I arrived in Erice in the pouring rain.

Sitting in that old little cable car, fog behind me and before me.

Later, dragging my coral suitcase over cobblestone up through the main street until my arm hurt and half of my turquoise skirt was soaked wet. This is the life.

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One of the main symptoms of being a Christian has been, in my case, the Word filling my entire life up to the brim.

Sentences pouring out of me by the grace of the Holy Spirit.
Melodies floating in the air, waiting for me to catch them.
Lyrics that seem to enter my brain, begging me to write them down.

I no longer force creation, I receive it.
I am a conduit for God’s endless ideas.
He puts the song on and I can choose to either dance to it or stay put.

The selfies on my phone have been replaced by screenshots of scripture, reflections, essays and poetry. The beauty of the face fades somewhere in the background, while the language of the soul grows in vocabulary.

I forget what I look like, but I remember to whom I belong.

And even when I do look at human faces, it feels like reading code.

The more Christ shines within them, the easier it becomes to see into their souls and marvel at the wonder of these divine images.

So today I am left pondering about words and their meaning and power and consequences. Let me take you on my journey.

A Call to Start

It seems that whenever God calls, it’s a kind of magnetic pull that breaks us free from the shackles of our sense of control. It’s impossible to escape. You long to get lost in it and follow the highly irrational voice of something… other.

The call to write is no different. Hell, it can even be scary.

In the Church we have a history of saints who left us with some amazing, holy writings. Thank God, because they were not free of self-doubt either. Many were struggling to discern whether it was God or the devil that told them to write.

Just look at St. Camilla Battista, describing the inspiration to write her autobiography:

“(...) I have been in great torment and mental anguish. The reason is this: I experienced an intense, strong and fervent inspiration [to write this letter]. But I countered it with great and forceful resistance, as I had doubt that it might be a temptation from the devil, which I feared could transform my spirit into pride and greed. (...)

Finding myself afflicted and deprived of any help or human counsel, I took recourse to my usual weapon of holy prayer. I prayed to God and his sweetest Mother with all my heart and love, that he would enlighten me in the great darkness in which I found myself because of my sins, and that I would know whether or not it was his will to write.

(...) I finally resolved to obey and begin to fulfill this inspiration. Otherwise, I could not rest. I hope by the grace of God that I have chosen his will, and it seems to me, through his goodness and grace, that it is so rather than not.”

She was frightened. Restless.

She waited with writing, until she could no longer hold it in.

The inspiration felt like darkness.

I think the modern world has a tendency to present inspiration as something light and easy. Like the process of creating is just the artist having fun with no suffering involved (hence the arts are not as widely respected as “hard work”). But that barely scratches the surface of inspiration.

If all our creative ideas come directly from God, it would be logical to conclude that inspiration flows from the infinity of the Holy Spirit, thus encouraging us to get lost in the cloud of unknowing. This is not merely a small pool of ideas, this is an ocean. And even if you know how to swim, your muscles will sooner or later give out and you will be forced to let the current carry your body wherever it pleases.

Creating is nothing if not the act of deep surrender to the will of God.

That’s why so many of us put it off or struggle with writer’s block. Deep down, we know what it will cost us.

In St. Camilla’s writings we see clearly who she turns to for help. The most powerful tool for discerning the source of your inspirations was, is and always will be prayer. And the stronger your relationship to Jesus, the more likely it is that you have been given graces to participate in the mystery of the Word.

It’s like being invited behind the scenes.

But you do need to start. Only when the piece you’re working on is finished, can you look back on it with clarity and say it is, indeed, good.

A Call to Steward

In the past, I would use my songwriting to express every difficult emotion I was going through. This resulted in me building a music world rooted in melancholy, sadness and hopelessness. I attached my own identity to it, too.

When I would experience happiness, I’d stop writing. As some point I just accepted that to be happy means to abandon art. It was a good deal. I was ready to pay the price.

And I did stop, for some time. It took a while for something new to emerge out of me. For beauty, truth and goodness to call my name.

It was then that I started writing my first songs that seemed different. They carried a scent of love that went far beyond the borders of the situations that inspired them. Rather, they now held an element of transcendence. A universal type of beauty that could be applied to many people and many lives.

They were songs that grew with me.
Uncovering new layers of meaning with the passage of time.

After coming to Christ, I’ve gained even more clarity about it. I understood that sharing art with others can’t happen for the sake of my own validation. Self-expression is where lots of ideas spring from, yes, but it cannot be the end goal.

My heart is only a nest, where I feed my birds of melody and once I decide to release them into open skies, I need to do so by giving them clear instructions on where to fly. In other words, they need purpose. After all, once they’re free, they’re no longer mine and their role is to serve.

Therefore art becomes an act of charity.

So the morality we live by, by abiding in Christ, has to be applied to creation as well.

When you have a lot of material and you’re trying to pick what’s worth sharing and what has to go, turn to the Holy Spirit. And if it’s not clear right away, ask yourself these questions:

1. Does my art reveal truth, beauty and goodness? At least one of the three is a good start.

2. Does it spark love, hope or faith? Even if something you write about is dark and messy and difficult, can it still give others comfort and be a silver lining on their path?

3. What is the level of intimacy I’m ready to share with the world? Important point to consider especially if you are heavily inspired by other people, like your spouse. Time to step outside of the me, myself and I mentality and think about others, because art, too, has consequences. And relationships should not have to suffer because of it.

4. Was it written purely for revenge? You know the kind of art I’m talking about. Passive agressive with way too many personal details. Created as a result of an unhealthy emotional reaction that could potentially encourage a similar type of energy in others. A stab in the back. Calling out enemies. Gossip.

   I would recommend you keep that to yourself. Bring it to God or a therapist. Or light it on fire. Forgive, pray, but if it doesn’t contain any valuable insights, it might be better to let it go.

   The world is yours to heal, don’t treat it like a trash can.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is not about self-censorship, it’s about responsibility. It’s the realization that some of the things we express may be, in fact, sinful, harmful or simply too private to share with the whole world. Of course, there’s always a level of exposure an artist has to get acquainted with, but some things should stay between you and God only. And let’s keep the drama behind closed doors, shall we?

Also, remember: messy and human ≠ chaotic and evil.

Do write about the hardships and heartbreaks. Don’t stay there forever, though.
May the Christ of Art carry you back into the light.
Let his divine hand guide your pen across the page. Only he knows the way out.

In Christ, even darkness gains a new purpose.

And as artists, we descend with him fearlessly.

A Call To Drive

I still ask myself, if our words can create our reality. Especially, if we align with God’s will and use the authority we have in Jesus Christ to create beauty and life.

I once had a friend tell me he viscerally felt his prayer change the future and save someone’s life.

Geez, Louise, I’m just a girl. I say stuff. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of responsibility and yet, sometimes, I feel like Jesus really is making me take the wheel and drive on the highway of spiritual realms, like in one of those dreams where you know you can’t drive but you do it anyway and you bump into streetlamps and cut corners and somehow still make it out alive.

I don’t think Jesus is the driver at all, I think he’s the driving instructor.

Otherwise, things would be too simple. And where would be the growth in that?

To me, Christianity has always been the path of radical responsibility. “Don’t blame it on a demon, blame it on yourself” type of mindset.

Every sinner has the free will to either be part of the problem or become part of the solution. And I think that, more often than not, it starts with our speech.

I don’t mean it in the sense of making our language pretty and clean and cutting out cuss words. That’s more about aesthetics than the messy truth of sanctification.

It’s about speaking life into that dark place you found in your own heart, cause it’s how you invite Christ into it to reclaim it. You don’t just open the door to your inner room, you tear it open before Him, with the right words being the key.

It’s better than God coming in with an axe. Or so I tell myself.

Search me, Lord being the bravest thing you can say when sobbing on the floor and questioning your sanity yet again. Desperately trying to crawl your way out of the pit of unknowing, while He keeps digging underneath you, pulling you deeper and deeper into the great mystery.

Final Musings

Humankind is an icon written by God. A self portrait painted by the hidden artist. A book in progress, pages turning rapidly, chapters containing sudden turns of events.

Nothing ever remains stagnant, even if externally it might look like it.

We are being continuously written into existence.

Before a word is on my tongue, you, Lord, know it completely. (…) Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. - fragments of Psalm 139

He writes. Always present in the way he shows up and forms our past, present, future. It has all been written already. Sometimes that thought terrifies me, other times it brings relief.

And we mess things up, of course we do. But so far, I haven’t noticed how that would stop his will from happening. There’s no outrunning him. Trust me, I’ve tried.

He already knows our next misstep. He probably planned for us to trip up, too.

It’s all part of the plan.

Can a character in a novel make an error that would destroy the plot of the story and end the chapter abruptly? Or did the writer already consider the error and managed to turn it into light, an integral part of the final resolution?

The positive shock of the grand reveal is all the bigger the more stupid and foolish the characters’ moves were throughout the novel. Impossible! They will say.

And then, all the glory goes to Him.
He always makes sure it does.

He is master of history, governing hearts and events in keeping with his will. - CCC 269

So write, dear soul, don’t be afraid to pick up the pen and scribble your most idle thoughts on a page. I have found there are many mysteries hidden in words we do not yet understand. Gems of wisdom, prophecies, consolations, insights.

Give it ten to twenty years to start making sense.

If you believe that something you wrote down is evil, don’t hesitate to burn it as fuel for your future art. If, however, you discern that it is good, keep it or share it.

May it serve as your small contribution to this aching world. May it bring a temporary sense of relief to a soul that stumbles upon it and consumes it with their eyes first, heart second.

And maybe one day, without you realizing it, your little essay will set someone’s heart on fire. And it will spread across new bodies like a holy plague.

It’s a disease worth catching.

Yours, K.

