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

17 March 2010

"An individual must grow into something that is utterly fundamental to their true nature."

some are born hollow.  divinitys road wide and open through them rides them like a racehorse drives them day and night unceasing sounds and colors drowning out time and sense down the road at midnight blood screaming through naked portals the worlds air dissolving into every cell moonlight on the new skin of a now that is foreverborn hollow, a reed in the syrinx of Life itself earthbound eyes raised to kingdom sky where broad transparent angels drag strings of stars through our hearts to sew us together. 

frost on the knoll and the eastern trees turn toward the sun the morning shining on my eyes turned away from where ours hands come together miracle of Time and Love moving between us a song in the mind as it plays clear from very far away.  palimpsest of words to the tune the world has written to comfort her children wandering outlanders from some celestial eden.  how the music moves through me the festal and the bittersweet a wind on the water these tides of feeling i watch the frost give itself back to the air of this day i feel my hand in yours remember your good-smelling self against my skin as night ferries us blind into dreamtime.  

time now to go into that garden and wrestle with dry demons of barrier and neglect, to make space for what will be, a scatter of seeds and the gentle earth, you set down the small chair in welcome.  out in the morning the crocus mouth opens to frenchkiss the sunlight honeybees rub bellies on bright intricate pollengods.  butterflies from latitudes away instigating sri lankan typhoons in this glorious day given just like a gift to those with hearts to receive.  behind the shed it smells of ramps and water and the compost is sweet.  real earthworms and rubber snakes in the garden among green fingers of some waking deva.  i build a stone causeway to the brushpile and ache to take off my shirt.  the mud sucks at the stones as i pass over lo and behold it is springtime.  

the neighbor dog only barks a little and i go in to write love letters.  you couldnt be more perfect.  wise gentle and affectionate, fullhearted softspoken and how we laugh.  how ive never laughed before and when the world becomes too much for me to hold you hold my hand and sweetly draw the drowning rush away.  and i for one, who has lived her whole life in fear and degradation feel the weight lifted like waking from nightmare.  i stand on the sacred earth and want for once to be real.

"..labor in love of this garden, growing it outwards in all directions..."

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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)