Golden showers stream down in dappled luminescence, crescent slivers of fragrant eucalyptus leaves and she sits, no distraction save the gurgle of a coppery- bottomed meandering brook, sparkling and nosing its way through giant boulders rolled into place long before flows were choked back to mere trickles, still it exudes contentment, beauty;
She wonders at the silence under the silence, what is the texture of a thing unseen? Too fine a vision has gotten her in trouble more than once, overactive imagination they called it yet it persists, and her mind can’t stop wondering if there is this, than there must be that, something deeper in the woven shadows of trees, the hollows of husky trunks, the shapes of billowing clouds, themselves harbingers of light released from cerulean skies in the form of diamond drops, lustrous liquid giving off the only sound in a world once silent as grass, or the thoughts that plague her now.
Fill a vessel with clean water, and imagine a world where all may do the same; imagining such a world is not difficult, we only have to carve out a small space into which we insert our intentions; these are not meaningless, in fact, they are essential, if we are to ever change the dominant paradigm;
Greed and lust for more have held sway in this world long enough, cruelties visited upon others, bodies over which one steps roughly on the way to some imagined pot of gold and to hell with the fallen;
Isn’t it time we ceased taking it all for ourselves or for granted, that we, the privileged ones who possess such incredible bounty are somehow entitled to this position; after all, we have worked hard (and most have) for our petty luxuries, though we might not envision it so;
And back we arrive at the vision, how now to change it, now we have more than too many, how to use that same focus on dreaming a world where all are safe and smiling, giving where and how we can without tremendous sacrifice, after all, finding it easier than we thought to lift others up; it diminishes us not, in fact it fills us up in a way that nothing material ever could.
When the spin slows down to a pin-drop lull, and time moves forward, collapses, telescopic Trickster demonstrating the folly of what most consider solid; When accepted illusion no longer holds sway, capturing the monkey mind in sticky spider web trappings of its own making;
All synapses point click to Now, as perhaps they always have done, and what can be said? How can this finger snap in time be configured into sentences, concepts, a thing written down and shared, how can word forms be crafted, steps away from that immediacy (as they are bound to be), concept wired to mind controlling hands on keys, eyes riveted now on print moving?
One day, perhaps, telepathy will become accepted, sweeping elephantine humanity into a prismatic jet stream, speed of light transmitting what is now thus laboriously midwifed into being.
Angels have visited me in many forms in my life. I have felt their fiery presence from the unseen realms and have met them in the bodies of human beings. (If you’re curious, this is one of those encounters.)
In a previous post about my Pacific Northwest travels, I mentioned that I like it best when I’m lost. Driving around on inspiration leads me to the most unexpectedly astounding places and events. On this day after slate skies broke open to reveal the first rays of sunlight I had seen since arriving, I headed out with a bounce in my step. I hadn’t let the drizzle and grey skies get me down; had hiked the past few days despite the weather. Still, the sun was a welcome change, if only for its warmth.
This time I meandered and found myself at small wildlife preserve on the (Puget) Sound. Nobody was in the small parking lot, and when I got out of the car, I immediately spotted eagles soaring on the bluff behind me. It was nesting time, and these raptors were active seeking food for nestlings. Still, it was amazing to watch them soar. I walked down to the driftwood-strewn beach, marvelling at a snowcapped mountain range in the distance. I also noticed a brownish haze which I had also seen before leaving the house in the morning. I wondered if, like last year, there were forest fires in British Columbia and Montana. I quickly texted the friend I was housesitting for and she could only guess at the mountain range, as I had no idea what direction I was facing nor where I was. She didn’t know about the haze, thought it might be smog from Seattle, though we both thought that improbable.
Presently a car pulled into a nearby stall in the still-empty lot, and a woman and dog emerged. We made eye contact, the woman and I, and I asked her what mountain range we were looking at. The Cascades, as it turns out. And the haze? It’s the marine layer, she said, and filled me in as to what atmospheric conditions precipitate it. I loved her dog up a bit while we continued chatting about this and that, the way women sometimes do. Before we went our separate ways, she said, “Hold on, I have something for you in the car.” I could not imagine what it could be, as I waited a bit awkwardly. Then she turned back to me beaming, with something in her hand, “Here, this is meant for you. I painted it myself.”
Just when I dip into despair about the human race, my faith is restored by a simple act of kindness. And I must remember that, despite seemingly endless human assaults on Mother Earth and her children, I must remember our potential. And nourish those seeds with as much energy as I can possibly muster. Thank you, sweet stranger. Thank you. With all of my heart.