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Beloved,

I was born to be a lover.

You know this well.

I love Love. I love to pour it out.

I’ve been getting good at loving lately.

I have the greatest teacher, who pushes me into the heart of this mystery daily.

Although, for many years of my life, I held onto a definition of this word that was twisted and distorted. Worldly and shallow. It reduced the title of lover to cheap physicality, without the effort of commitment and sacrifice that makes it whole. It made it sugar-free. Ew.

And the complexity of the topic was simplified to fit the boring, modern narratives and evil agendas.

Again, ew.

In reality, the word Lover is so full. It signifies completeness, all forms of love merging and pulsing as one. Motherly love, friendly love, brotherly love, romantic love, sexual love. Like a basket of treasure you can put your hand into to take out a piece of love that the moment demands. Infinitely rich.

An enclosed garden of the soul, where the gatekeeper is God.

It’s so perfectly visible in the covenant of marriage. It’s not merely a physical bond. It’s the eternal love of Christ teaching the multitudes of love you can hold in your heart towards your spouse. Without limit, it keeps growing new branches.

It’s all there, do you see? How dare we put limits around love? It longs to endlessly express itself. It longs to thrive. It longs to walk the path of the holy flame, instead of human control.

I used to believe I had a curse on me. Before Christ saved me, it seemed that I could only ever be perceived as a lover, and it frightened me. I thought it would signify a life of loneliness and abandonment. A life where sensuality could not flourish and be received with the honor and respect it deserves.

I was wrong.

This longing in my body and soul has been redeemed by the Savior of humanity. The one that fulfills all roles, according to our true needs. It’s why he carries so many names.

Father, brother, friend, lover, husband.

Since all healing comes through relationship, he can take the spot of whoever it is our hearts miss. He does not erase our desires. He redirects them and gives them a fresh purpose.

Oh, how lovely is his direction, if we choose to follow.

In April, I started obeying that quiet, small voice of love I could hear somewhere in the background of my mundane existence. I called it a “Holy Spirit nudge”. Each time a vision would arise in my mind that echoed the virtues of love, hope and faith, I followed it without asking too many questions.

Recently, Jesus told me, that if these three come together, it’s surely from him. In fact, they have to appear in the form of trinity, because the two always prove the authenticity of the third. (I’ll give you time to ponder about that)

And yes, I did spend many days running through the streets of my hometown hoping that our paths would cross. Love, how little did I know back then.

Following the Spirit’s call slowly led me out of my mind and into the heart of God’s will. On the one hand, I appeared to lose sanity and reason (according to worldly standards), but on the other, I was more grounded and peaceful than ever. Joy began emerging out of me, like little flowers in the spring soil.

I’d hand them out to strangers in tiny bouquets.

And Jesus, like the good gardener he is, kept watering me. I drank it all up, my thirst was now for holy things.

My heart was broken multiple times in these past ten months alone. And you know what? I’m so happy it was. I rejoice at the memories, they deepened my inner well. They made me reach for resources that I didn’t know were available to me. It made me dig and dig, until I found the pure source of love. At first it was a puddle, then a lake. Currently it’s an ocean and its current is taking me… places.

Fortunately, I have a lighthouse to guide me.

Our Lady, Star of the Sea.

I’m almost there, can you feel it?

It’s what I wrote down during my fiat moment.

The song goes: I can’t stop it, I swear. It’s Jesus Christ calling my name.

He won’t shut up. And I don’t want him to.

I want to yell with him. I want to go the ends of the world with him. There are days when I crave martyrdom like a sweet treat.

And you know what else I want?

I want to write poems of the body.

I want to marry the man Mary picked for me. My personal, brown eyed fool for Christ.

I want to have twelve babies and name them the apostles’ names, even if they’re girls. Oh, let me be dramatic for a second.

I want to own a house made of stone and lay by the pool naked like Rachel Weisz in Stealing Beauty.

I want to make homemade pasta and make love.

I want to release the music I wrote in the last ten years.

I want goats on my farm and goat milk for breakfast and goat cheeks to rub.

I want my husband to buy me cowboy boots and wrestle me in the mud.

I want a horse that will take me to the place where the storm starts, so we can gallop away from the wall of rain.

I want to go back to the Holy Land, when the bloodshed ends.
I want to see the Negev again and tell her I love her. I never told her I loved her.

I want to travel all around Europe, mostly to visit the churches and the catacombs. Relics of saints. It’s called being romantic.

I want to spend New Year’s Eves in monasteries.

I want to leave at least three poetry books for my grandchildren.

I want my eyes to scream: she’s a poet, watch out!

I want to be consumed by life, so much so, I end up with no escape route.

I want to vanish into the heart of Jesus.

Live, MY GOD, I want to live!

I choose to live.

I want the real world to slap me in the face, until I wake up from the nightmare.

Stop rotting, stop associating with endless melancholy and darkness.
Stop waiting on your prince to come and being loved back.
It will happen. In its own perfect timing, it will come.

You have Jesus.

You wrote the songs yourself, you know they are prophecies, so what are you afraid of? Heaven forgot to give you the completion date, so what? They like to torture you a little, then blow your mind when you’re exhausted and on the edge of giving up.

Be true to your calling. Don’t expect anything. Go slowly. Pray.
You’re already on the path.

One day the veil will lift and you’ll see
you were always
infinitely
loved
by God.

And maybe the veil was so thick, because it was, in fact, gift wrap.

And Jesus turned me into a Christmas present.

It comes with a bow on top and a note saying:

Lover behind the veil.

Answer to the prayer request made at 9 am on September 13th.

At last, your gift is ripe and ready.

It waits under the tree, covered in white silk.

I dare you to open it.

Yours, K.

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If my words were of value to you and you’d like to support me, you can buy me a coffee.

Merry Christmas, may the child Jesus grow healthy and strong in your messy, human hearts. May your inner room become his favorite playroom. May his joyful smile lighten up your days. May the love grow bigger and bigger and bolder and bolder with each honest tear. May you always return to the Lord. Amen.

I woke up too early today. 7:30. Morning anxiety.

I began to listen to LUX. One by one. To find the God that’s present in the chaos, too. The God who, paradoxically, sits inside of my mess. And he makes the tangled guts of my emotion his nest.

I decided to swim in the darkness to invite the light in. Cold divine shower.

Rose and ashwaghanda tea on my desk. Empty stomach. Eyes of a raven.

As usual, my takes on these songs are deeply personal. What I do is, I sit down at my laptop, blast each and every song over and over and write what comes to me. It’s my personal, musical meetings with God. And you’re invited.

Let’s start with the big boy, shall we?

I wrote poetic translations for all of the songs. The lyrics are originally in Spanish, German, English, Catalan and Italian. And THAT is a feast for a language lover like me. As always, please, put your best headphones on (said the woman who needs to buy a new pair herself).

Berghain

The angelic voice of Rosalía singing in German pierces something inside of me.
(this is not an easy statement to make as a Polish native)

his dread is my dread
his rage is my rage
his love is my love
his blood is my blood

the flame penetrates my brain
like a lead teddy bear
i keep many things in my heart
it is why my heart is so heavy

i know well what i am
a tender heart for your coffee
i am only a sugar cube
i know the heat melts me
i can disappear
when you arrive is
when i leave

the only way to save us
is through divine intervention
the only way i will be saved
divine intervention

i’ll fuck you till you love me
till you love me

“his dread is my dread, his rage is my rage, his love is my love, his blood is my blood”

My Christ, I should have known that being with you would not be gentle. I should have known. The world talks about following in your footsteps, like it’s a lovely stroll on the beach at sunset. It rarely dares to mention that yours are the footsteps of blood spilled freely for mankind. And my feet are to step into the dark red puddles you left behind.

On your way to Calvary. Under the weight of the Bridegroom’s crown of thorns, sinking into your temples to burn your will away, the cross weighing your temple down. The shaming of the crowd that you loved. All of these were highest incentives to abandon faith.

You did not stop. I do not stop. Your fear is my fear, my fear is yours. I offer it up to hang on the cross and expose its lie. It bleeds love.

All along, that’s what it hid underneath. Love.

“the flame penetrates my brain like a lead teddy bear”

The flame penetrates into my head and sounds exactly like Rosalía’s soft opera voice. It is thin. Raspy. It comes in through a narrow gate.

An arrow of the Lord. Divine hurt. Destroyed armor.

EXPOSURE.

Holy, yet so painful at times. Making you wonder if it’s time to check into a mental asylum yet. Then bringing you back up into wonder.

The fire of God burning away my insides.

A poison that heals.

“i keep many things in my heart, it is why my heart is so heavy”

I carry certain truths in silence. Like rocks in my bag. The Lord veils me from himself or from the world, preparing me for what’s to come in the secret place.

It is the quiet, but mighty strength of Mary who desperately held onto her faith. The earthquake of a “yes” that happened over two thousand years ago and shook middle eastern grounds. The “yes” that still continues to reverberate through the soil in waves, like underground seas of living water.

Can you hear this current when you fall before Him?

He is not finished with us.
He is not finished.

Mysteries of faith are often meant to be kept within, until the right moment comes.

And it does come, the Holy Spirit arranges events in the most magnificent ways. He speaks the truth loudly, when the time is right.

So we can rest knowing that the promise will come to fruition.

“i am only a sugar cube, i know the heat melts me”

Ultimately, I will merge back into you.

I will fall right into your heart’s furnace.

I am clay warmed up in your hands. I take whatever shape the master creator wishes me to take. I pray for surrender, so that I can finally stop fighting you. Stop resisting the inevitable grace creeping outside my window. Like an angelic looking stalker. Like a lover that’s too beautiful not to blush in fear.

