Scales

I’d much rather take my pen and paper, my abstract mind, my struggling poetic voice over to the school of fish.

I’d find more peace, though it may be rough and smelly, navel-gazing with the fish,  their coats of small shining shards of fish fashion. The blues and greens and browns sewn on like a quilt of slimy mosaic, smelling of the sea.

Like a stained glass of small cut pieces, the whole is more telling than a microcosm of the total package.

I’d rather meditate and pontificate on the scales which can hurt a girl’s hands rather than the other ones that have hurt girls’ hearts.

Not the ones that society would do well to just plain do without.

Throw the scales out with the bathwater.

Not the ones that bind and shackle, tease and taunt, tell a number, a false gauge of worth.

Not the heavy object that pulls to itself, power-grabber, as a magnet, calling out in a weighing heavy metal empty whisper, from the floor, wielding power it’s stolen from the true granter of worth and praise.

Take the scales off my eyes, that blind me when I try to see, Truth, is not a number.

Remove the scales, deadskin flaking, keeps me from true beauty.

Give me beauty, true, blues and greens on the fish that swims so free, in its coat of many colors, allowing it to blend into the beautiful, blend into the sea.

Wearing proudly the scales designed, meticulous

By the Hands of One,

Who sets the captives free.

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Writing on the concrete helps us understand the abstract. And Amber Haines does it as well as anyone I know. She’s got a great little community of writers writing on scale today. I am there too.

Scales.

And I am joining Laura at The Wellspring.

And joining Ann at A Holy Experience, though I am quietly walking through my up and down again counting. Lord, give me a disciplined heart for seeing your gifts.

(Photo courtesy of Pam Wooten)