Tag Archives: gratitude

garden metaphor exhausted

5 May

I’m letting the root rot open to the air.

holding the shovel at bay,

not ready (yet) for the tender hug

of mulch.

Dirt under the fingernails for days.

The smallest of shifts felt

while I trace a line

between self-indulgence, fertilizer,

and truthful, detached seeing-

walking the rows at sunrise.

 

The birds’ songs and chirps

an invitation to now

to breath

to exposure of even the slightest

inkling of maladjustment,

browning leaves

wilting old growth –

(loved

even so

on her way out).

Meeting needs

as they arise

in the garden outside

and the garden within

is enough.

The world is allowed to die back,

so paradise (undergrowth) can be exposed.

 

 

The Sweetness of Invisible Comfort

17 Feb

Backsliding into the Rave Party of Mercy

26 Jan

There were years of grace, so much so, that I couldn’t imagine that walking in the world without this flow was possible anymore. Grace seemed to begin flooding into my moments when I walked out of my old life with my daughters in tow, and set out to make life from scratch. While those years of trying to make ends meet, burning my fuels to EMPTY most days, scrambling to meet needs while every next remained uncertain were so challenging, there was a background air of abundance, love, and support in the unseen forces that exist just behind a veil of the material. I was gifted guides and loves some steps ahead who cheered me on and reminded me of the larger view. Through all these years, I longed to create more certainty and stability in the seen world, but while the scramble was on, grace and trust seemed to ease the way and light the path. Grace period!

Fast forward to the wider expanse of today, with kids launched for the most part, and financial burdens eased a bit, I have become aware that identification with the smaller self has crept back  – in hindsight – in small increments, so slowly as to be unnoticed. In the past month, I have been shown and I see the energetic dissonance that had taken hold. The other side of grace perhaps is the way reminders come in, incrementally as well, to say, “Hey, you! It is going to get stranger and more painful until you look up and see – you are back in Kansas again, playing out old stories. Wake up!”  I have been getting grace’s kicks in the pants 🙂

Thank you grace, who knows how to take us and shake us for our own good. I think that when the space that I had sought for years finally arrived, the oldest wounds and defenses, that finally had room for examination, arrived center stage. People do all sorts of things at this point, it seems, to avoid sitting, listening, really looking truthfully at the deepest rooted identification with the small, hopeless self. Have a baby, get a dog, jump into an ill-conceived romance, begin a time-consuming hobby – everything called to me, well mostly, but at least not a baby! BUT what is on the table instead, if I am brave,  is the uncomfortable re-boot of seeing, allowing space for clearing out old conditioning, patterns, protections, pretense. Grace gave me a taste of what’s possible, and slipping back gave me a whopping, and grace rolled up her sleeves to help me with the clean-out.

It strikes me that the most private and complex experiences that we have as humans occur with very few knowing anything about them at all. It isn’t pride or saving face, mostly, that keeps so much of the truest twists and turns of the human journey private. I think it is our inability to leave a trace at all of the subtlety of the way life goes down and grace arrives. Each tiny moment provides such voluminous information-feedback internally and externally-that writing, speaking, dancing, painting, singing- all our tools- do not have enough space for the real deal of every moment. Every story is watered-down and biased – and we can only reveal so much without yelling soliloquies from our cardboard houses in the alleys of main human thoroughfares to no one but rushers-by.

There can be no real bread crumb trail for how each soul goes from blindness and suffering to grace filled truthful awareness. The lightbulb goes off, the alarm, and the work ahead is clear. Grace enters. She fills the stage. There is no way to explain. Someone holds up a flower, another one smiles – and the transmission is complete, while someone else fumbles the ball and lets the whole team down, never able to explain what went wrong. Grace is here too, in the fumble and disgrace, from a later view, as it all plays out; failing was just right in order to see what was/is always real.

I assumed that when shifts occurred from the grace period on, conversations could be had. I assumed one could touch base, get feedback, check-in. But the mirrors are often perplexing when we are being guided to look at our blindspots, our conundrums, our hopeless-seeming patterns. Sometimes all we can reach is the heartbeat sound in our own ears from our own blood pumping and the gracious silence of distant, firm love.

It seems an important balance in the flow of grace that I learn again how to flip the switch on identification without any condemnation of the self that forgot. In an instant, the confusion can be seen and laughter is appropriate for the elephant wearing a tutu, crouched in the corner. The grace of self-love here is startling because it is watered with the salt of sorrow and purity of forgiveness. There is a certain inevitability, too, of the fall from grace. It was felt coming on for months, yet no strong-armed resistance could keep the shift away.