I am only a sugar cube, I bring the sweet taste of love into the little things I do. The hands I shake during mass. The poetry that refuses to deny me its essence. The ceremonials of how and why I remain alive.

I am only a sugar cube. I become what I behold.

I am a diamond tear reflecting the sunrise.

“The only way to save us is through divine intervention”

As I come to the end of myself and my prayers echo in the abyss of no response, I feel the dark clouds of love hover around me dense and impenetrable. I’m stuck in the unknown territory between heaven and hell. I feel the lurking beasts in the shadows hunting for my life. And one quiet whisper coming from across the Atlantic saying pray, my child, remember to pray.

Devotion is your second name.

Indeed, we are all capable of it. If we only dare to lose ourselves a bit and let it take root in us. We have access to the silver string leading us straight to the palace.

And God’s intervention, too, needs time to mature and blossom.

We have no access to the behind-the-scenes. But the miracle is boiling in the pot.

Almost ready to serve.

“i’ll fuck you till you love me”

These final lyrics feel like a ravenous scream of a soul who craves to be known, desired, penetrated to its core by proof of love. And as the words repeat themselves, they start to sound like a question. Do you love me?.

It’s a desperate call for closeness that can only be fully satisfied in union.

Our desires are incarnational, too. They want to manifest in physical reality. We crave the Christ in another human, in a new pair of eyes, mirroring back our worth.

The Beloved takes the shape of fragile, bleeding, breathing flesh. Finally tangible and real. As Imago Dei we are proof of his love. And that uncovers a huge responsibility most of us are not ready to carry.

Will you love another back to life?

Will you watch them suffer and choose to stay?

All of us can go from dove to raven real quick. In a matter of seconds.

And when we do, who will help us return, instead of breaking us further?

Mio Cristo Piange Diamanti/My Christ Is Crying Diamonds

A modern psalm to humanity.
A love letter to the Christ dwelling in our beloved humans.

Oh, is there anything better than to sing to the Lord in Italian?

you are the most beautiful
hurricane i’ve ever seen
the finest of dolmens
would rise for you

you make the earth shake
you let it rise by your side
but what happens when you fail to rise?

imperfect
agents of chaos
we dismantle ourselves
like myths

my king of anarchy
my favorite reckless star

when you cry
gather your tears
and wash your forehead
no matter the crime

my Christ is crying diamonds
my Christ in diamond
i carry you
i carry you always

the truth is
we are both stained
and not one of us
can escape the other
there’s always something
i don’t know about you yet
like the dark side of the moon
once revealed is unforgettable

how many times did they hit you
when they should have embraced you?
and how many times did you embrace them
when you should have hit them?

my dear friend
the love that is not chosen
and doesn’t allow you to fall
my dear friend
gravity is full of grace with you
and grace is heavy

my Christ is crying diamonds
my Christ in diamond
i carry you
i carry you always

The one who created the mountains would shake the foundations of heaven for you. And he often does, even when you don’t notice.

My love, you have no idea. It’s scary that you have zero idea. There’s someone out there praying for you. There’s someone who mentions your name in every phone call to a friend. You are a poet’s secret muse. And you are so blissfully unaware of that. Like a baby wrapped in a blanket by an angel. It’s adorable.

I bet you sleep better at night. I bet you think the fog has lifted by accident. I bet you don’t see the connection yet. But the link is not broken. It is being sanctified.

What God has joined together, let no one separate.

“imperfect agents of chaos”

God, you have chosen us. Humans of fallen nature, broken minds, restless souls.

We differ in titles. We wear unique faces.

But the identity remains one - mystical body of Christ. His Beloved Bride.

Why us? Because we have so many holes in our hearts, it gives you space to work.

So you enter and you send us out. Oh, sweet and cruel fate.

In the eyes of the world we are rebels, fools, lunatics and losers.
Nothing holy about that. Or at least that’s how it looks to the eye devoid of Spirit.

By bringing God’s love and order and bridging gaps between the two worlds to make the Kingdom of Heaven perfectly overshadow the Earth, we disrupt the very nature of systems built on fear and human ruin. Like true agents of chaos following divine orders.

This love is reckless. It goes beyond the norm, it refuses to stop when it hears “enough”. It’s too big to fit one heart, that’s why our ribs break. Our masks fall off. Our sin fades away when lit up by the great fire of Christ’s heart. And the secret is, he has millions of hearts to hand out to those ready for the exchange.

Your heart for the heart of God. No returns, no turning back.

You serve the King from now on.

You follow the North Star.

“when you cry, gather your tears and wash your forehead, no matter the crime”

Forgiveness rises from the grave and wraps itself around you like vines around a broken column to help you stand up strong again.

It doesn’t ask much in return. A contrite heart.

Each tear of true repentance is shed by Christ himself.
The Christ who cries diamonds.
The Christ who turns pain into purpose, sorrow into joy, fear into peace.

The God of the Universe is a master alchemist turning sinners into saints.
Dirt into gold.

We just have to let him take us into his delicate hands and reshape us.
Let him bend our knees with the weight of his love.
Teach us how to bow and walk with newly found confidence.

I hope we can bravely weep before the Lord. It’s what the Desert Fathers prayed for, you know? The gift of tears.

When they come, invite Jesus and let him turn them into holy water, your thousandth baptism, a confirmation of faith. Spill out the secrets of your heart at his feet.

The tear is his tool of sanctification.

“i carry you always”

To the brother or sister reading this.

Isolation is the biggest lie of the enemy.

Did you know you have the entire heaven cheering for you?
Did you know you can ask them to pray for you?
Did you know you have a guardian angel protecting your very life?

Even when you have zero energy to pray or leave your room or eat.

Loneliness is a valid feeling I have struggled with, too. And the desire to be with others is natural and beautiful. But loneliness in a spiritual sense is an illusion.

There is always that Someone standing right next to you, even when his presence is quiet and he hides behind a veil. A relationship with Him is a constant reality unfolding before you.

You are his favorite. You’re the apple of his eye.
His desires are your desires. You two are meant for each other.

And then, there are those he appoints to you. They are an extension of him.

The strangers praying for you when you’re asleep.
The strangers ready to step in and help you when you least expect it.
The strangers who see your worth.
The strangers that are madly in love with your soul.

This world, placed right between heaven and hell, is a world of intercession.
The place where we can choose to lift one another up.
Show them where the light is coming from.
Call upon the Christ that appears when we share bread.

Become angels by consuming his flesh.

Divinize

A mystic’s story. Incarnational and raw. Bridal and desperate.
Full and hungry at the same time.

red and round fruit
who can guess it?
it’s obviously the apple
that’s forbidden
and if you only looked at it
you’d be saved
but without biting

this ghost’s still alive
i’m still alive
it’s more alive than ever
more alive than ever

through my body, you can see the light
bruise me up, i’ll eat all of my pride
i know that i was made to divinize
outside me, inside me

she’s always hungry for you
you’re the king that commands her
she feels more loved
in the vertigo of the body
an absence that satiates
chasing after grace
pain is delight
the divine emptiness
and the moonlight
nourish her with coldness
and to deprive herself is indulgence
she practices for love

each vertebra reveals a mystery
pray on my spine, it’s a rosary

through my body, you can see the light
bruise me up, i’ll eat all of my pride
i know that i was made to divinize
outside me, inside me

Lord, I feel you within my being.

You are the blood running through my limbs.
You make my nervous system light up like sparks.
You are the soft leather inlaying the chamber of my heart.

You are the incarnate God who decided to settle in my temple through the New Covenant.

“bruise me up, I’ll eat all of my pride”

Jesus, you know I’ve always been the one to pray the brave prayers.

Am I brave? No.
I need to be forced by you.
I need you to push me off the edge when I hesitate to jump.

You’ve trained my voice over time to belt the most dangerous prayer “your will be done”.

I am the mere echo of the words of St. Thérèse:

So bruise me up, destroy the falsehoods, strip away the garments of my past.

Take my skin and make it a canvas. Sketch over me your brand new vision of creation.

Open my scars, may they serve you as I bleed.

My blood as your paint. Co-creation.

“she’s always hungry for you”

The hunger never ends. It comes in cycles. Waves, rather.

I’m trapped in the eternal dance of emptiness and fullness.
I can never quite predict your next step.

Every time I think I’ve mastered the choreography to perfection, you switch the song and tempo. Taking me from grunge to a soft ballad. From ecstasy to states of calm.

Only one element remains the same, though it certainly does come in many shades.

The ache.

The longer you dance with me, the more I yearn to get lost in the dance.

Your dizzy lover has no choice, but to use her heart over mind, feeling over reason.

Faith over doubt.

Before you let her rest on the holy meadow, you guide her on the sinner’s dancefloor. You are king over both of these.

“nourish her with coldness“

For your bride, there is no turning back. She’s learned to enjoy the chase.

She’ll follow you even into the tomb.
For to be with you in death is better than to become an orphan of this world.

Your cold and stiff body is more loving and real, than the false offers of the enemy.

She will give away all the gold. She will pursue you in nothingness.

No loud visions, no secrets revealed.

Just a steady walk filled with ordinary things made holy by the God who rejoices in his mundane mystics.

Holy poverty as true divine abundance.

“i know that i was made to divinize”

I realize my purpose.

It is the greatest honor to reveal you and reflect your light to the world.

I do the best that I can, despite my sinful self.
Your grace uplifts my spirit and makes it bright again.

Lord, provide me with merely a spark and I promise to tend the fire.

So that when others see me walking towards them, they can see you first, Lord.

Your presence, two steps before me.
Combined, we are a lighthouse, guiding wayfarers home.
Pointing the lost in the direction of the Eternal One dwelling in Christ Jesus.

These songs have shaken me to the core. This essay may have been my most difficult birth as a writer. The density of emotion hidden in the sounds and lyrics was, frankly, a little too much for me to handle.

