Set The Truth Free
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Harsh Truths

Sometimes when you look deeply, what you see ain't pretty, but it’s true.

As we plumb the depths of our souls, we will discover hard-to-bare truths.  We may shut the door quickly when we catch a glimpse of these disfigured ones.  We may close our mind and say, “no this is not who I am!”  We may believe the pain is too hard to hold.

Treat these areas with care and remember, you are on sacred ground.

There are actions in our personal or collective past which require apology and reconciliation.  They form a portion of the demons who haunt us, driving us to escape in distractions, denial and addictions.  These demons will not go away and for our sake and our children’s sake we will need to acknowledge them.  

Take courage, you are being guided here, the adult and elder in your psyche can handle this.  Let the children know they do not have to carry these harsh truths.

I was honored to be involved in a ritual where men apologized to women.  A small offering in light of thousands of years of misogyny.  The opposition to face harsh truths, even with this simple act, was surprising in myself and other men around me with anguished cries,  “But I haven’t done anything!  I personally have not harmed any woman and I can’t apologize for those men who have harmed women!”  A poem by Thich Nhat Hanh opened my eyes to the understanding we are all connected, we are rapist and we are victim.  The rapist within needs to make amends and make it right.  Injustice needs to be recognized, the victim needs to hear she matters, the trauma experienced was real and was not the victim’s fault, apologies need to be made and the power balance restored.  Collectively and personally, there’s a lot of apologizing, healing and justice needed, but first harsh truths must be acknowledged.

The field of harsh truths is wide and can generate great howls of denial and hostility.  Sometimes a harsh truth is waking up and realizing something you have believed in your whole life is not true.  Facing harsh truths can create great shifts, this is work, hard work.  Face these harsh truths and welcome their gifts.
I am

The blood on my hands
drips and flows
  red and slippery
    making it hard to hold on to anything.
 
I am white
And have wielded the lash and chain.
Enslaving others with skin different than my own.
 
I am male
And have raped and beaten
because I had the muscles, phallus and insecurity.
Patriarchy has served me well
at the expense of the other half of humanity.
 
I am a colonist
And have wiped out entire civilizations.
Tossing thousands of years of culture into flames.
Claiming land and resources, not mine, as my own.
 
I am a Christian
And have murdered, oh highest blasphemy, in the name of Jesus.
Blood flowing from God’s children.
Pagan and Native, Jew and Muslim.
 
I am a consumer
And have taken more than I return.
Leaving an open wound from Africa to Appalachia.
Consuming raw materials at a blinding pace,
breaking body, bone and spirit in the race.
 
There is blood on my hands.
Rivers of red.
And all the distractions of MTV and the Kardashians
cannot blot up or blot out the stain.

These harsh truths I acknowledge
yet I cannot be crushed by this knowledge.
 
It is time for me, my brothers and others
to take a long, hard, honest look.
 
Our past, our future, this moment
Make their demand.

- Jose Enciso
The Pearly Gates

I died last night.
Soul left body
and ascended to the celestial plain.

As was in my childhood stories
the pearly gates awaited
separating loving from not loving.

Fluffy clouds, sparkle-dust and angels flying about.

Saint Peter stood his place, heaven’s watchman, in full grace.
A magnificent twelve point buck he was.
God’s forest prince there to greet me, face to face.

His queries of admission began.

In my living time,
when I looked upon his young, brother deer
dead on the side of the road,
did I offer a prayer, even once?

I hesitated to remember
those time in the car
insulated by talk shows and insurance commercials.

The angel closest to our conversation,
silently drew closer,
a tear forming in his eye.

The next question.

In my living time,
when I looked upon a tree
did I see my sister
or a super-sized fry container and a stack of sales flyers?

And I struggled to remember what trees looked like.

A second angel gathered closer.
More tears forming.

The third question.

In my living time,
when I looked upon the earth
did I hear her cry or just see dirt?

I started to tremble.

And a third angel joined us.
I fell to my knees
Tears pouring,
joining with the angelic stream
  now flowing.

Saint Peter lifted me with powerful hooves
Held me closely
Whispering, “Welcome home”.

- Jose Enciso
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  • Home
  • Poetry
    • Persistence
    • Fire, Protest, Anger
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    • Seeking
    • Awkwardness
    • Fatherloss
    • Healing
    • Harsh Truths
    • It doesn't have to make sense
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