I am my own Universe
I am my own galaxies
I am my own sun.
I hold myself to myself
Like outer shells of valence electrons.
Coming home to the abode of my All-ness
Feels like a joke it is so easy.
No one ever told me,
But it's normal.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Heavy Bellied Cloud
Sometimes I feel
Like a heavy bellied cloud
Rising,
Falling
With each breath of wind
Carrying rain I cannot carry alone.
I wonder where the clouds are drifting to
And where my rain will take me
Letting the water come down
Brings resistance to a halt
Even stone melts in water
Even fear goes away with love.
Like a heavy bellied cloud
Rising,
Falling
With each breath of wind
Carrying rain I cannot carry alone.
I wonder where the clouds are drifting to
And where my rain will take me
Letting the water come down
Brings resistance to a halt
Even stone melts in water
Even fear goes away with love.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Dying with Grace
Through my work as an elder care companion, I was called to sit with a dying woman and be present with her as she fell asleep each night. Not many people have the privilege of sitting with a dying stranger. Tonight is my third night of sitting with Grace (name changed) by her bed at the nursing home. I smile at the wonderful opportunity she is giving me. I wonder how my presence here beside her bed is affecting her. It certainly is changing me. This evening I picked up a book by Stephen Levine called "A Year to Live." It has been on my shelf, unread, for the past two years. I am reading it now, as I sit with Grace, and I am becoming more and more convinced that this is how I would like to live this year, starting now, as though it were the last year of my life. I also like the idea of living it as though it were the first year of my life and I was suddenly thrust into the adult body of an young woman.
Right now I notice more compassion arising in my heart and in the space between thoughts. This compassion softens and gentles the edges of every opposite that occurs in my mind. Compassion is beyond argument or debate. It simply is. And I like that.
...
She is dying, sweet Grace
As I am dying
And you are dying.
We all die as we live.
Grace's body
Softly melds into white pillows under her legs.
Her arms are crossed in her lap.
When her eyes open,
They gaze into space
And seem to open from the inside,
A light radiating
Layers unveiled.
I wonder if she can hear me now
As I write this poem.
"Yes," she says. "It is very beautiful."
Grace,
As I write this poem
I am fluting a beautiful memory of you
Out into earth
For others to read and be touched by.
You may not have friends or family
But you have me and my pen
And I will do my best
To let your light shine through it.
...
Last night
As I was leaving Grace's room
I saw her roommate lying asleep
With a look of utter bliss on her face.
A slight smile on her lips,
Slowly,
She removed her hospital gown.
Smiling more brightly now
She touched each of her breasts
With a look of ecstasy.
A few moments went by
And she touched one arm,
Then the other.
I should not call it touch,
For what she was doing
Was more of an exploration
Or a discovery.
Sunlight shone out of her complexion
Even though it was nighttime
And she was sleeping.
...
I am sitting by the bed of an old woman.
She is preparing to die.
She eats no more food,
Takes no more pills.
He breath moves in and out
Calling her home.
Death stands by her head
Cloaked in black
Hands resting behind her shoulders.
Sun angels shine on the other side of the room:
Bright newness, eagles, dawn.
How interesting that both Death and Dawn Light
Are here in the same room together.
The old woman is wrapped in whiteness
In layers of sheets
Like a mummy
Being prepared for the next stage of the journey.
Whiteness moves into the Spirit realm
Where the owl and the wintertime are waiting.
The old woman is cradled in between,
Held amidst presence and past,
Time and eternity.
She wakes again,
A brief fit of coughing,
Then struggling no more.
Her eyes are open but see nothing,
Breath moves the folds of her neck
Up and down,
Mouth open, lips relaxed and parted,
Chin hanging down.
I wonder which breath will be her last.
How will she go?
Where to?
Perhaps down the infinite galaxy of time
Through a whirlpool of stars
Back home to the Mother.
...
I sit and see
My birth and death standing next to each other.
My warm baby body
Curled up
Pulsing with newness and Spirit.
The same Spirit encircles me on my deathbed.
It is very beautiful.
I am wrapped in white
I see loved ones around me, friends, family.
I am moved by the spectacle of community love.
I am receiving myself
Again
Through the ritual of body.
I am ancient.
I reach back to touch ancestors.
We are all linked by arms and hands
In a chain of forgiveness.
We pause
And look at each other
With the same familiarity
As a husband and wife.
We pause to remember where we have been
And where we are going.
For we are here,
Quite alive,
Ready to be seen and heard in our beauty.
...
When we get old, approaching 100, we become like infants again. We must have other people feed, bathe, and clothe us. We cannot do the simplest things we take for granted most of our lives - other people must do them for us. They say that a baby dies if it is not loved and held. What happens when an aging beauty is not loved and held as she approaches death? In Grace's case, this is her choice - when I ask permission to touch her, she says no. But in my case, when I am old and dying, I would like to be held, touched, and cradled one last time in my corporeal form. That way, when I get to Heaven, maybe I can better remember where I was and who I was, like a fingerprint on a stained glass window.
We are helpless when we are born and helpless when we die. Perhaps this is so our lives will be surrounded by people who care about us, so that we know we are cared for at the edges of our innocent lives.
...
Death is not such a burden. I like to think of death as an old friend who walks beside me. We are living and dying together all the time, in every moment.
...
I see Grace's tongue
Crackled and barren
And wonder if my tongue will ever be like that.
Most certainly, it will.
It will grow old and die and dissolve into earth
The way all tongues do.
Maybe the point is not to have a pretty tongue
But to use it well,
To make beauty with words and song.
Then, if mine gets old and crinkled,
I know it will be because I have used it up completely.
Finished and totally spent,
My tongue will slither into its grave
To sleep happily ever after.
Right now I notice more compassion arising in my heart and in the space between thoughts. This compassion softens and gentles the edges of every opposite that occurs in my mind. Compassion is beyond argument or debate. It simply is. And I like that.
...
She is dying, sweet Grace
As I am dying
And you are dying.
We all die as we live.
Grace's body
Softly melds into white pillows under her legs.
Her arms are crossed in her lap.
When her eyes open,
They gaze into space
And seem to open from the inside,
A light radiating
Layers unveiled.
I wonder if she can hear me now
As I write this poem.
"Yes," she says. "It is very beautiful."
Grace,
As I write this poem
I am fluting a beautiful memory of you
Out into earth
For others to read and be touched by.
You may not have friends or family
But you have me and my pen
And I will do my best
To let your light shine through it.
...
Last night
As I was leaving Grace's room
I saw her roommate lying asleep
With a look of utter bliss on her face.
A slight smile on her lips,
Slowly,
She removed her hospital gown.
Smiling more brightly now
She touched each of her breasts
With a look of ecstasy.
A few moments went by
And she touched one arm,
Then the other.
I should not call it touch,
For what she was doing
Was more of an exploration
Or a discovery.
Sunlight shone out of her complexion
Even though it was nighttime
And she was sleeping.
...
I am sitting by the bed of an old woman.
She is preparing to die.
She eats no more food,
Takes no more pills.
He breath moves in and out
Calling her home.
Death stands by her head
Cloaked in black
Hands resting behind her shoulders.
Sun angels shine on the other side of the room:
Bright newness, eagles, dawn.
How interesting that both Death and Dawn Light
Are here in the same room together.
The old woman is wrapped in whiteness
In layers of sheets
Like a mummy
Being prepared for the next stage of the journey.
Whiteness moves into the Spirit realm
Where the owl and the wintertime are waiting.
The old woman is cradled in between,
Held amidst presence and past,
Time and eternity.
She wakes again,
A brief fit of coughing,
Then struggling no more.
Her eyes are open but see nothing,
Breath moves the folds of her neck
Up and down,
Mouth open, lips relaxed and parted,
Chin hanging down.
I wonder which breath will be her last.
How will she go?
Where to?
Perhaps down the infinite galaxy of time
Through a whirlpool of stars
Back home to the Mother.
...
I sit and see
My birth and death standing next to each other.
My warm baby body
Curled up
Pulsing with newness and Spirit.
The same Spirit encircles me on my deathbed.
It is very beautiful.
I am wrapped in white
I see loved ones around me, friends, family.
I am moved by the spectacle of community love.
I am receiving myself
Again
Through the ritual of body.
I am ancient.
I reach back to touch ancestors.
We are all linked by arms and hands
In a chain of forgiveness.
We pause
And look at each other
With the same familiarity
As a husband and wife.
We pause to remember where we have been
And where we are going.
For we are here,
Quite alive,
Ready to be seen and heard in our beauty.
...
When we get old, approaching 100, we become like infants again. We must have other people feed, bathe, and clothe us. We cannot do the simplest things we take for granted most of our lives - other people must do them for us. They say that a baby dies if it is not loved and held. What happens when an aging beauty is not loved and held as she approaches death? In Grace's case, this is her choice - when I ask permission to touch her, she says no. But in my case, when I am old and dying, I would like to be held, touched, and cradled one last time in my corporeal form. That way, when I get to Heaven, maybe I can better remember where I was and who I was, like a fingerprint on a stained glass window.
We are helpless when we are born and helpless when we die. Perhaps this is so our lives will be surrounded by people who care about us, so that we know we are cared for at the edges of our innocent lives.
...
Death is not such a burden. I like to think of death as an old friend who walks beside me. We are living and dying together all the time, in every moment.
...
I see Grace's tongue
Crackled and barren
And wonder if my tongue will ever be like that.
Most certainly, it will.
It will grow old and die and dissolve into earth
The way all tongues do.
Maybe the point is not to have a pretty tongue
But to use it well,
To make beauty with words and song.
Then, if mine gets old and crinkled,
I know it will be because I have used it up completely.
Finished and totally spent,
My tongue will slither into its grave
To sleep happily ever after.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Poems of Heart and Good and Evil
There comes a time
When the sound of your heart
Becomes the most important voice you hear.
Other voices can be loud, frightening,
Even when they say they come from Spirit.
Ancestors, Spirit Guides, Power Animals, Teachers, Friends, Therapists,
They all think they know who you are
And tell you what they believe is the best path for you.
But if you see them
As anything other than extensions of your true self
You will be guided into confusion and anger.
Confusion comes when we do not trust our own voice.
The heart can be as clear as a bell,
Yet what the mind thinks and the ears hear
Can tell us differently.
The mind deals in opposites,
The heart dwells on unity.
The heart always has a simpler answer,
And it is always the right answer.
Not trusting the heart leads to fear and abandonment,
Trusting the heart leads to homecoming, presence, and celebration.
There is nothing you must do or achieve.
This is the old way of thinking
The belief in good and evil
The illusion of separation.
On one level,
Good and evil are real.
On another,
They cease to exist at all.
They are together,
And in being together they make each other whole.
...
The same occult war of the world
That happens between Good and Evil
Is happening in our own minds.
The peace we find in our hearts
Is the same peace that solves and undermines this war.
The spacious eye of the heart
Is the whole-ness
That has been there all along.
Never bragging,
Never choking.
Biding its time
In quiet depths of the soul.
...
There is no symbol
That can stand for the unity of God.
Perhaps a sun
Suspended in the center of my heart
Will suffice for now.
When the sound of your heart
Becomes the most important voice you hear.
Other voices can be loud, frightening,
Even when they say they come from Spirit.
Ancestors, Spirit Guides, Power Animals, Teachers, Friends, Therapists,
They all think they know who you are
And tell you what they believe is the best path for you.
But if you see them
As anything other than extensions of your true self
You will be guided into confusion and anger.
Confusion comes when we do not trust our own voice.
The heart can be as clear as a bell,
Yet what the mind thinks and the ears hear
Can tell us differently.
The mind deals in opposites,
The heart dwells on unity.
The heart always has a simpler answer,
And it is always the right answer.
Not trusting the heart leads to fear and abandonment,
Trusting the heart leads to homecoming, presence, and celebration.
There is nothing you must do or achieve.
This is the old way of thinking
The belief in good and evil
The illusion of separation.
On one level,
Good and evil are real.
On another,
They cease to exist at all.
They are together,
And in being together they make each other whole.
...
The same occult war of the world
That happens between Good and Evil
Is happening in our own minds.
The peace we find in our hearts
Is the same peace that solves and undermines this war.
The spacious eye of the heart
Is the whole-ness
That has been there all along.
Never bragging,
Never choking.
Biding its time
In quiet depths of the soul.
...
There is no symbol
That can stand for the unity of God.
Perhaps a sun
Suspended in the center of my heart
Will suffice for now.
Empty Space is not Empty
I do not believe that empty space is empty. When I am hollow inside, I am not a vacuum. I am full of rich soil twisted with deep roots. As my roots twist around darkness that lives in me, I feel more surely that I am whole. Darkness and shadow are companions of the light. We do not exist without our opposite. We have form and being precisely because we are a mixture of light and dark. To cast out darkness is to dismember a part of who we are. To cradle the unknown places in us, the edges of light, the deep thresh holds of darkness, is to widen our love to be large enough to hold all of who we are.
Salsa Dancing with Spirit
While salsa dancing,
My partner told me
"The Universe is like an onion,
Many layers live here where we stand.
We may not see them
But we feel them
We know they are here."