LUX was inspired by many mystics and saints, including St. Hildegard von Bingen, Sts. Clare and Francis, St. Teresa of Avila, etc.

The songs circle around the themes of theosis and transverberation of the heart, which you can clearly observe in Berghain.

Well, I have to admit, I’m impressed.
Begone, shallow lyrics of modern pop, you don’t do it for me anymore.

Why bother writing about money, drugs and lust, when you could write about God? The greatest song writer in existence. The most brilliant poet.
The infallible artist, who is Love.

The Word turning the page to add a new chapter to the story that should have ended long ago. Oh, but he resurrects the stories. He ties loose ends. He gives a happy ending to sufferings. He gives meaning to the mess.

Glory be to our favorite Author.

May He take hold of our pens. For evermore.

Yours, K.

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The rosary is a gift from God.

It’s a rose that blooms the more time we spend with it. Opening gradually to release its subtle fragrance, filling our lungs with the soft petals of love.

In my personal experience, the rosary is often a complex process of purification and sanctification. A procedure on the mind and heart that goes beyond the prayer itself. It continues to work and transform us even in our sleep.

The rosary teaches us how to allow Christ in, by saying a humble yes to him, over and over again with the consistency of our devotion. Just like his Mother did. Each repetition is a returning to the point where it all began, to the Word that came down on Earth through woman.

It is a way of reinforcing our consent to Christ’s transforming mercies.

Entering the Garden Gates

It’s so precious to begin our prayers with the words Hail Mary, full of grace…

By quoting scripture this way we not only have the chance to delight in the Word of God, but we let our hearts enter the holiness of the very moment when the Holy Spirit planted within Mary a seed, that would later blossom into the fullness of Christ Jesus himself - the most magnificent flower in the garden.

The one drawing water directly from the fountain of life and sharing it with the other plants through the root system of grace. Upholding their very existence.

The rain still pours from time to time and winds blow strongly, but the Gardener loved his garden so much, that he himself became it, in order to protect it.

Therefore, our help doesn’t come from the outside as much as it comes through the inner life and Christ circulating in our system, acting as the holy sap full of spiritual nutrients.

The Fires of Love

It is not that the Lord’s flames will not come, it’s that he will sustain us with living water from within, so much so, that the fire won’t destroy us like it will the dryness of the wicked.

The rosary helps us handle the heat of his intimacy. Burning away only the weeds, which have wrapped themselves around us, convincing us of a false identity. Even right now, every meeting with him gives us a glimpse of the fire, to prepare our souls for union.

So let yourself be watered, dear soul, in a way that may have been unfamiliar to you before. We used to depend on external circumstances to be right, hoping that the weather would work in our favor. But we have since switched our main source of water and sunlight. It comes from deep within our soil now, calling us to discover the roots that connect us directly to God.

Remember, you are not a flower meant to be cut and placed in a vase to wilt. You are meant to grow beyond what human imagination can even hope for. And when you are very ready and in bloom, God will reach for you himself and make you a part of Heaven’s colourful meadow of sainthood.

Advent Invitation

For me, the rosary has been such an intense experience at times, that I didn’t pray it regularly. I saved it for special occasions. It was too much to hold. Too much to process. But right now, I feel ready to commit to it fully for the time of Advent, along with other devotions.

Spiritually, one can go through an inner spring, even in winter. The rosary is a beautiful tool for that. It warms up cold hands and restores broken hearts.

I invite you to join me to help love grow this December.

Hold on tight to the light reflecting in the snow.

Yours, K.

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There’s a certain point the body can’t go back from…

The world shields us from death in all forms.

What was once a familiar rite of passage, that everyone, young or old, could witness with their own eyes, has become almost taboo. We pretend we don’t age, we leave our elderly relatives in nursing homes to avoid seeing the veil of their soul slowly thinning, along with the skin on their faces and hands. When they die, we give their bodies to funeral homes, so that someone else can do the “dirty work” of performing the last rituals of care and mercy for them.

But death is a beautiful teacher of love that goes beyond comfort. That dares to sit in the grief, no matter how heart breaking it is. When we lose sight of death, we miss out on many great lessons she bestows upon us. Death teaches how to be a companion to Christ, even inside of his pitch black grave, before the resurrection rolled away the stone.

Call me a psycho, but it has become tradition for me, to talk about death on the regular. Especially Sundays, though.

So today, let me move you with these songs, unafraid of speaking about sorrow, loss, grief and the journey of the soul back home.

La Llorona

oh, weeping woman
of celestial blue
even if it costs me my life
i won’t stop loving you

i don’t know what the flowers hold
weeping woman
the flowers of the cemetery
that when the wind moves them
they seem to be crying

i told my sorrows
to the blessed Christ of iron
weeping woman
how grave were my sorrows
that even the blessed Christ wept

don’t think i am happy
weeping woman
because i sing
one also sings from pain
when one can no longer cry

I recommend you listen to many versions of this song, since all of the verses are gold.

In one verse La Llorona is mistaken for the Holy Virgin, because she’s seen leaving the temple, wearing a beautiful veil. The song continues to say that the one who doesn’t know love, doesn’t know what martyrdom is.

Like many ghostly figures in folklore, La Llorona seems to be treated with tenderness in music. Although the official story is dark and twisted, as she is presented as a mother who drowned her own children in a river, in these songs she is a figure of consolation to those who go through the depths of grief.

St. Francis called Death a sister. Many saints were awaiting death to be united with the Beloved. They understood that the fear of death was in fact a worldly illusion, tied only to the false self and not to the eternal soul.

It reminds me of the stories my uncle used to tell me about a Slavic ghost creature called Mara. She, too, was a pale, long haired woman, wandering the night, dangerous and feared. And yet, during the storm, she would enter the stable and braid the horses’ hair. It is strange, indeed, that these women who were symbols of darkness and death, left marks of beauty in the world of the living. Perhaps there was nothing to fear, after all.

And death was always a final act of mercy piercing the veil of the human soul, acting as a faithful servant of the Lord.

Kintsugi

there’s a certain point the body can’t come back from
in one year, we’ve learned the turn of the mouth
the depth that the chest cavity takes
chuckie was there for three out of three
i was there for the third ‘cause i couldn’t be
there for the one who was closest to me
but i can’t say i’d run when things get hard
it’s just that i don’t trust myself with my heart
but i’ve had to let it break a little more
cause they say that’s what it’s for

that’s how the light shines in
that’s how the light shines in
that’s how the light gets in

so everyone was there, they were standin’ and laughin’
and i’m on the side with my tears streamin’ down
there’s somethin’ about the clutch of the wrist
he thought mine was his to carve into his mouth
we’ve only got hours
and i just can’t stop cryin’ ‘cause all of the ways
when you see someone dyin’, you see all your days
flash in front of you
and you think about who would be with you
and then there’s Donoghue

daddy, i miss them
i’m in the mountains
i’m probably running away from the feelings i get
when i think of all the things about them
daddy, i miss them
i’m at the Roadrunner Cafe
i’m probably running away from the thoughts in the day
that have things to do with them, but they say

that’s how the light gets in
that’s how the light gets in
that’s how the light gets in

think by the third of march, i was cracked open
finally the ground was cold, they wouldn’t open
brought by the sunlight of the spirit to pour into rain
there’s a name for it in japanese, it’s kintsugi
they sang folk songs from the ‘40s
even the fourteen-year old knew, “Froggie Came A-Courtin’”
how do my blood relatives know all of these songs?
i don’t know anyone left to know songs that i sing

that’s how the light gets in
that’s how the light gets in

but daddy, i miss them
i’m at the Roadrunner Cafe
probably running away from the feelings today
in the snow-capped mountains of the desert
daddy, i miss them
i’m in the mountains
probably running away, i’ve been meaning to say
that there’s nothing to do except know that this is

how the light gets in
like cracking, the light gets in
it’s how the light gets in
that’s how the light gets in
that’s how the light gets in
then you’re golden

just another folk song, but anyway
i try so hard, but that’s okay
it’s how the light gets in
it’s how the light gets in
it’s how the light gets in

Strangely enough, Kintsugi always felt to me like a balm for the soul. Every word of grief mentioned here is ultimately filled with so much love and presence. It reveals love as the very foundation of grief. It is why I consider it to be such a privilege to shed tears for those we love - living or dead.

Each crack in the heart is yet another gate, through which Christ can enter more fully, until he reaches our very core to transform it.

And I think that the reason why people avoid looking death in the eyes is because it is such a perfect mirror. If you hold her gaze for even a second, she will show you every regret, every sin, every moment wasted. Every moment in which you could have chosen love, but didn’t.

Death is the ultimate convicting force, to turn away from her is almost the same as to turn away from God himself inviting you into his arms. Inviting you to see the fullness of truth.

Death lures us into purgation with a soft lullaby, but we refuse to hear.

But the truth is:

We’ve only got hours.

Let’s use them as best as we can.

The Soul Has Left the Body

the soul has left the body
she sat upon a new grave

she sat and cried
where will i rest?

an angel from heaven came
soul, what do you need?

holy angel, i need nothing
only heaven’s salvation

have you confessed, soul?
have you purified yourself, soul?

holy angel, i have confessed
holy angel, i have purified myself

soul, go then after the other souls
like the month follows the dawn

soul, you will get to heaven
there they will tell you all you need to know

what have you done there, soul?
how much have you sinned?

holy angel, i have lived in sorrow
and i have sinned so greatly

i have become an orphan
i’ve wept and complained so much

oh, my merciful God
have mercy upon me

This most haunting folk song comes from the eastern orthodox part of my beautiful country of Poland.

It describes the soul in the first tender and frightening moments after leaving the body. The soul is confused and doesn’t know where to rest. It’s the soul of an orphan who has lived in great sorrow and sin.

