Mires and Wires

https://unsplash.com/@nanichkar

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Mires and Wires

By Jane Tawel

February 17, 2026

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Some of us dig in.

We dig, dig, dig down

into the sands

of our times,

into the tidepools

of our minds,

into the sucking mire.

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We are seldom able to fly,

but like birds on a wire,

we are called to balance —

precariously, it is true —

but trusting

that not one of us can fall

without the Weeping of the World.

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Here, where some of us have landed,

poised with wings tucked tight,

there is no room to gather

that which cannot be eaten today.

But those who choose to dig holes

like moles and augers in the land,

store up their treasures

leaving their names on the inverted pyramids

sinking into famed obscurity

and drowning in the solidity

of their false hopes.

Poor creatures —

so richly mistaken

and shaken to the core

by the fears of their impermanence.

*

I have dug myself plenty of holes.

But now I place my own small hope

on small movements of mine

fluttering, hopping at times from foot to foot,

attempting to share in the tight-rope act

of small beings barely balanced

in this singular time and place.

And like a small brown wren

I wonder how or when

in what future unknown space

will we, little birds —

(being now so often trapped and caught,

and bought — a dozen for a penny) —

will we at last be gathered

like chicks to Our Mother’s breast?

Here on this unsteady string of life,

we long for The Nest

and for the rest we once knew,

and yearn to know again

covered by The Father’s Mighty Wings of Refuge.

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It will not be by digging in

like a burrowing beast,

mistaking flowers for tares,

that I will find peace.

Nor will we know the love we seek

by running like lemmings or hares,

after any crown or prize

that we may chase.

We fledglings live encased

and see only through the cracks

of our embracing shells.

But incubating here

we wait to rise in glory.

*

It is still the same old story:

Only by falling and falling

and failing and flailing

into grace after Grace

will we learn to fly.

And someday, we will see The Face

of the One Who has kept us

hanging here in the balance

between life and death

where the faith of small birds

finds hope.

*

By dust we were created

and to dust we shall return.

But The Wind blows where it will,

and some will spread their wings to catch it

and will rise in flocked flight.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Farewell to my Belief-Prison

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Farewell to my Belief-Prison

By Jane Tawel

December 26, 2025

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I woke up — gradually

And in pieces

And slowly, slowly

It dawned — 

That my comfortable belief-system

had become a prison.

All the other people –

Friends and family that I love

Beckoned me

through the prison-bars of their beliefs

to: “Come back. Come back.

You are wrong to leave the safety of confined captivity”.

Holding out their hands

They did not

could not

would not

See.

(It is rather frightening, after all,

to escape from a prison in which you are only

being held by your collective fears).

Oh, how I looked with love and longing,

Back to those I had toiled with in the fields,

singing our jailhouse songs of Grace,

and doing penance in our mixed-up views that Faith,

would one day set us free, and we would be home — 

Never realizing we were already free.

And we were already Home.

Here. Now.

*

Oh, how I knew and understood

My dearly beloved fellow inmates.

For while their prisons kept their outsides clean

Their innermost God-cups

were overflowing in dogma poop.

In our belief-prisons,

Our fat-fingers, smeared with holy and unholy oils,

Pointed through our imagined prison-bars,

Neglecting to see the beams

We had used to build our barriers;

Thinking that the shacks made out of splinters

that our neighbors lived in

were what had put them into debtors’ prisons,

(prisons not nearly so nice as ours).

And yet we continued to chant — 

Forgive us our debts,

(but God-forbid! — 

don’t make us forgive

those we have made our debtors).

*

And so, One Day,

When I could no longer recite

the same old lies that buried the Truth

in our entombing stories,

of resurrection for Someone else,

but never resurrection for our dead souls;

I stepped outside the prison’s Open Door

(and knocked over a small table in the process).

And while the fresh air was bracing

And my heart was absolutely racing

I kept inching forward

Step by step,

Led only by the millenniums

of a thousand pinpoints of Light.

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Balancing precariously

on the Universe’s Bright Enlightened Beam,

and tiptoeing carefully

on the Cross-road had never been many roads

but only, always One;

I stumbled upwards and onwards,

Here and Now,

along the Narrow Way.

I do admit, I miss at times

the custody I mistook for communion,

and the finely decorated walls

I mistook for Creativity.

Oh, how I raised my hands in praise

and feeble offerings to those I once thought

were blinded by The Light,

(but in fact, were only blinded by The Might.)

I preached from within my prison

to those (I thought) outside the fold

of the security of my imprisoned-beliefs,

And in those comforting black and white walls

of the old prison I had long embraced as home,

I did get glimpses of clear Sky.

And I am still so very grateful

for the many dearly loved prison guards –

who had, after all, only tried to keep me safe

and who had, as even blind guides can,

opened my eyes to what had been born

and Who was eternally being Born

in the Heart’s longing for salvation.

But I am no longer sorry, even though still sad,

That when I stuck one small-Soul foot,

Outside my belief-prison’s walls,

the other prisoners shoved me

the rest of the way out;

for they could not bear to leave behind

their imaginary Maximum-Security Prison

and they could not bear to think

that I might find a Home outside their walls.

I do bear the stigmata of their hands

shoving hard against my back,

pushing me out and forward

like a blowing Wind

that one day, God may use beneath me

to help my wings grow strong.

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And I have found that Now — 

and wildly, freely, only Here and Now — 

(and yet also, There and Then)

I have stumbling found

that we were born for freedom,

and that Salvation is only ever, True-ly grasped

by letting go

as Love leads us

further out, and out, and out

and further in and In.

*

I thank You,

Creator-Word,

For sparking a burning flame

In this small human being.

And for standing at the door

Of my imprisoned self

And knocking hard and long

(and also softly and in Stillness).

I thank you, All

My freedom-fighting and freedom-finding

many and yet One, brothers and sisters,

Who trembled and still tremulously shine

from different points of view and

different points of the One Light,

to tell the World

about a better Way.

And I join my small self’s soul

With All of Yours

as One, we journey on,

out of all

the crippling, darkening belief-prisons,

and onto the Soul’s Free Path,

the One I-Am of Truth, and Love, and Light:

leading, yet not leaving;

moving, and being moved-in;

out of this world’s incarceration

and In-to Eternity’s

Incarnation.

Here. Now.

Born in each moment,

And eternally in and among us.

May it Be. Amen.

© Jane Tawel, 2025

Will I Stand Up?

by Jane Tawel

Peter Muscutt on Unsplash

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Will I Stand Up?

By Jane Tawel

February 2, 2025

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Will I stand up,

if courage fails?

If lies prevail

and all seems lost?

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Will I stand up

when others scoff?

When I’m cast off

as weak and frail?

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Today I stand

upon The Rock

and weep to see

a House once strong,

now willful, prideful

tearing down

its firm foundations

its Cornerstone,

erecting bent beliefs

on shifting sands.

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Will I stand up

when hope is torn

from bleeding Heart

from bleeding Hands?

No — 

I shall fall…

But I will raise

No flag,

No creed,

No weapon but,

The Banner of

God’s Love for All,

Yes! — “All!” I’ll cry,

with my last breath,

and though I can not stand — 

I’ll crawl.

*

© Jane Tawel