From here is remembered the years of largesse,  in-and-outward love. The pathway is marked, the memory beckons from the future, and the stepless steps appear in the deepest stopping, listening, shoulders down, breathing into the forgotten furnace within; astounding how the consistent, loving, and distant sun burns within each of us unseen until we are ready, again. Grace, the final executioner bearing our last meal, whistling down dark corridors to our self-created cells. Freedom, a whiff of salty water in the distance, then suddenly a flood. Let’s get to the dance party again as we allow ourselves to be washed back into the ocean rave, going on all of our nights and days. We’ve got the wristband to enter already!

glowing on

24 Jan

 

Joy arrives in the smallest corners

without a script to find it.

Think a bird tilting its head to you in curiosity,

a cat curled up in your pine straw, allowing you close,

a deer pausing mid-munch to size you up

before bounding its fluff tail bum deeper into the woods.

Agenda toward joy can look alright to start with

but it soon becomes a grocery store cake in the mouth,

leaving you wondering how to spit it out with grace.

Grasping at joy is revolting, a fake laugh, an insinuation,

a glomping on – vicarious to the actual fleeting glimpses

we are gifted without neediness.

Don’t grab the kitty by the tail,

try not to join in when you haven’t heard the joke,

allow your own joy to arrive outside the attainment of others,

without needing to announce it to the imagined view of the world.

The original intention that you came here with

is still flickering – and it will not go out until you are gone,

even if you are in jail, or cast out, or inebriated

on the most common drugs of: figuring things out,

escaping your pain, making yourself important,

making yourself small, just

getting through the day, busy, busy, busy…

you know them all.

Even here, joy still visits, and fans your fractal candle.

Thank God, it is one of those trick candles, so blow away,

test it out; it will be here as long as you – waiting to light you

from within – and your inferno will be all your own.

My bonfire on a distant hill

connects the dots toward yours,

making the view overhead of all these fires a truer map

of who is down here,

remembering joy,

no matter where.

 

 

good kind of paradox

20 Jan

life goes by so incredibly fast,

and still there is no hurry.

sea scape dream scape

14 Jan

some times

on land, reality is fine edged and crisp,

but on an impulse to go on out to the beach

on a warm winter day,

I enter a mystery

of mist rising up from the sea

hovering over the land

reaching down from the sky

making the smallest

difference in color and shade

between land, air, sand, sea, and sky indistinguishable.

I have dreamed of this place.

Now I think I am walking

alone in the day on wet sand,

the sea as far out as it can go,

I will dream of this place again

at night.

I may be dreaming now.

Is sinew the only difference between

our walking waking and our haunted dreaming?

I am in a place of longing and regret-

a wide beach, those.

Boats clang and moan behind the curtain of mist

so close I could touch them;

a dog bounds up to me out of the cloud and pounces me

its lover,

I remember joy, pup; you know that me!

This life, so short, so lush,

so impersonal as to remind me

that my recurring hurtful thought of late

can be wound again and again

playing a song I don’t want to hear

until the fog, the sand, the fin skimming the line

between water and sand,

the light skimming the line

between dusk and night,

my mind skimming the line

between awake and dream

between alive and dead

between a life of thought

and a life of senses,

wakes me to know which to choose

even when I don’t know how.

 

how I spent my vacation

1 Jan

May you share my actual dream of a thousand birds released,

ten thousand balloons out from my grip,

going into the sky

without environmental impact.

My gripping hands have eased

and opened once again

into release and flight, oh my.

Watch out your window so not to miss it.

No story about it, but if there were one,

it would be about the body

where hidden spots of thought had turned muscles

into prisons.

Breath has gone there and released what was too familiar

and practiced as to not be seen.

Breath reaches into what feels like a knots, holding,

control, and eases what namelessly cripples

the entire body machine.

Simple and senseless is grace, thank you.

Visceral can extend where intelligence has no sway.

Breath goes into atrophy and life begins again,

with this body a vessel, yes, but also a map

with roads of scars and light.

Who helps light

the outed bridges

when our own blindness will not let us see?

Who offers their own shining scars

when whole sections go out and bring us down?

Is there a difference between a friend, a tree, a spider web, the chilly morning,

or breath? Use it all, as offered, to light the way.

Even Air, she in her soft hat authority can go every where.

May you find any and every where

the breath is not reaching

with help from the love mirrored here

reflecting back to you

in and from every corner

of our rounded body shells

of mystery–

separate yet shared and free.

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: