Psalmist

I read Psalms from time to time.

As a child, the enemies I drew parallel to David's foes were bullies: other kids, meaner & more violent than myself, who punished me for being gentle.

Now the enemies, oft as not, live within: bitter roots and dark veins in my heart that need more punishing than I mete.

And I wonder, with these new interpretations, which the Psalmist meant.  Or does it matter?  Save us from our enemies: the hallway bully, and the dark-eyed heart.

Either way, I echo to myself.  That scrawny kid needed me, the gruff and iron-eyed adult, to protect his fragile energy.  And now I need the heart that scrappy kid possessed, narrowing his eyes into thin slits--

There are two of them; the usual tormenters.  One behind, one in front.  The one behind is to demonstrate some new technique he'd learned in martial arts.  The one in front, an audience.  I, the demonstration.  Technique du jour: a submission move.  "Just bow down," he says, "tap out."  He repeats: "Just bow and I'll let you go."  I won't; I won't; I tell him so and plant both feet.  Never having stood up to him before, I feel that thrill of freedom mixed with pain that follows change.  And, of course, in this case, just normal pain, too, the kind you get when elbows try to leave their place.  "Just bow down.  Jesus, what's wrong with you.  Just do it."

I never did.

And now I wonder, far removed from that warm-forged time: where is that stone-spined, clear-eyed youth?  What room have I kept him in?




January 2015