chasing daylight blind,
slip covering soft on soul…
my eyes failed to see.
unending shimmer
blinding clarity’s assault,
suggested love flow.
and within me now
the seeing reveals truth’s hide.
cover me quickly…
relocate heart within,
and behind the bars of life’s
intended refuge.
a question arising
sings my stance:
still,
enclosed; love brews my fresh
refusal
of
drive by blithe, unfeeling.
treasures sweet
melt
into soil infusing
all these hours’
till
my feet find me here
on soil and dirt speaking some
long, unending drum
song sung before all
was lost to progress killing
the unfolding feel
of soul from earth revealing
love’s eternal work.
somehow the dance moves
me beyond the fall and fear,
bounty awaiting.
mind kneels to feel
and naked knowing births earth’s
song from depths ancient.
take me always back
to the animal and sage,
my feet drinking all
those rivers erupting earth’s
resonating love.
“There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.” Maya Angelou
Here’s to a beautiful life and guardian of all things soul…
what shines out of darkness
and unfolds from the earth,
what wellspring once was buried
now reveals, murmuring miracles
with every rising sun
whispering renewal in the face of stars
as you pass by, unmoved, unseeing…
little miracles everywhere seeing you regardless
singing your own potential
beyond all the noise
noise
noise
go to silence
and see.
go to stillness
and be.
remove the chains claiming “progress”
and know, live the ancient song…
if not for dying,
for seed’s song undone and gone
if not for shining
if not for flooding
pounding me into darkness
birthing colors new
if not for the loss
our song unsung would be all
lost, encased refuse
but life breaking me
open, spilling all my knowing
into ground spreading
lil tendril roots’ reach
as all I knew died to be
all these songs released
“There are love stories,
and there is obliteration into love.
You have been walking the ocean’s edge,
holding up your robes to keep them dry.
You must dive naked under and deeper under,
a thousand times deeper. Love flows down.
The ground submits to the sky and suffers what comes.
Tell me, is the earth worse for giving in like that?
Do not put blankets over the drum.
Open completely.
Let your spirit listen
to the green dome’s passionate murmur.
Let the cords of your robe be untied.
Shiver in this new love beyond all above and below.
The sun rises, but which way does the night go?
I have no more words. Let the soul speak
with the silent articulation of a face.”
Rumi, The Big Red Book
Four packed tightly under covers…eight feet gifting each other with warmth, one pair seeking another less warm, giving kind remedy; sharing space tangled up in an attic bedroom with no power but two candles and giggles and then sweet sleep in a hushed daylight filled with ice. Soft snores after a breakfast too big except for nothing else to do in a town coated in winter’s grasp.
Then firelight and stove top sustenance, candles lit all over a house bathed mostly in shadow and cold but oh so warm. Games and face time, firewood and laughter, gathered ice for coolers salvaging what we can. Tallulah River stone soup for feet unaccompanied, gathering hot river gems up in cloth to carry up to bed, settling in for a night of no heat.
And.
A renewed, stark, startling awareness of what conveniences pilfer,
their insipid gain robbing us of something only an ice storm can bring…
connection more profoundly felt, reliance more sweetly known.
Face time…
firelight…
turning to the earth for protection…
ingenuity…
appreciation for life’s turns less convenient
reminding us of treasure sometimes lost
in what we understand as wealth.
Maybe the earth conspires to remind us how vulnerable we are, both in our advancements and without them. And without our bonds of love, our shared space and renewed survival ability, we would wilt under a perpetually shining sun.
Either way, there’s nothing like the pleasure of finding your kids will make, not complaint, but fun in the face of one more dance with winter’s whimsy.
Most of us can compile a long list of what/who we love, going on and on including how much we love the feeling of scratching an itch…
but the one love most needful, is also most elusive…
I LOVE this expression and the wisdom rolling from this beautiful person.
from sun afar flung and reaching
we tower but not without first bowing, bowed,
hailed and hailing illumination,
our father finding
our mother receiving,
stretching;
we all entangle ourselves
screaming from womb
to world believing stories of separation,
deluded by a blinding sight
but all these roots tell our truths
born somewhere in a night long languishing
a whisper of patterns repeating undiminished stories
of love unique,
unity in spite of denial’s isolation
see…
we are the stars and songs of dirt
we are the sun and mirth of moon’s wine
we are, all of us, waiting for the rain in a forest where sun shines,
living, breathing tension, sighing into sight
a song of colors colliding eternal rhythm for soul’s dance.
divine.
J. Ruth Kelly 