Love Beyond Text(ing)

"Reading and writing proceed from the same region of pleasure. That's what is mysterious. There is always the feeling that something has been found again, a fragment of human nature; or else that something has been saved. What fills me with joy is that this writing that was found again or saved with the instrument of writing is a life factor and not a death factor." 

--Helene Cixous "Rootprints" page 98 

I've gotten into the habit lately 

of copying, editing, and printing out 

everything you write to me. 

Because I must keep you, 

your spirit, your words, alive in the flesh with me. 

Tangibly. Us together object/lively--even if you are not "here." 

It's the only thing I can think to do 

in the harsh cruelty of our geographic separation. 

These printed devotionals are often emails, 

but sometimes text messages. 

I'm lucky when they come 

in hand written cards. 

You wrote me a poem once; 

that one got formatted and printed 

perfectly 

to fit on my altar. 

It hit me this morning: this is what the disciples did 

when Jesus died. It's the textual rendering of resurrection. 

Such rendering can, as we know, 

lead to reading legacies that spark 

social movements for justice, 

communal care-taking, 

personal devotion, and worship. 

They can also lead to faulty outsourcing of one's wisdom, 

fundamentalism and dumb-ass obedience 

to something no longer even slightly relevant. 

You know what my prayer is, Marjorie? 

As I look about these remnants of paper,

these scraps of testimony

documenting the years 

we've ventured together...

you know what my prayer is? 

That someone, preferrably young, 

fed up and confused

but strong, delicate and on-the-verge 

of becoming a womyn 

like Walker or Soelle or Rivera-Rivera

finds our correspondence 

and thinks to herself--

wow, look how the love between them

took on a life of its own which deepened 

only to deepen some more. 

Look at how it made them curious,

trusting and awe-struck, 

and how it saved them when

life crumbled into chaotic little piles.

Look at how their love gave them life.  

And then I hope she puts those texts down

and gets busy finding and doing love 

in her own ways with her own kind of lovers

inspired by, but not obsessed with, us 

only to pick our pages up again 

when she forgets and needs reminding 

that love has no script, no preordained form to mimic

only traces of its power in those who have gone before

and invitations in the desire we feel right now 

to take our impossible place 

on her delightful and terrifying stage 

for the sake of her eternal reign.