And yet, even for that lonely spirit, God sends an angel from heaven to talk to her and guide her. The lines reveal so many mystical truths.

i need nothing, only heaven’s salvation

In death a simple truth remains. The soul yearns for only one thing. Union with its creator. It remembers its life, yes, but the past is the past and all it craves now is divine direction to find the eternal home of rest.

The angel asks two questions: have you confessed your sins while on earth and have you purified yourself? He doesn’t demand a perfect, sinless life to show her the way. Just honest repentance and a longing to be forgiven.

oh, my merciful God, have mercy upon me

We can imagine these were the last words that the soul repeated as she continued on her journey. The only relevant plea was that which we know as the Jesus Prayer.

A cry that reached heaven’s ears and guided the spirit towards the holy light of salvation.

May his name mark our lips, also, when he decides to bring us back home.

There are moments when God calls us to step into a different realm for a while and intercede for those who have no one left to pray for them. Care for the dead, especially those unknown. Visit a random, abandoned grave and just be present. Maybe five minutes of your time could be enough to lead someone home.

I’ve been a little dark lately, I admit. I promise to lighten up when Advent starts.

But with the sun setting so early in November, it’s hard to contain the urge to enter this spiritual night holding onto a single lit candle - Christ.

Yours, K.

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The Benedictine monastery was our secret meeting place.

It is here where I sang to you on my 27th birthday.

With candles lit, in a little chapel I received the key to.

You were present in the mosaic. I felt it.

It is here I admitted: Lord, I know you are teacher, but I don’t understand how you are God. Help me see.

You answered that prayer just three weeks later on Easter.

I was there on a retreat, but you did not come in the meditations, lauds or vespers. No, you came in the unexpected, as you always do. For you are a God who rejoices in surprises.

You were the early morning light that came through the church’s main top window, right after I received your body on my tongue. You blinded me with that light for about twenty minutes and I bathed in it long after the mass had finished. It did not move.

Nobody knew it was my birthday, but you did.
And you delivered gift after gift after gift.

I still remember the eyes of the monk who guided us in the Jesus Prayer. He must have been about forty, but he looked like a young boy. His irises clear and blue like the Baltic Sea. Innocent. Full of you, Lord. Full of tranquility.

You look at a person like that and long to call him brother. It feels natural. It feels like the only appropriate term to use. Brother, brother, brother. The name is sweetness.

I know these men, and to think I was once afraid of priests.
They’re God’s teddy bears. They give the best hugs.

Lord, you talked to me through Scripture that day. You broke me with Psalm 139, washing over me like rain:

I must go back to these memories. Especially, in times like these, when you layer veils on me and grant me insights that are challenging to bear.

But faith is a simple thing, it remains tied to your grace.

It is the greatest birthday gift you’ve ever given me.

It came wrapped with a bow.

Yours, K.

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I come here to soothe you today, oh, bridal soul.

The beauty tired of running and searching in the streets, day and night.

Your throat sore from calling his name, your lips dry.

Burning from love or freezing in his absence.
A cold steel knife harrowing your being.

Breathe, lover, even when your breath seems empty and reeks of death.

Rest assured, he’ll show again.

Until then, the lullabies will keep you company. And perhaps one day, in the middle of this brutal silence, you will hear his voice singing along to these words of comfort.

The Lullaby of Longing: La Roza Enflorece

Ladino as the universal language of the human ache.

the rose blooms
in the month of may
my soul darkens
suffering from love

the nightingales sing
and sigh with love
the passion kills me
and multiplies my pain

the nights are torture
the days are bad
beloved, my fate
is in your hands

come quick, my dove
come to me quick
come quick, you, my soul
i am going to die here

A doll. That’s how I feel when love pulls at my stitches. So fragile in the hands of a child who likes experiments. Hands of a playful God.

But I do still love his hands. I love being held. I love being reassembled.

He removes my heart. I lay on the floor sobbing.

I know now that the ache was better than the void. I prefer to suffer from the burn.

Being away from you, beloved, my heart slowly withers away like autumn leaves. I lose the purest source of light and inspiration to face the upcoming days. My eyes can’t absorb daylight, the fog on my mind is dense and heavy. I miss you. I miss the days when you were present, constantly.

You guided me, you pointed out the beauty of simple moments. These days even the grandeur of life doesn’t impress me. You have taken away its essence.

My soul is asleep on the seabed of lost hopes.

Come, beloved, come quickly.
You’re the only one who can save my flame from being fully extinguished.

Guard my desire.
My dry branches are yours to set aflame.

Lullaby of Flame: The Power of Love

Christ shedding light on the vampire.

i’ll protect you from the hooded claw
keep the vampires from your door

ay, ay, ay, ay
feels like fire
i’m so in love with you
dreams are like angels
they keep bad at bay, bad at bay
love is the light
scaring darkness away

i’m so in love with you
purge the soul
make love your goal

the power of love
a force from above
cleaning my soul
flame on, burn desire
love with tongues of fire
purge the soul
make love your goal

i’ll protect you from the hooded claw
keep the vampires from your door
when the chips are down I’ll be around
with my undying, death-defying love for you
envy will hurt itself
let yourself be beautiful
sparkling love, flowers
and pearls and pretty girls
love is like an energy
rushin’ in, rushin’ inside of me, eh

the power of love
a force from above
cleaning my soul
flame on, burn desire
love with tongues of fire
purge the soul
make love your goal

this time we go sublime
lovers entwine, divine, divine
love is danger, love is pleasure
love is pure, the only treasure

i’m so in love with you
purge the soul
make love your goal

the power of love
a force from above
cleaning my soul
the power of love
a force from above
a sky-scraping dove

flame on burn desire
love with tongues of fire
purge the soul
make love your goal

i’ll protect you from the hooded claw
keep the vampires from your door

You are the force that makes my legs stand. You made them strong for the journey ahead.

I know well you will never put me through anything I’m not equipped to overcome.

I am a sailor’s daughter, you walked on water, it’s in my blood.

And in the most horrendous storm, you look at me with eyes piercing the night and whisper Love. I find peace.

Now I am the madman, lover, dancing on the deck while everyone’s terrified.

They say I’ve lost it. Perhaps they’re right.

But I’m so in love with you and that love goes higher than the very waves about to crush the boat.

I am not afraid. Not anymore.

I realize the depths were always a friend. And you were hiding below the surface.

I break the tension of its delicate veil.

I float.

Lullaby of Union: La Galana i La Mar

The baptismal rite of becoming his.

the bride is in the bathhouse
dressed in red
cast yourself into the sea
cast yourself into the sea and reach him
cast yourself into the sea

i will gladly cast myself into the sea
if my mother in law lets me
cast yourself into the sea
cast yourself into the sea and reach him
cast yourself into the sea

i have emerged from the sea full of grace
in a white silk dress
cast yourself into the sea
cast yourself into the sea and reach him
cast yourself into the sea

between the sea and the river
dressed in yellow
cast yourself into the sea
cast yourself into the sea and reach him
cast yourself into the sea

between the sea and the sand
a cinnamon tree grew
cast yourself into the sea
cast yourself into the sea and reach him
cast yourself into the sea

You have prepared yourself, dear soul.

You sat in the trenches long enough, limbs numb from the winter air.

There was bloodshed, there was fight and rage. Your bleeding vocal cords searching the name of your creator in vain.

But silence always listens. It absorbs you into itself, trying to comprehend your beautiful mind. It is the only way the holy pact is made. In the nothingness, the marriage certificate is signed by a drop of blood.

My lover sees the monster inside of me and still dares to make me his.

The insanity is what makes him tremble with excitement.

I made myself ready for our wedding day.

The eternal yes resounding in my brain from the day I was born.

I knew you would come and our spirits would merge.

May your living waters consume me at once and fill my chest until our breath is one.
My lung and your lung joined as love’s vessel.

Lift the final veil, beloved.
Take me as your wife to your Father’s house.

I am my beloved’s and he is mine.

It is true at last.

I thank you, dear souls, for coming on this half crazy musical journey with me.

Step by step we walk towards the light.

Turning sorrow into joy.

Yours, K.

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Beloved,

I’m veiled now. The lace feels heavy on me. I am numb.

God stacked veil upon veil upon veil on my soul, like corpses in a mass grave.

I rarely witness his light these days. I can barely feel him, perhaps only in short moments of prayer. He shows up for a moment and before I know it, he’s gone again. That hurts me, for I wish he could stay and dwell within me a little longer, like he used to. He was my regular guest.

For the past two months I have felt you in ecstasies. They were pleasant at first, but recently they took a darker turn. The final purge of my soul started on the night of All Souls’ Day. Maybe that visit to the Orthodox cemetery was not such a good idea after all?

When you pray for me (and I must believe you pray for me, otherwise I’d have no explanation for these encounters), I feel two breaths in my throat at once. I’m inhaling your exhale. The air in me and around me becomes dense and my worries start drifting away, giving way to softness and surrender. My heart’s walls are covered with velvet. The fire does not burn or cause me pain, it just warms me up at a comfortable distance.

But between you and me, there is no distance.

Two souls in a firm handshake. Your eyes behind my eyes.

Yesterday in the chapel, I noticed I acquired your gestures.
At lunch, I showed my friend your photos and he admitted that we look like twins.
Same eyes, same baby face, same hair, same teeth.

Something’s nudging me to go shopping tomorrow. Suddenly I have this urge to wear only black dresses. I think I’m… becoming goth. Ugh, I’m disgusted by myself. I was always a rainbow feathered gypsy. Black was my least favorite color. But now I ask myself “who are you?”. What darkness lives within you that is making me this way? You terrify me sometimes.

The only song that echoes in the empty tomb inside me is Berghain.