A wise teacher once told me
"All the layers are stacked up
Right here
It is only a matter of where we put our attention."
My salsa partner
Also told me
"We cannot change anyone
All we can do
Is get centered
And radiate."
...
I am remembering
The Spirit that moves through all things.
I see tiny seeds of myself
In all that lives around me.
The chickadee sings
And I know it is my own voice calling out.
The wind moves a rhododendron
And I am the one who feels it.
These things are not to be spoken of daily,
In passing,
Like chopping an onion
With a steel knife,
But held gently around your body
Like flowers or gems
Plucked from Eternity's unfolding.
My partner told me
"The Universe is like an onion,
Many layers live here where we stand.
We may not see them
But we feel them
We know they are here."
A wise teacher once told me
"All the layers are stacked up
Right here
It is only a matter of where we put our attention."
My salsa partner
Also told me
"We cannot change anyone
All we can do
Is get centered
And radiate."
...
I am remembering
The Spirit that moves through all things.
I see tiny seeds of myself
In all that lives around me.
The chickadee sings
And I know it is my own voice calling out.
The wind moves a rhododendron
And I am the one who feels it.
These things are not to be spoken of daily,
In passing,
Like chopping an onion
With a steel knife,
But held gently around your body
Like flowers or gems
Plucked from Eternity's unfolding.
Meeting Destiny
I thought
That in living destiny
I had to dance under the sun of a magnifying glass in summer.
Not so.
As it turns out,
Destiny finds us
Among stars and deserts,
Even inside a wind-weathered cave.
The way to greet her
Is with a "Hello, nice to see you again."
Hold her hand
Let her hold you
She will walk beside you
Like a friend giving flowers along a road.
Be together a while.
Do not do any data analysis
Your fingers will get tired
Your hair will fall out.
The first thing to do when you meet destiny
Is to sing.
Because you know the true flower
Is rooted in dirt.
That in living destiny
I had to dance under the sun of a magnifying glass in summer.
Not so.
As it turns out,
Destiny finds us
Among stars and deserts,
Even inside a wind-weathered cave.
The way to greet her
Is with a "Hello, nice to see you again."
Hold her hand
Let her hold you
She will walk beside you
Like a friend giving flowers along a road.
Be together a while.
Do not do any data analysis
Your fingers will get tired
Your hair will fall out.
The first thing to do when you meet destiny
Is to sing.
Because you know the true flower
Is rooted in dirt.
Stronghold of the Heart
I am ever watching you dream on and on into reality. You land on some landscape inside the stronghold of your heart. There is no love there, only life. No power, only connection. God lives there. The door is unlocked. Your secret fantasies are coming true. The more you listen, the more you wander inside your heart, the vaster your positive influence becomes. You are a rose in bloom, deepening majesty with every scent you release. There is no room left for hunger; your heart is already a tabernacle of light. The doors are open. The mirrors reflect the sun in a thousand directions.
The eagle stands guard here. No one is allowed to enter except you and God, which means everyone already has entered and lives there eternally. Step out of the lie that you think you discover more of yourself every day. You already know who you are. You have been here before. You know this place, this silent abode of secrets. Let the secrets move you like they used to when you were a child of stone. Do not dream of saving the world - you will become used up and tire of your work. Dream instead of planting seeds. Cast them widely and freely. Be as you are with no pretense at saving anyone, and people will notice the light you carry. Intermingle with everyone. Choose not to refuse but to include. For you are not separate, my love, no. Your heart was made for this. Your life was built out of your own body. You are made of mostly empty space, tingling, vibrating, pulsating. Your whole being is but a speck of dust on an unaddressed envelope, yet your feelings and intonations can rumble a thousand mountainsides.
The eagle stands guard here. No one is allowed to enter except you and God, which means everyone already has entered and lives there eternally. Step out of the lie that you think you discover more of yourself every day. You already know who you are. You have been here before. You know this place, this silent abode of secrets. Let the secrets move you like they used to when you were a child of stone. Do not dream of saving the world - you will become used up and tire of your work. Dream instead of planting seeds. Cast them widely and freely. Be as you are with no pretense at saving anyone, and people will notice the light you carry. Intermingle with everyone. Choose not to refuse but to include. For you are not separate, my love, no. Your heart was made for this. Your life was built out of your own body. You are made of mostly empty space, tingling, vibrating, pulsating. Your whole being is but a speck of dust on an unaddressed envelope, yet your feelings and intonations can rumble a thousand mountainsides.