On the opposite side of my heart lies an echo chamber of silence where tiny bats dive and swoop, clearing invisible pathways in the open skies for those who fly by day; this pitch black of night finds deep comfort within me;
As light emerges from shadows, sweeping them away as dust from corners of a vast room, the heart engages, pumps greater volumes of life force, stretches out to encompass all the eye surveys, holding it close in order to enfold fully as might be, before all is compromised by those who suffer from lack of beauty and seek to destroy what is sacred;
And obvious to any who treasure this earth so, is the magic beheld in the space between spaces, the cracks in the fabric of accepted reality, eyes that see beyond daylight into the soul’s frontiers, a dimensional shift where beauty is all there is, gazing deeply into everything where others may perceive nothing, a deep river of potentialities and a place where all is possible in the realm of grace and pure love.
We wait for it, court it, this breath
the newborn has little choice
but to take, the drawing in,
and from whence does it come?
Some think they know, call it muse,
the artist cares only to the degree
that it serves, insinuates itself,
etheric substance filling up and up,
bright balloon rising to sail
through azure skies, over the land,
joining the clouds, nebulous
non-structures of the heavens,
jump on them and fall,
yet substantial enough to bring
needed rains, raise crops, seep
into parched soil, bringing a forest
to fullness and life;
Inspiration arrives on its own whim,
contemplate if you will the morning
fire in the woodstove as it sucks
and draws air, igniting, as it must,
the fuel inside, spreading warmth
and bright light essential to life
as are the creative sparks
we nourish inside.
I have chosen to come here to this place, bleak
and dry and windblown after the harshness of winter;
the land has been in isolation too, as it perpetually will
uncomplainingly, year following year, why do we humans
resist it so? The is-ness of life is a thing we have to remind
ourselves of, lest we forget all is in divine order;
The elk are out most mornings, grazing and moving further
toward the denser Ponderosa forest, following seasonal
dictates of their species; boundary fences notwithstanding,
they leap and bound over all but the highest barrier
and I rejoice that I have spotted, just this morning,
the places they bed down at night and traverse the terrain
we are now privileged to steward for what time it is ours;
What are our collective impulses and dreams? Have we
lost all sense of feet planted on earth, pulse of the planet
drawing us this way and that, moving in herds or alone
as befits the calling (and we are summoned, no mistake),
yet I arrived here in the midst of a global pandemic edgy,
unsure we had done the right thing, planning a move
from our lush Hawaiian landscape to this high desert
that once captivated with pungent scents of sage
and juniper, pine and cedar, magical carpet of cones
and needles and quartz scattered as if nature intended
nothing so much as delight;
Without courage we are lost, without faith we lack
a compass, without taking chances, we miss
opportunities that await the global citizen for whom
this collective in-breath provides pause to reflect
on the quality of choices made daily in a life
meant simply for us to breathe deeply
and enjoy the journey.
Humbled by an ending
which is only the beginning,
I slowly row my boat toward shore,
but find there is no safe harbor,
no spit of earth on which to land,
so I gather up oars again; not time,
not yet;
I know but don’t know this ephemeral
relationship with the calendar, conflating
ever with the now, and now, and now,
pulsing possibilities inherent
in the fullness of living;
There is a wider vision, copious
in its offering, and it stills me,
remaining silent as all possibilities
converge and congeal, darkness
always preceding the breaking
blue grace of dawn.
Hold onto the preciousness of this day, squeeze it
until dawn breaks, fanning out like silvery wings
of a hawk circling overhead, spreading a watercolor
morning across misty skies, eggs cracked into creamy
melted butter in a hot silvery pan;
Hold fast, wind sweeping across undulating fields,
cracking dead limbs from ancient trees, ruffling
whitecaps in this ever-changing oceanic landscape;
Drop anchor, stay awhile with the presence,
the in-draw of breath, the outflowing currents
of busy-ness, postulations, abstractions, suspicions
cast away now, before they clinch and claw
at the treasured peace of bliss held in the moment,
for this, as we make it, this intentional pause
stretches into constellations of ticking time;
We can choose. This is our life.
There is green, and then there is the delicate
curled chartreuse ribs of a fern frond
as sunlight trips fantastic through the rhythm
and hum of a late afternoon, busiest time of day
for folding in fragments of lost time in preparation
for the long shadows of impending nightfall;
Meanwhile peachy colored bell-shaped blossoms
drop from angel trumpet trees, hibiscus hybrids
twist tight their once-riotous display and do
not contemplate whether enough eyes
have witnessed the shade or texture of what has,
for them, taken not inconsiderable time and effort
to pull together for all who would witness,
setting the stage for a repeat performance
on tomorrows yet to come, bold beauties
on parade, regardless.
belas bright ideas 