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

23 April 2010


happy birthday to the man who said:

"When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe."


"Behind the cloud, a rainbow formed, with a soft ghost of itself below.  This double bridge followed the storm until darkness dissolved it."

earnest spring.  women making choices, watching stars.  i doubted the existence of demons, believing them to only be entities unaware of their own divinity.  we must be teachers.  we must be the light.  
a long quiet walk with the cowboy both of us just breathing, being, relieved.
such chi in the leaves with the late light behind them, sapfull of snowmelt drawn up from deep roots and sucking green from the sunlight.  deertrails and whistlepigs dandelions still yellow and the sound of water.
no words, lots of space, a craving for quiet and tenderness ive been feeling fragile lately or maybe just now acknowledging my fragility.


it must be that spring has softened me, a thaw.  open hand, i kept repeating, an open hand.


started seeds tomatoes, tulsi, parsley, collards, cosmos.   sit near the garden in the afternoon letting the dandelions do their thing, wondering at all the empty space in the perennial bed as the grass encroaches.
as sweet water reaches for the tops of the trees so am i trickling out of my secret spring, water rilling into water, trying to connect, smiling tentative hopeful.  but fragile makes me tired, seeking soft balm of sleep in babys loving arms.  fragile leaves me open even more, so much emotion, intelligence im overwhelmed.
i long for paint but have no energy.  i long for poetry but have no words.


it is a blessing to know that my home is here, where i am also.  it is a blessing to know that whatever lessons are left for learning, they can be learned here.   a fire came through the forest of my heart and from the soot and cinders rise sweet strong shoots of return. 

 

ten for today:

1.  becky
2.  springtime
9. dogs
10.  home

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"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)