Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

21 February 2010

a girl, mad as birds.  a boy, pixie led. 

out through the briar and over the road, coffee and milk in an old cranberry wine bottle, wind whipping into our bodies feeding lonesome hungry cells the strength of a beautiful Now.  everything is reduced to its simplest self.  sometimes he leads and sometimes hes behind me, but the knowing that just over the hill his familiar form will come to view, waiting.  silence and laughing, everything offering itself to us up and over into this blessed wood a little stream from which i plucked a heartshaped rock and drew the cross on my brow asking to come and come again for countless seasons.  this quiet magnificent place that binds us together with the breath of clouds and wildrose canes bending into bowers biding til bloom in soon springtide.  

rosehips and crabapples red against the black and white of late winter.  stopping often to see, he sees me.
and i pray for the strength to stand still and be seen and not to run.  and i pray this isnt some gorgeous elaborate hoax on the part of the gods to speed my expiration.  and i pray with my secret heart at the offering left where we turned to turn back and i pray with my hand in his on the hill where silent wishes were made and i pray turning away again heartsore down the highway until im granted the gift of returning.  because never in my long life have i loved like this, been loved like this before. this simple acknowledgment of True Being, of my Being as something beloved, gentle blessed, and Worth the While.

after a lifetime of waiting,  i pray for a lifetime of together, us. 

Blessed Be.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)