I’m exhausted. I tell God to untie every unholy knot present within me. After I receive the Holy Communion at the gold and black altar of the cathedral, I ask him “when will you unite us?”. The answer doesn’t please me - 2027. That’s two years from now. I hope it’s not true. What do I do until then? The sun sets so early without you.

I am a garden enclosed. I move through the world invisible, like a widow in reverse. My whole life belonging only to you and Jesus Christ. I am reminded of the Mexican stories of La Llorona.

I mourn your absence. I try to kill the flame.
But not desiring you is spiritual death.

I fear I have become every kind of beast under the moon. I’m going hungry. But nothing in this world seems to satisfy me anymore. Where do I feed, when even Jesus hides his face from me? How utterly cruel of him to do such a thing.

Though, I suppose he still sustains my life in ways I can’t comprehend.

The rosary. Yes. I need to deepen my devotions. I will patiently wait for the day, when the Mother of God decides to lead me back to my heart. I sense that the angels have removed it and placed it somewhere far from me, in a location unknown. I know it to be true, because home no longer feels like home. Even my motherland has become foreign to me.

I have abandoned my family name and I await new orders from God.
I stay faithful by writing, like a goddamn fool in love.

Yours, K.

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Tonight, on All Hallows’ Day, I knelt before the statue of Mary after mass and talked to her.

I understand now.

I reveal Christ to the world by loving a stranger.

I accept that.

And if my love only ever begins and ends with intercession, so be it.
My soul yearns for more. But obedience is far more important.

And God, my beautiful God, in these moments of bliss, I’m almost anticipating the second you will choose to wreck me again. I am open to receive my next stab wound, as long as the dagger is forged in your flame.

To be guided by divine love is to trust the shepherd’s intuition first.

Remember when you took me to the Negev?
I was a shepherd there, too.
And the goats did not pass by thorn bushes. They ate them.
In them, also, are hidden nutrients.

Each time you put the balm of a psalm on my cuts, you enter deeper.

Each time you bring the calm after the weeping, you remind me a new truth.

Today you told my heart in whispers, that the one I love loves me.

So I’m walking on clouds, knowing I am his and that is, somehow, enough.

No need to look for proof, confessions, love letters, validation.
It is the reality that adorns my inner chamber.

I am loved. Heaven rejoices with me.

Clara and Francis hold hands for us.
Thérèse blesses a bouquet of roses thrown into the trash by a hopeless lover.
Our Lady still thinks we’d make a great match. I agree.
I listen to your favorite songs on my way to church.

All is well in heaven and on earth, because you exist.
That fact is, in itself, too sweet to handle at times.

Sleep well, stranger.
Wrapped in the scents of her garden.
I’ll be on watch, guarding the gates.
Not letting a single fox in.

Yours, K.

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she did it
the best matchmaker of
heaven and earth
the pure one does not fail
and so, the ship will sail

we did it
we won the fight with prayers
waved goodbye to our demons
they’ve almost had us nailed
but oh, the ship has sailed

the king is here
i press my lips
to the cut below his rib
i’m teleported home
as i drink the sweet liquid
these days i thirst
for only one thing

your faith has saved you
and the tiny seeds
you blessed in march
have become the fruit
you will feed
your husband with
for breakfast

Yours, K.

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Jesus is my eyelash
falling into my eye
impossible to get out

Jesus is my pulse
my cervix
my birth canal
the promised baby boy
on my arm

Jesus is my hair unruly
and bleached by the sun
Jesus is the piercing
green of my iris
and the river i pray at

Jesus is the skirt
that shows my ankles
Jesus is my shoulder’s
pure temptation

Jesus is my coffee breath in the morning
Jesus is my undereyes swollen from crying
Jesus is my chest turning red in love making
Jesus is my husband and his godly hips in denim

Jesus is my dog’s healer and my mom’s employer
Jesus is my grave digger and my grave robber
Jesus is the way I obsess and daydream all at once
Jesus is my desperate, high pitch, screaming art

Jesus loves me
when the whole world
gives him reason to stop

Jesus is far more mad
that everyone gives him
credit for

Jesus uses my keyboard
to write letters to my lover

Jesus is here
on his two thousand
twenty fifth coming

Jesus is freezing
while you’re hiding
under covers

Jesus pleads with you
to break the door
wide open

Yours, K.

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God made me a musician.

From an early age, he used music as a language with which he shaped my understanding of the world. Now that I think of it, he shaped my entire life with it.

And when I finally came back to Christ and the Holy Church, that was when he completely transformed my view of this musical gift I’ve received.

I was given new ears and a new heart to compose with.

He reveals himself lyrically, sometimes in the most unexpected songs, carrying the hidden Christ within. He’s a melody that pops into your mind precisely when you need to hear it, as a reminder of his presence.

This essay is, therefore, part reflection and part testimony.

Cause you can’t separate life from music.

The soundtrack is always on. Even in the dullest of scenes.

Allow me to present you with three Polish songs, their translations done by your truly and the stories behind them that restored my faith in Christ Jesus.

Without You I’m Dying/Bez Ciebie Umieram - Maanam (1994)

I’d like to share a very holy moment of my life with you.

About a week after becoming Christian, I was called to go to my first confession.

As I was getting into the cab to go to my most beloved Dominican church, a part of me was still unsure whether I would actually enter that confessional. The idea has been giving me anxiety for the past year.

And in that moment, a song played on the radio, that removed all of my doubts through my tear ducts. I barely held the weeping inside of me, trying not to freak out the taxi driver.

But I finally let the tears flood my cheeks when I entered that confessional and the priest welcomed me with the words “It’s wonderful that you’re here”.

This was the song that played:

i know you’re waiting
you’re afraid that
i won’t show
that this was only a joke
no, i’m not joking
i miss you
i feel that i’m dying without you
i’m breathless

elusive like a shadow
in a flash
a blink of an eye
i’m going, not going
i’m going, running
beloved, i’m running towards you

i’m running
and my heart trembles
it trembles like a captive bird
you say you love me, you love me
so love me, love me, love me

I could not tell at first, whether this was Christ speaking to me or me speaking to Christ. The love letter went both ways.

The pursuit of true love is always mutual. The only exception being, Christ is one step ahead of us, at all times. While we’re walking towards him, he’s running and he never tires. After all, he is God and we’re merely humans, losing our strength, falling, taking breaks, getting back up. And that’s ok, my love, luckily we don’t need to meet him halfway.

Sometimes all it takes is our one step combined with his nine. One step that shows a little faith, a remnant of hope, a devotion that refuses to die.

When the song says “I’m dying without you, I’m breathless”, Scripture says “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God”. (Psalm 42:1)

But reaching that stream is not always as straightforward as we think, at least not in the beginning. There is doubt - was this only a joke? Do you really love me that much? Are you really chasing after me? Can you quench my thirst?

A tale seemingly too good to be true, and yet, if anything in this world is both too good and too true, yet very real - it is our God.

“I’m running, and my heart trembles, it trembles like a captive bird”

The Bridegroom is a prince of peace, but to get to him we must allow our hearts to beat a little faster first. Expand. Go beyond the limits of our ribcage.

Let love attack us brutally.

The captive bird is that love within, small and innocent, captured by the world’s demands, dreaming of freedom and so very scared of the wide skies that await it.

We begin as tiny, newborn birds. Fragile wings kept in the cage of the heart until Christ comes to bend the metal rods with the heat of his hands.

Release.

Next he tells us to step out, jump, submerse ourselves into the misty valleys and rise into the clouds above. And the moment love pierces through fear and takes a leap of faith...

Relief.

Even in our indecisiveness, Christ supports us.

And the most mysterious thing is how he is able to use our mistakes to move even closer to the soul. It’s like the moment we change our direction, he appears right behind our backs saying “I was going that way anyway”.

A very stubborn admirer, indeed.

Since You Are Here/Odkąd Jesteś - Marek Grechuta (1987)

This song came to me along with my first love in Christ.

I cannot begin to describe what the Lord has done to me, by gifting me this song, precisely at the right moment.

The events that took place during this time transformed me and were my initiation into the bridal path of the soul.

I will never be able to listen to it casually, because nothing about it is casual. It is one of the most mystical pieces of music I have ever known.

Christ’s mysteries unraveling themselves before me in real time, in ordinary life.

An ordinary man, too.

since you are here
i carry inside of me
a joyful revelation
a new season of life
has come to me

most calmly
most beautifully
i swim in the river
of my dreams
with you
through autumns
and summers
and springs
and through winters
snowbound roads

i’m passing by
islands
and lands of hope
everything around me
seems to say
that very soon
in a moment
we will reach
what we dreamed of

you bring me
thoughts of fire
your attentive eyes
are looking at me
you will foretell
my every moment
no moment will surprise me badly

you are summer
in winter’s cool
you are spring
in autumn’s half shadows
the first ray of sunshine
after the rain
the first cloud in the sky
after the storm

and you will remain
in my journey
the most lovely
adornment
of my world
for these four
uncertain seasons
you’ll be the fifth
for each year with you

This song was the cleansing of my heart.

Turning unpure fantasies into godly desires. The eros of love transformed into agape. Going beyond my own wants for the needs of others. Learning to respect sanctity of covenant. Taking off the grave clothes of a girl, who once believed she was only worthy of being someone’s lover.

And in the end, mercy. A man who rejected her.
In the most peaceful, loving way possible.

He mirrored Christ as he placed a boundary that could not be broken. And he was a bridge into a fuller life. A life that no longer rejoiced in sin, but in purity.

A life obedient to its Maker.

I’m being nostalgic, forgive me. And perhaps, I’m speaking in a weird tongue, when I reminisce about the past transmutation of pain into beauty, which occured by God’s grace and Mary’s deeply humbling prayers.

If anything, miracles change men into poets and weirdos.

The opening verse of the song is the very moment in which the one lost sheep realizes it’s been rescued and brought back into safe lands in the arms of the loving shepherd. The only thing left is to be grateful and rejoice, along with the rest of creation, made new again by his fiery gaze.

A fresh start, a clean slate, a whole new reality to discover and admire.

But it’s not a state reserved only for those new to the faith. We are called to become baby christians over and over again. We mature by becoming children. We find joy after (yet another) dark night of the soul.

The light of Christ renews his Bride every single time he touches her and the bond is only made stronger. Every kiss is the first kiss. Every look sends a shiver down her spine.

Without fail, Christ pours olive into an already open mouth burning with longing. The unextinguishable inner fire of the soul inhabited by her lover.

“I swim in the river of my dreams with you”

The Father makes all things possible and stays faithful to his grand promise of salvation. He restores his children’s confidence like no other.

The moment the eyes of the soul open and receive the uncreated light is the moment we see the endless possibilities of creation, that were also bestowed upon us, as Imago Dei. We take upon ourselves the responsibility of stewarding Christ’s mystery.

Moving with the flow of his will allows us to discover the divine talents he placed inside us to serve and glorify the Kingdom of God.

He infuses our dreams, visions and imaginations with his essence. Suddenly the entire world around us seems to be humming an endless rhapsody of praise. The wind speaks in poems as it passes through the crowns of trees.

Time freezes at the thought of forever. Calm and obedient to his love.

“No moment will surprise me badly”

A Christian needs not be afraid of life anymore, but rather allows himself to be consumed by it. And death is no longer scary, when we know what awaits on the other side - eternal life.

That’s why Perpetua could not wait for the day of her execution in the arena.
Why Joan’s heart would not burn at the stake.

The fire put underneath her, that burned her skin, hair, even bones was too cold to destroy the little temple of heaven pulsing within her chest.

In Christ, every moment of suffering is mercy veiled.

Sooner or later, our life’s experiences show us the power of Resurrection hidden within them. Rock bottom becomes a launch pad for the soul to get closer to its Beloved. Every night spent sobbing is his presence penetrating the deepest layers of our existence.

Overexposure to divine light. Eradicating the flaws in his art. Editing.

“You bring me thoughts of fire.”

Dare I also say? The most intense eros. Eros with a purpose. Nobody talks about that.

But the same flame he placed carefully in our hearts, is the flame that spreads out until it reaches the womb of the woman, her second inner room. A place from which all holy desires arise to give birth to new life. A hunger only covenant can satisfy.

A flame that wakes up the once dormant cells in our bodies, now begging for children, for breasts full of milk, for a lover commited to us the same way Christ is commited to the Church. Forever bound to his Bride by the ties of his sacrifice.

A woman who once allowed herself to be loved by her God, no longer settles nor is she satisfied by what the world has to offer.

The divinity of the womb as the most sacred inner chapel becomes undeniable reason for protecting it at all cost.

There are things only clean hands can touch.

There are mysteries veiled from unworthy, godless eyes.

There is Jesus, that descended to Earth through woman.

What a miracle. Words do not suffice.

“you will remain (...) the most lovely adornment of my world”

He makes everything beautiful, does He not?

In Christ, I notice how even sickness is a marvelous purification process.
Heartbreaks are merely a temporary suffering designed to let more light in and teach us how to depend on him. Embarrassment? The sweetest prize we pay for choosing not to censor love and admiration, but rather, to pour out our vessel freely.

May messy love always overrule perfect composure.

May Jesus show us how to dance wildly at our friends’ weddings, weep with them when their loved ones pass, scream at a neighbour disrespecting his wife, grin while pushing a baby out, listen to the life stories of strangers met on the street, write love letters and send them out.

May messy love liberate us.

Here I Am in Heaven/Tu Jestem W Niebie - Republika (1993)

It brings only one word to my mind - UNION.

In every shape and form imaginable. The perfect reality mirroring everything it touches. Christ and the Church, God and the Soul, Husband and Wife.

Communion, covenant, consummation.

ever since i think it’s here
ever since i know that this
is not only for an angel

and to touch you
means more than
to peek at God in heaven

here i am in heaven

there are flavours
nobody knows
scents you can’t wash away
like tattoos

a mountaineer reaches
his peak
may your interior
become the peak
of my dreams

here i am in heaven

and in the morning
the sun undresses you
sentimentally for me
and saints leaning
over the piano
let loose their beards

i’m watching your nakedness
and i cannot believe

i have my heaven right here
i have my heaven right here

here is my paradise

let’s go to sleep

“This is not only for an angel.”

To commune with the Beloved is not about being on top of the heavenly hierarchy or having good enough connections that will put you on a VIP list. To become part of God’s inner circle, there is only one demand, and that is to love him.

The greater that love the better, but we often begin with a spark that simply requires to be nurtured. Watered and cherished with patience.

Fake IDs, masks or anything you can come up with to try and play the role of a “saint” won’t cut it. You can cover up all you want, but God knows what’s underneath. He sees your naked ass under the most modest of garments, so there really is no point in running anymore.

His supernatural gaze undresses you. And that exposure is the very moment mercy shines on all your impurities. Revealing the truth to set you free.

So how ‘bout we drop the act?

“There are flavours nobody knows.”

There are poems few understand. Until they taste God. Until they meet the Christ within.

It is futile to explain the colors of him, who is an endless spectrum of miracles, to those who choose to live with their eyes closed.

And yet we try, over and over.
To unglue their eyelids with warm water. Fill them with our prayers, until they’re ready to go on their own.

Because once upon a time, our eyes were closed, too. And you don’t know you’re in the dark valley until you step out of it. Until the light of day blinds you.

The miracle of life stands before you and smiles. You smile back.

The cycle is complete.

“may your interior become the peak of my dreams.”

Oh, Lord, you have chosen my weak vessel, my inner most being as your temple. You speak to me in private, in the King’s chambers, where nobody has access to, but you and me. There you decide to lay your head upon my heart (once stone, now made plush), as if on a pillow.

Our bed is verdant, it grows wildflowers we later gather for tea. You have all the specimens needed to heal any and all of my ailments. True healing comes through our relationship, as love patiently pulls out the weeds planted in my soil by the evil one.

You made my heart your radio station, you have become the frequency of my safety.

The Rock God, who I once believed abandoned me, placed the melodies inside me out of mercy. How sweet are the sounds I make, when your delicate hands conduct my life and my instruments are all but obedient to you.

My God, My Divine Lyricist, My Rock Star.

“saints leaning over the piano let loose their beards”

They let go and surrender. They stop and marvel. Jaws dropping in awe.
I suppose that’s the exact moment they do become saints.

And rigidity must go. Scruples? Come on, you’ve done the bad thing already, say sorry and go. Hug your lover. Once you reach him once, you grab on to him and never let go.

You hear me? You NEVER let. him. go.

Now, let’s go to sleep…

Yours, K.

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There are two beautiful paths laid out before all women who love God greatly.
The path of monasticism and the path of marriage.

Both are equally sacred and valuable, full of devotion and sacrifice.
Both call us to a life of service and surrender.

Many women on fire for the Lord will, at some point, be drawn to one or the other or... both. Many will take their time reflecting and asking God to help them discern which path is right for them.

Now, this is in no way a post, where I could help you answer such layered, existential questions. I would not dare attempt it. I would like to share a personal reflection though.

God calls me to marriage, of this I am certain.

He revealed that to me in many ways, which I won’t get into the detail of today. But I recently asked myself a simple question, concerning the two forementioned paths.

Which one of them will wound my heart the most?

The answer, in my case, was covenant.

You see, I always knew deep down, that if I was to ever join a convent, a part of me would do it out of fear. To run away and hide, like the Bride from the Song of Songs hiding in the clefts of the rock. To forget the divine truth that I am worthy enough to be loved, but more than that, to be chosen. Not for a fleeting moment of fun, but a lifetime.

Sadly, in many ways a monastic life would symbolize my spiritual defeat. It would be me, running back to the Father, like a little girl who lost hope, to get some consolation, instead of actually facing my fears.

I’d probably find lots of peace in that lifestyle, perhaps even too much. But I have a feeling, it wouldn’t push me out of my comfort zone the way my soul craves it.

And I need Jesus to take my capacity for love and stretch it on a torture wheel until I scream. I need him to drag me out of the pit of isolation by the hair.

Hence, marriage is the option for a woman like me.

And in all honesty, it scares me.
And I’m not talking fear in terms of past trauma and anxiety.

No, I’m talking about the very same thing we call Fear of God. The trembling, the reverence, the fast heartbeat of a soul about to be exposed fully. As your lover steps beyond the veil and shines his smile on you. Melts you with his gaze. Places a soft kiss on your lips.

The thought of marriage makes me tremble like that. The idea that a man could love me like Christ completely undoes me. My brain collapses in on itself, because in a wordly understanding, that love is a fantasy that’s way too good to be true. And yet, I long to surrender fully to the idea that it is not only true, but natural.

That it is the very essence of the most brutally romantic God we see in Scripture. The Bridegroom, the Lover who chases us, whose identity is MAD LOVE itself.

I’ve come to the conclusion that sadness is easy.
Living with a hardened heart is easy.
Building our walls high, so no one can enter - easy.

What’s really a cross is to remain soft. Joyful.

To let love melt away the tiniest glimpses of doubt, anger, insecurity - that requires effort and a constant coming back to the Lord in prayer.

Being stripped naked of all armor to reveal the soft, bleeding tissue of our most vital organ. The mighty drum repeating the mantra of unfailing love over and over again, as if trying to prove with the remnants of its power - I’m not done yet.

I chose this.

