What is this, this
push and pull,
this need to shut everything down,
to walk away, to sit
under a tree,
until I become long as
and creepers think
nothing of me
but a place to lay down roots.
And then, there is
that tremulous flower opening
it’s lips, thirsty for life
and hungry for a bee,
and I want to rush back
to my paper and holding
share it, share all this,
this joy called life.
Of soul, of spirit.
With nature, with self.
It’s a long and arduous walk uphill and I am still at the base, looking up, the bright sun in my eyes. But if knowledge and awareness are half the battle, then I am half way up. I hope to walk on, consciously shedding the unwanted weight of self-doubt, of superfluous thoughts and needs, of judgements and self-righteousness, to empty, empty, empty all that makes me blind to the beauty of this hill, the flowers growing there, and the cool shelter of trees. The running brook and it’s cold sweet water. The birds and the foxes. To emerge from the fog, the dark cloud of self-absorption into clarity, into light.
It’s a long walk uphill. I will not be done in this lifetime, or possibly the next. But I have taken the first step, and maybe that is all I will achieve in this lifetime, but hey, it is a step forward, and that gives me hope.
Strewn along winding paths,
long past the hour of repose,
Look at what the stars have left behind
for us mortal souls…
the very essence of their likeness,
in white lace and yellow frill,
earthbound and fragile,
but somehow brighter still.
A few weeks ago, I participated in a week long exercise offered by Liberated lines, which, in their own words was about:
“one free week of sweet and soulful prompts to launch your self into the newness of the upcoming year.”
Be more you.
“Seven days of daily devotion to your own words and creative spark can be like magic in your hands and heart. Just the kind of magic you’ve been seeking. Be more you.”
Every day they offered a word prompt and we were asked to write our thoughts based on that word, without worrying about it being correct, or just so, or neat, or tidy, or what have you. We were encouraged to just let it flow naturally. It was awesome!!
One of the prompts offered was ‘Bones’. And this is what I shared:
Skin on skin,
the soft pressure of bone on bone,
joined in prayer,
I have my grandmother’s hands,
and my mother’s cheekbones,
her shoulders and broad back
but my father’s eyes
and love of literature.
My spine is my own though,
always curved, much to my mother’s chagrin
and I am sure my grandmother’s.
They are like that, straight backed,
warm and sincere and brave to their bones.
The deep cave of my hips though, the bones that tangle there
and help hold a child, I cannot tell us apart.
I see my mother there, and my grandmother,
and her mother, and that is how it goes,
beyond the measure of time and memory.
I am a part and apart, and buried,
and burrowed deep
within these borrowed bones.
Fall into silence.
Write, write your soul free.
Buddha under the tree.
Wings in flight.
Lichen patchwork and green moss.
Grey skies and a cloud of snow.
The light behind my eyes.
The weight of words.
Curling around a book.
The heaviness of sleepy eyes.
A parody of dreams.
Sleep, sleep, sleep now
and wake up to dancing light.
This is what happiness looks like
This light, this love,
How the sun loves this season.
Hopping from leaf to leaf
lighting up the souls of roots
and that lone, mute wanderer,
with eyes that fill her face
and a voice lost somewhere
along the sidewalks and silent woods,
content to fill her body with
the rustles of fallen leaves
and the dappled golden light.
This is all I need to know of life,
of light, of love.
and then this glorious, blazing
toppling over each other,
into each other;
Falling over me, and into me,
lightness and dark,
all autumn-y and
Bless that path
in those woods, dark
and on fire, that
lead me to these tongues
oddly cool from the dew
when I could feel their heat
on my face, in my eyes,
lighting, lighting up my world
with their breath.
The flower knows it’s truth; To bloom,
with neither worry, nor care, for the size,
or the shape, or the colour of it’s petals.
The flower knows it’s truth; To thrust open
it’s lips and drink in the wind and the water.
To love the sun, fiercely, all day, and to lie
with the moon, cradled sweetly through the night.
The flower knows it’s truth; To receive and
to live. Fully. Completely. Simply. To bloom,
and to wither, gently, into that which gave it life.
How sweet, how simple, how profound. To bloom into
your knowing and blossom in it’s care.
To be that flower!
Alas, I must seek my truth. What is my truth?
What is yours?
Rang na dalo, Shyamji.
Thank you, dearest Father, for sending me the audio which took me over completely and inspired me to paint.
Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places. One just has to be open to it and willing to act on it.