luminous yolk

"It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there...ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards." --Edward Abbey

"All that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass."
-Wendell Berry

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
-David Wagoner

28 February 2010

Sunday afternoon Flamenco Sketches, reading Annie Proulx eating strawberry icecream, water in a wineglass, watching the wee strong spirits at the feeder outside the window this morning i wept at the color of a lady cardinal.

Last night all but ready to go this hard drawn-out transition and the hint of collapse the word Enough on my lips. but this morning he brought me reassurance and water and im saved at least for now.

when the light from the lighthouse turns away, i despair.

after a morning of watching squirrels spicy breakfast with coffee and yogurt a shower Bushwalla and the Pips im good to go. being off the meds is easier Here, but still it gets wooly and im easily discouraged, the emotional rodeo, the incredibly broken inner child that i realize This is all about. making this decision, having made any decision at all after thirty-three years on angel-pilot, drove a bulldozer over the rubble of my life. and now on the bare ground i can build a house, grow a garden. but the dozer has also exposed the weak raw heart of that abandoned baby girl thats done nothing but play with lighters and knives behind my eyes my whole life. she is one hot mess (thanks to a.d. for the term). and theres no excuse now not to get to healing. which i realize is what This is all about. neither meds nor mad distractions. this is The Work. this is the Conscious Evolution, the Teacher appearing (ive had Great Teachers all my life, and for them i am eternally grateful, but This Teacher is not someone i sit before, This Teacher is the completely wrecked, traumatized and broken essential aspect of me thats been avoided, evaded and ignored for decades waiting for the student to be ready. waiting for me to be strong enough to Reclaim her.

I see now This is my Reclaiming.

Blessed Be.

1 comment:

emmgee01 March, 2010
Hey Heidi,
Glad you found me. The 20th-year reunion is actually this summer; there's a whole Facebook page or team thing about it, easy to find. If you're interested in going I'll keep you posted. (Don't know if I'll go yet.)

Bead Designs is defunct. Where will I see you next?
Monica
ReplyDelete
Replies

Blessed Be.

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

"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." -V.V.G.

"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)