Can you drink the cup?
Drink, not survey
or analyze,
ponder or
scrutinize –
from a distance.
But drink –
imbibe, ingest,
take into you so
that it becomes a piece of your inmost self.
And not with
cautious sips
that barely
moisten your lips,
but with audacious
drafts
that spill down
your chin and onto your chest.
(Forget decorum –
reserve would give offense.)
Can you drink the cup?
The cup of
rejection and opposition,
betrayal and
regret.
Like vinegar and
gall,
pungent and tart,
making you wince
and recoil.
But not only that
– for the cup is deceptively deep –
there are hopes
and joys in there, too,
like thrilling
champagne with bubbles
that tickle your
nose on New Year’s Eve,
and fleeting
moments of almost – almost – sheer
ecstasy
that lasts as long
as an eye-blink, or a champagne bubble,
but mysteriously
satisfy and sustain.
Can you drink the cup?
Yes, you – with
your insecurities,
visible and
invisible.
You with the
doubts that nibble around the edges
and the ones that
devour in one great big gulp.
You with your
impetuous starts and youth-like bursts of love and devotion.
You with your
giving up too soon – or too late – and being tyrannically hard on
yourself.
You with your Yes, but’s and I’m sorry’s – again.
Yes, you – but with my grace.
Can you drink the
cup?
Can I drink the
cup?
Yes.
--Scott Surrency,
O.F.M. Cap.,
Can You Drink the Cup?
(2015)
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