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Today’s rhaps is on … Christsophia

"Christ-Sophia" by Mirta Toledo

I wrote the first few stanzas years ago in San Diego as a response to being a working single mother—or what I called a “double parent” (more on that later)—with an infant child. The last stanza was written after a particularly difficult Easter Sunday, when I generally have a hard time due to not feeling at all saved, certainly not chosen, or even very well tolerated, much less unconditionally loved. I had a glimmer of an Epiphany at the time about what forgiveness might feel like, accompanied by the grace that makes possible a “peace that passeth all understanding.”



In the Beginning was the Man

and the Man was with Woman

and the Man said

“It is good!”

and the man grimaced in pleasure

swimming in the warmth

of skin and hair

and said

“It is finished!”


In the Garden was the Woman

bent with pain

bleeding forth a child

who grimaced in displeasure

at the sudden exile

from warmth and darkness

and clung to the Woman

the Way, the Truth and the Light.


In the Desert was the Man desperate with thirst

thrusting toward the warm red sea

parting the tender waves

unaware of what, in that moment


a tiny swimming soul

pulsating with generations of men.

Upon awakening, “Forgive me!”

he cries, finding a small stranger

in his place.


In the Market was the Woman

bent with worry

counting out the coins.

Reaching to feed, caress, anoint

the insatiable child,

covering the child with her hair and tears.

Performing the daily magic

she turned sorrow to a child’s joy,

tepid water into warm wine.


In the Temple was the Man

“I Am!” he said

but the Woman did not understand.

“I Am that I Am!” he said

“Oh,” said the Woman

and she felt her body spasm

anger and heat welling up within

as she spat “Get out!”

She threw down the flimsy statuettes

igniting toxic fumes.


On the Hill was the Woman

bent with the weight of the pole

dragging a thousand thoughtless actions

upwards to the hole.

“What Man does is Mine to carry,”

she cursed under the strain,

shoving the heavy wood into its socket

empty of hope and desire.


At the Tomb was the Man

leaning against the monstrous Stone

cradling the weeping child

as the wind blew scattered petals

onto the morning dew.

“She’s gone,” he said,

bending to wipe the tear-stained face.

He held the small broken heart

against his own mad beat,

and carried their child home.

I - VI, 1996

VII, 2001


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