.
Blessed be the blood and guts and gore of it all.
Blessed be the emptiness of lust and the brutal havoc of love and the way peace grows in between cracks in cement.
Blessed be the dirty street corner hustle and the pretty surface of things and where they meet in the most sacred center.
Blessed be the harsh divinity. The winged flight. The salt skin. The symphony of lust.
Blessed be the holy and the worship. Blessed be the sacred mother. Blessed be the faithless edges. Blessed be the ritual of liturgy and agnostic faith.
Blessed be the profane and the provocation. Blessed be the solitary pilgrimage and the long journey home. Blessed be the one who contains herself.
Blessed be the truth that demands reckoning, and the goodbye that wrenches long held secrets from behind closed lips.
Blessed be the sucker punch bruises. Blessed be smooth slide of sun behind the mountains. Blessed be the wise desert and the pounding sea.
Blessed be the sweet swell of words. The silent spaces between bodies. The ragged sigh of breath on bone.
Blessed be the poet and the poem and the one between them who has no words of her own. Blessed be the plagiarism, the thievery, the rash disregard for origin, the gratitude for the beginning of things.
Blessed be our free fall into destiny. Our slow burn. Our consuming fire. Blessed be the breaking and becoming. Blessed be the ugly. Blessed be the sweet sin. Blessed be the rage. Blessed be the grace.
Blessed be. Blessed be. Blessed be.
In the end, all words are just another way to say Amen.