Hollow Place
The hollow place in your heart
Is full of mystery.
Tell it to sing to you.
Open it up
Like a womb or a gift
Receive what lives in there.
It is time.
If you are scared
Or the pain creeps up
Do it anyway.
You will never forget
Why you could not get out your gun
So stop trying
And come back to yourself.
The mood will never be right
For perfection
Or honest love.
Love messily
Perfection needs to die
So that humanity
May live.
Is full of mystery.
Tell it to sing to you.
Open it up
Like a womb or a gift
Receive what lives in there.
It is time.
If you are scared
Or the pain creeps up
Do it anyway.
You will never forget
Why you could not get out your gun
So stop trying
And come back to yourself.
The mood will never be right
For perfection
Or honest love.
Love messily
Perfection needs to die
So that humanity
May live.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Gift
Life is not a destination.
We don't start empty and slowly fill ourselves up until we are full.
We begin with our gift unwrapped
In the center of our heartbeat.
We do not even know what it is at first.
We see inklings:
A desire for this
A creativity for that.
We begin unwrapping it
Ever so tenderly
One piece,
Then another.
Light grows as we follow the tunnel into unraveling destiny.
Gradually we begin to carry our gift on the outside.
We share it with others
And bring more breath into being.
The starlight of many generations
Is wrapped up in this gift.
If we allow it to lead us,
Out hearts open up from behind
And spirals of light extend themselves
Over outstretched wings.
Eyes closed,
We leap with our gifts in front of us,
Trusting
That the arcs of other people's starlight
Will come to carry us on.
We don't start empty and slowly fill ourselves up until we are full.
We begin with our gift unwrapped
In the center of our heartbeat.
We do not even know what it is at first.
We see inklings:
A desire for this
A creativity for that.
We begin unwrapping it
Ever so tenderly
One piece,
Then another.
Light grows as we follow the tunnel into unraveling destiny.
Gradually we begin to carry our gift on the outside.
We share it with others
And bring more breath into being.
The starlight of many generations
Is wrapped up in this gift.
If we allow it to lead us,
Out hearts open up from behind
And spirals of light extend themselves
Over outstretched wings.
Eyes closed,
We leap with our gifts in front of us,
Trusting
That the arcs of other people's starlight
Will come to carry us on.
Birth of a Body
She walks down the aisle of her own birth.
The canal is ablaze with fire
And talks of heroism.
She has returned from the underworld
Coming out of the womb
She unfolds herself
Like a moth escaping a cocoon.
The blistering closeness of skin
Is slit open as she pours out
From Mother
Empty at first,
Now full out in the open,
She takes her first breath.
Soul rushes into her
The beating heart is alive
The eyes see
The brain digests
She has arrived
Carrying the ends and beginnings of dreams
To be woven thickly together
In a nest of survival and belonging.
You know who you are when you arrive home,
To jump out of the nest is frightening
But there are those whose hands you can walk upon
Until you can stand up by yourself.
The birth of a baby is the birth of a human,
The arrival of a new gift for Earth.
The baby carries ancestral starlight
She never lets go
Of who she has become
Through the passage of birth.
Her body remembers
Being cocooned in safety,
Then suddenly thrust forward
Into motion and action.
She emerges as a lotus
Sprinkled with dew.
She is beauty
She is a babe in swaddling cloths
She unfolds herself limb by limb
Escaping darkness
And thrusting her body
Into the light.
The canal is ablaze with fire
And talks of heroism.
She has returned from the underworld
Coming out of the womb
She unfolds herself
Like a moth escaping a cocoon.
The blistering closeness of skin
Is slit open as she pours out
From Mother
Empty at first,
Now full out in the open,
She takes her first breath.
Soul rushes into her
The beating heart is alive
The eyes see
The brain digests
She has arrived
Carrying the ends and beginnings of dreams
To be woven thickly together
In a nest of survival and belonging.
You know who you are when you arrive home,
To jump out of the nest is frightening
But there are those whose hands you can walk upon
Until you can stand up by yourself.
The birth of a baby is the birth of a human,
The arrival of a new gift for Earth.
The baby carries ancestral starlight
She never lets go
Of who she has become
Through the passage of birth.
Her body remembers
Being cocooned in safety,
Then suddenly thrust forward
Into motion and action.
She emerges as a lotus
Sprinkled with dew.
She is beauty
She is a babe in swaddling cloths
She unfolds herself limb by limb
Escaping darkness
And thrusting her body
Into the light.
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