Inspired by Lana Del Ray's, "Young and Beautiful"
If I were your mother
talking to God
on a rainy, yellow Sunday
as I slipped away from this world,
I'd say one thing to you:
I'm sorry for everything.
I'm sorry for
all the somedays -
hold ons -
put offs -
maybes -
and I'd tell you
you were so beautiful
the way you abandoned
yourself to your dance with life,
the way you desperately held out hope,
praying as the road rose up before you –
the way you felt everything so deeply,
but your spirit never seemed to burn out -
how I wished I'd had
more of that for myself.
I'd say I'm sorry
that I lied to you -
that the sower and the reaper
don't keep their checkbooks balanced after all -
but you were so beautiful
the way you kept giving in spite of it all,
never losing faith that people were worth loving
even when they used you -
even when they hurt you -
even when they took from you -
and even when they left you behind.
I wasn't that brave.
I'd say I'm sorry
I was afraid of you, afraid of me,
afraid to repeat history,
not strong enough,
scared I wasn't healing
but I guess we were all
just scared we weren't healing.
And as the revelation
of this profound mystery
rose up in a glorious blast -
a rush of heavenly winds came,
breaking me loose from my body
like a garment,
like a vessel -
emptying my past,
blowing away every way
I'd let you down -
a downpour of perfect love -
of mercy -
taking my sins away
and washing away my whole existence...
As I left you
standing there
I could see as all things once profane
were becoming sacred again…
And I thought about
how this brilliant, unending love –
this is all you ever wanted.
All I ever wanted.
All any of us ever wanted.
And so I'd say,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't create
this majestic work of art around us -
the same perfection I was standing in -
surrounded by -
coming home to -
becoming.
Why is it we know its not supposed to be this way?
How do we know imperfection -
that there is a perfection?
Perhaps we were never supposed to know
a broken creation...
If I were your mother
talking to God
on a rainy, yellow Sunday
as I slipped away from this world,
I'd say one thing to you:
I'm sorry for everything.
I'm sorry for
all the somedays -
hold ons -
put offs -
maybes -
and I'd tell you
you were so beautiful
the way you abandoned
yourself to your dance with life,
the way you desperately held out hope,
praying as the road rose up before you –
the way you felt everything so deeply,
but your spirit never seemed to burn out -
how I wished I'd had
more of that for myself.
I'd say I'm sorry
that I lied to you -
that the sower and the reaper
don't keep their checkbooks balanced after all -
but you were so beautiful
the way you kept giving in spite of it all,
never losing faith that people were worth loving
even when they used you -
even when they hurt you -
even when they took from you -
and even when they left you behind.
I wasn't that brave.
I'd say I'm sorry
I was afraid of you, afraid of me,
afraid to repeat history,
not strong enough,
scared I wasn't healing
but I guess we were all
just scared we weren't healing.
And as the revelation
of this profound mystery
rose up in a glorious blast -
a rush of heavenly winds came,
breaking me loose from my body
like a garment,
like a vessel -
emptying my past,
blowing away every way
I'd let you down -
a downpour of perfect love -
of mercy -
taking my sins away
and washing away my whole existence...
As I left you
standing there
I could see as all things once profane
were becoming sacred again…
And I thought about
how this brilliant, unending love –
this is all you ever wanted.
All I ever wanted.
All any of us ever wanted.
And so I'd say,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't create
this majestic work of art around us -
the same perfection I was standing in -
surrounded by -
coming home to -
becoming.
Why is it we know its not supposed to be this way?
How do we know imperfection -
that there is a perfection?
Perhaps we were never supposed to know
a broken creation...
