what’s frozen in us, an echo of human cruelty or inattention— as children, we can’t process don’t have the skill innocent we stuff it away
that jagged lump we cannot see shades everything blinded, we stumble react and don’t know why
shine light on that bulk oh, it has stories! unwind and love them give them leeway to thaw—when welcomed and seen they no longer alarm the warmth we offer melts and releases they re-meld with the ocean as one
so many kinds of aches—hips knees— hearts the most painful to be human is to ache, tugged by the thread of all sorrows
love can remake and uphold us— an eagle the uplift that keeps it afloat on the eddies love is like that it has lift and vista buoys and ferries us through carries us to the other side
are you ready to come out of the cave? have you had enough of drowning? the mind has claws, ties your view into knots drags you under with the weight of stones
you know this mind it perseverates, steals sleep tangles intention revs apprehension
let it go—set it down that gnarl will not undo— then swim away that’s right use powerful strokes minefield mind, a drag on vigor and time
catapulted onto stone she can’t speak and barely breathe yet there’s an invitation let pain be pain the aching, stabbing lie-still-on-the-ground wait-to-see-what-happens or, let the mind get busy building stories into suffering pain and torment the double whammy— far worse than finding the thread of breath again accepting help and staying only oh! only in the present moment here, in the warm sunshine lying on hard rock head cradled in her husband’s precious hands
Here is a villanelle, a French form established in the sixteenth century that uses meter, rhyme, and a specific pattern of repeated lines. This, my first attempt ever, is written in pentameter.
sometimes I long to simply take high flight to leave this crooked world behind, alone and reach in deep for purest, clearest light
it’s madness here—the mean and righteous fight they grab and push and nab the richest bone sometimes I long to simply take high flight
and flee this place at dawn or plushest night seek peace elsewhere, a place that is unknown and reach in deep for purest, clearest light
to watch all suffering souls, their dreadful plight it hurts my heart and makes me feel like stone sometimes I long to simply take high flight
to soar, and bank, to find the broadest sight and then unearth the place that’s my true home and reach in deep for purest, clearest light
how will I find the strength for loft and height so courage, love, and beauty may atone? sometimes I long to simply take high flight and reach in deep for purest, clearest light
it isn’t easy on planet earth. losses carve our hearts staggering low-back pain your family business fails a parent’s sudden demise empty craters of loss
a monarch flickers by the mockingbird’s serenade a dog’s cold nose in greeting jasmine scents the air chocolate melts on your tongue the scent of a baby’s neck enough joy to keep us here. just.
the predicament is this: how to welcome paradox: are you vast enough? open? willing? can your heart spread wide? that is what is asked for the courage to breathe it all
the way of the heart is sacred ground tread with love, tend with regard with kindness with care
dismissed from work, life-threatening diagnosis, loss of a friend or child or mate, the way is the light that perforates desolation forgo the urge to bolt distress is not infectious this blaze of the heart is meant to be shared
foremost, listen. just that. anguish cannot be “fixed” heed the plight of your companion or your very own self. your words aren’t needed attendance is required to honeycomb grief and make openings for light spacious aware clear
with thanks to Margaret Rooney for the phrase “ the light that perforates”
olive wood, worn pecan and buttery from my touch— fingering love, gratitude, peace, and prayers upon prayers upon prayers
ninety-nine beads, each an aroma of the beloved, plus two carved ones that divide each thirty-three a gift from my Sufi teacher— bestowed from his murshid to him the indelible chain of hearts
three wraps around my wrist, always there. for thirty years, I’d passed the tasbih beads through thumb and forefinger marking a sacred word or phrase
precious, old friends.
on a ten-day island retreat I found a cockle 500 feet above the sea—a shell, up here? Did the land upheave three-hundred-million years ago?
my intention: throw it back from whence it came, return it home to the Maui gods. I made the cast and the shell took flight
as though in pursuit, my treasured beads sailed off my wrist aghast, I watched them fly a long, asymmetrical arc toward the woods
a chilla, a test, so very clear. suspended, frozen, my heart lurched at the loss they’re well and truly gone
let them go!
did I pinpoint their likely grave in forest duff, spongy and deep? oh, I searched! frantic, desperate, digging, pawing they must be there. why had I not replaced aging string?
never found.
cross-legged on my bed, sick at heart that I hadn’t released my claim on them I pondered the test I’d failed— how will it come again?
so tired. tired of infighting and hatred. tired of lies. what is this human aversion to truth? we’ve slipped off the diving board. let’s cherish the bowl of our fragile home. wholeness is no longer possible in the manifested world. Kintsugi calls. we can mend ourselves with rivulets of goodness. it takes more juice to frown than smile. choose gold. gold lacquer and rice flour, a delicate harmony.
start. sit in silence. parse what is. right now. all of it. the lush air at sunup’s first blush. hawk nabs gopher. gunfire. parents beg. even DNA required. weeping, they comfort each other. this, too. with a slender brush, smooth liquid gold into the seams. kindness. peace. care. love.
the heart of the matter 