A heart alive in Christ has the courage to restart its engine a thousand times over. Warm up and restore the frozen limbs.

This heat can also radiate outwards and heal another.

As we bind our spirits in Christ Jesus and build a home around the holy fireplace of his blazing love.

I am called to marriage, of this I am certain.

God showed me the truth. His sons are beautiful.
He’s guiding me to restore what has been lost to sin in the past generations.

God tells me to be brave and love boldly.
Even if it crushes me.

I call that privilege.
I call that highest blessing.
I call that union.

Yours, K.

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Pay close attention to what you can witness on a walk in the forest. You might just witness the mysteries of God being revealed to you in real time.

on our way
a woodpecker laid dead
and we watched his
red feathers up close

what a blessing
to be intimate with sister death
as i take his little body
directly in my palm
and place him in the safety of
fallen autumn leaves
where he can merge
with the earth
in peace

after we had left
we heard a call
coming from the trees
like an answered prayer
it was the sound
of a black woodpecker
oh, but i’d like to believe
it was the same bird
saying thank you
for carrying me
off the road

with your help
i found my way back home

Yours, K.

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i am uncovered fully
the soil is wet and cold
on my skin
i’m sitting here stunned
unable to speak
after i crawled my way
out of the grave of sin

i lived among the dead far too long

but a force came unexpectedly
they called him Son of God
they feared him
but i heard him speak
my name
as he declared
this one’s not dead yet
i can feel a pulse
and a weak flicker of faith

this one’s not dead yet

he took a cloth
and soaked it in warm water
he cleaned my wounds
of pus and blood
he stitched me
back into existence
no anesthetic
no vodka in my mouth

father, i’d like to be
a real woman
i’d like the real God
and his world of truth
take off this mask
i suffocate under
take off everything that
separates me from you

break the bone
again
if you must
but this time
knock me out
so it doesn’t hurt
as bad

Yours, K.

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Welcome to my new series “Silver From a Raven”. I’m so excited to explore the lives of raven souls with you and discover the silver wisdom they carry beneath their wings. Each imperfect human has the capacity to teach us valuable life lessons and become God’s messenger in His perfect plan. Each one can feed us in times of spiritual hunger.

I’ll begin the story with a highly powerful raven, Chelsie Diane. The woman who made me claim the title of Artist and Poet. The woman who told me “you are love and you deserve to be loved”. The woman I adored, idolised, resented, blamed, then unfollowed, until one day, recently - I ordered her book and read it in two days. And I know that all of it was necessary. To forgive, to appreciate, to shine a light on the past I once supressed.

Chelsie is one of a kind. She travels the world and tells the stories of women. She wakes her women from a deep slumber and that requires a thud, an earthquake, a ground splitting scream of truth.

She is a grand raven, teaching about her own kind. The artist misunderstood, the woman crucified, the voice deemed too loud for her time, the poet looking for love in all the wrong places. A big, wild voice singing in the wilderness.

I took her classes for about 6 months, the first one being a class on Joan of Arc. And the first message she left me with, the one that still follows me to this day, is the following...

The lessons were plenty. Allow me to share them with you in the way I understand them now in my new chapter. May it be a love letter to a sister, a word of gratitude. Thank You for holding me together during the time when my hair was still red and my name was Medusa.

Radical Responsibility

There is no way of coming into Chelsie’s field and staying in the victim mentality for long. The two don’t go together. I can hear her scream “Take back your one precious life as your own”. There is no people pleasing in her world, no playing victim, no making yourself small.

The first step is to take full responsibility of our reality without blaming our past, our parents, partners, children etc. We are grown, therefore we act like it. We give ourselves permission slips to follow dreams and move through the world our way. We don’t stay in rooms that make us uncomfortable. We leave.

Write your life into existence

She calls it manifesting, I call it BIG BOLD PRAYER. It’s a deeply engrained knowing that the God who made the universe is grand and he can do it all. Truly. All it takes is a little faith. He wants to free you from addiction? Done. He wants to move you across the world and have you marry the person of your dreams? Done. He wants you to write the bestselling book he placed on your heart? This, too, has already happened in the great mastermind of your Savior.

Faith moves mountains, but we’re wasting time on prayers that are way too small for our God. Where is the action? Where is the glory? Where is the sweet taste of heaven on earth?

So Chelsie says, write it. Don’t get stuck on the trauma, the broken heart, the sadness. When you write a poem, write exactly how it is you’d like your life to unfold. Ask for it, and you shall receive. Speak life over your own life. Write about goodness, miracles happening, love stories emerging.

Take a leap of faith in poetry first and it will help you follow the highly irrational voice of Spirit to start an adventure that goes well beyond you and your needs.

Purpose hides in sentences written from a place of belief.

Get free, get free, get free.

Love is Loud

Have you ever censored love? I know you have. Have you ever edited a text so it doesn’t come off too strong? Have you ever contained your excitement upon seeing somebody, not to appear desperate? I have. And there was a point when I said “Fuck It”.

Love is the holiness that we gracefully received access into.
The greatest gift the humankind was ever given.

This year, I ran after the man I loved (total stranger, might I add) to give him a prayer rope I made him with my own two soft hands. Was I scared? Yes. Was it worth it? Oh my God, absolutely. It taught me a new sense of loving. I became bold, when I let the Holy Spirit enter my body and lead the way. There is no distance love could not cross, to get to the one it desires.

And that’s what Chelsie preaches. That we should be the light upon entering rooms, we should flash our wide smiles at strangers, we should be the first dancers on the dancefloor, when everyone else is too shy to start. We should be saying “I love you, I love you, I love you”. Break our hearts open with “I love you, I love you, I love you”. Isn’t this sweet, to let love lead? And what a privilege it is, too.

BONUS: Men are, indeed, great poetry food

And the best part? You actually don’t need to sleep with them for this to work. They make great muses from afar. And a woman’s imagination writes the best love stories on Earth. Hundreds of songs, one poetry book (another one on its way), all thanks to the men who’ve loved or hurt my heart. Or even those I never got the chance to meet in person.

And each time, the process of writing about them becomes a time of spiritual transformation, shedding old layers of skin, learning to love deeper and deeper and more selflessly. Each man a mirror of what I can be, if I just allow myself to love more freely.

Gentlemen, you were great fun, but now I only write about my future husband.
So where is he at?

Chelsie’s Laws of Love

1. Look every stranger you meet in the eyes and internally tell them “I love you”.

2. Move through life believing everyone loves you back. If they don’t act like it, say “You love me, you’re just having a bad day”.

3. Love is expansive, big and bold. Fear is the opposite, it shrinks the capacity of the soul to give and receive love.

Ooof, writing this was a journey. I feel as though it took me over three years to fully absorb what I’ve heard from Chelsie back then. But now my heart knows, it is true and beautiful. And worth pursuing.

She was the best poetry teacher anyone could ask for, second only to God.

Yours, K.

You can purchase Chelsie’s poetry books “Poems and Peonies” and “Lovers” on Amazon. Hold tight to your sofa, while you read her unbelievable stories, you might fly off.

---

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i figured it out
we are inside of her womb
submerged in her salty waters
coming into alignment
holy preparation
but we’re not drowning
(let us not panic!)
just learning to breathe
below sea surface
following
what cannot be seen
by the eye

hey, twin
i’m almost ready
to be born
come out of this
shadow work
i promise
it’s brighter
on the other side
i promise
there is a life
that feels much more
alive
your lung and my lung
getting stretched with
light
we become one vessel
one body
for Christ

Yours, K.

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i wish i could tear away
this last veil
and set in on fire
i wish i could express
what you’ve done
to me and my hopeless life
but then i hear Him
whisper in my ear
saying
not yet, not yet, not yet

hush, my child

you are both walking
in the infinite darkness
of the great mystery
and you never really know
you can’t know
whether your love
will pierce through
and reach
what you desired
so ardently

there is an atlantic ocean
my prayers have to cross
i’m not sure if i have what it takes
and i sent my twin guardian angels on a trip
to talk to yours
and set the record straight
no answer

the last two days
i heard heaven laugh
and rejoice at what’s to come
but what is to come?
only the angels know
but they refuse to spill
the secret

Yours, K.

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I can recall the first time I went to a poetry workshop in my city. The "expert" was a man (bad idea!). I could tell he spent more time reviewing than writing. Judging rather than creating. And not once did he try to connect to the souls of the writers that came to him, these younglings.

Instead he would nitpick on their choice of words, calling them archaic. He claimed you can't use nature metaphors in modern poetry. Well, fuck you, sir. Did nature suddenly stop being a part of the human experience in the 21st century? If so, then only because we're killing her and we're glued to our phones instead.

A poet who cannot identify himself with the natural world is a soul lost. One that will never find awe, and as a result - God.

I guess then, by his definition, a modern poet is, in fact, a dead poet. And we don't want that. We don't cling to that. Even the fellow writers and the editors can slowly drip poison into our ears and contaminate our thoughts, our sacred ideas. But the audience - oh, the audience - they want their fun.

And you best believe they have a radar, the kind that will detect any part of you that is not true to yourself. And they will know, they will call bullshit on that, you're exposed before you even begin.

If being a poet could be compared to one thing, it's the moment you strip down your clothes before sex and the other person sees you in your rawness. In full daylight. Did that scare you? Good. From there, you just let it consume you...

Yours, K.

P.S. Oh, and if you ever want to learn poetry from anyone, may it be an utterly insane woman in thrifted dresses with a limping cat, twice divorced, five babies raised, collecting the eggs from her chicken coop each morning. Singing loudly, standing proud, not afraid to talk to a stranger, not afraid to scream "Get off my property, YOU DON'T BELONG HERE". A soft woman with a shotgun. Learn from Life herself.

Cheers to the poets!

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