February, Orcas Island

Love. Light. Presence.
Choppy waters
Tidal surge
Rocks below me

Yearning to escape tangles of fears
Knowing not how, or when
Wanting to know the deep squeeze of sunlight
That opens at the end of this tunnel

I am tracking alone, in the dark
I hear echoes, echoes, echoes
Complacent,
I march forward,
My breastplate polished and shining.

Artistry is a new voice in the pen of my soul.
I never imagined that language could contain or channel
The creative impulses of my bones.
In writing
I have found a river, a cave, an ocean to explore.
I have not forgotten what it feels like
To dance with stars on the back of a lion.
I remember being a young innocent one
Birthed from the hands of Creator's wish
A bright morning full of possibility.

I sometimes find myself drowning in impossibility:
"These are all the reasons why I can't
Move, play, create, explore, travel."

Yet something keeps pushing.
Something keeps growing and whispering inside.
It is beneath the phrases of doubt,
A heaving surging motion
Freed from desire, taste, or want
It is only an is-ness
It helps me be who I am.

Being is different than knowing.
It scrapes up from under the covers
And explains everything by mere presence.
Being is residing, staying.
Being never judges or casts out,
But welcomes in all unexpected joys and glories.
I have never heard someone say,
"You are being something wrong!"
Only I have heard people say,
"You are doing something wrong."
Being is beyond right and wrong.
It steals away the juice of judgement,
The militant pressure of opposites,
And blends asunder.