I come here
as the officiating observer of this life form,
me, the eyes in the cave behind the waterfall of activity,
who watches impassively –
it is a fact that there are eyes behind
even these so deep into the cave,
i only perceive them in my dreams
nevertheless, this is not the point of typing words today
the point is closer along the lines of trust
of openings and closing
of movie reels of life happening
of living through a body so entirely
that the wheel of time allows forgetting
and just being
of reaching out to feel if I have hair
form
am I still here, as she?
waking in rooms, piecing it all back together
an identity necessary to walk around
to get to work
yet expendable enough to be left on the closet
floor every night, and even more often of late
and still this is not the point either
gather yourself darling
your point,
it seems the point that motivated you
to type at all
was this idea of doors and windows
the clichés of our day that get us through
the idea of rejection –
when we’ve already agreed, nothing real can ever be threatened,
in lesson one –
this idea of rejection is not real…
still the slamming door in the face can cause an imaginary sting
enough to make
the body ask, Why me? or maybe more like, Why not me?
And tears can be a natural release.
But man have the windows been flying open around here
windows we didn’t even know we had – whole floors
above this single story house are being built –
hear the carpenter hammering away as we talk?
The sky is the window these days.
One momentous slamming door for dear Eden in April
felt, traveled through,
a tumble down stairs
into a bell jar basement cavern,
followed by an attic visit and skylight opening
onto the showers of blessings of possibilities —-
will i ever doubt again?
the blessings in waiting,
dolled out of god’s pocket
candy in the sky
bitter greens in every field
breezes on every back
dorothy’s red shoes
showing that every place
is a home –
and we can fly out from every nest
we’ve ever made,
every moment an open window.
Life as Improv 
courageously curious, marga!
encouraging to sense
that getting through that door
can happen in this
or the next lifetime
present in any
moment 🙂
seems a crazy funhouse
these doors and windows at times.
your ever present calm smile
is such a great, relaxing force
for remembering!
You have me twice, nay, thrice glazed with your fenestrations Marga, and all the warmer for it, I must say. Judy Garlanded with your Gale of pulchritudinous apertures, you remind me that rejection is but a thought bouncing back off the pane of me.
Muchas glassias,
Hariod. ❤
You throw me into the visual of the orange red hot processes of glass making – and send me running to the dictionary with glee for “pulchritudinous.” I delight in the richness of seasonings you add to my humble pot 🙂 xo! m or even M – no matter!
You love in a way that is inspiring, M. It seems to this set of unfocused eyes behind the eyes the fullness of the gift of motherhood blossomed, in the one who married herself to free herself. The gift is the pull to open the window at dawn, to snort a quick line of the unblemished sky, and put on the robe of incarnation to stand beside the ones we love. To stand in costume and let the wheel wash through and over. To be held in the gaze of endless pairs of empty eyes, each a window to a reel of possibility. Somehow we inhabit them all. They inhabit us. Who can be rejected when every pair of holy eyes sees straight through us?
Yesterday was stifling hot up here. We went from the sixties to the upper eighties. Windows that had long been shut were opened… New life flows in. This poem was worth the wait!
Michael
MM – I feel stunned by your grok into my morning sky addiction – really gets one going, doesn’t it?!
and I am also more than a bit overwhelmed with the generosity and insight you dole out with a large spoon. You remember so many details from past posts that make me want to pinch my forearm. You help me remember my wedding! 🙂 Your words transport directly into the alex grey realm of eyes and eyes and eyes – we share an anti-halucination. 🙂
A huge door slammed again (what is up with this?), yesterday, on dear Chloe this time, and this poem played itself out again – or half of it anyway. I almost feel bubbling joy to see what lies in store from such closings. now raising high the roof beams are those carpenters – making room for more windows to be opened.
I’ve seen a lot of door-slamming lately, I must admit. It happens sometimes when windows on both sides of the house are open, and the wind blows through and WHAM! Glad the carpenters are busy at work! I hope your daughters emerge renewed and inspired! It can be hard to embrace the benevolence when your nose is throbbing… For me the movement into the heart happens when I discover the necessity of asking for help. Of asking someone. Whether embodied or not! One of those carpenter fellows or Buddhas or poets or sage advisors or Hariod. Yes, definitely Hariod. 🙂 The mere admission that we can’t connect all the dots alone causes us to lift our eyes and see the benevolence. You got me rambling. Or I got me rambling… It’s such a delicate moment when the door slams… Everything in the balance…
Michael
Working on trying to rock some ‘basement windows’ open myself dear Marga.
Jammed shut for a while I’d almost forgotten what was restricting fresh life to flow in 🙂
Many thanks for a heartwarming post.
Oh yes, the basement windows, I forget up and down both provide openings. The air is moving and I feel us breathing in together! So so nice to see you!