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
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.
Behind the headlines, we live our lives; we flesh out the stories no one hears about. Behind the headlines and media streams, screams and body-shaking laughter shape the lines we call the daily grind, routines, dances and chores. And on a plane heading for the continental equivalent of “another country” by comparison to the deep south, I sat in the same row with three beautiful young men, a window seat providing views of everything from the loblolly pines of my stomping grounds to the Grand Canyon, Death Valley and finally, L.A. These fellows were, from what their conversation amongst each other revealed, heading to Cali for a musical debut, maybe their own. One looked familiar, his voice reminiscent of a rap song I couldn’t quite place. My cultural lens suggested hip hop haunts, at least. They had presence, however low-key but not easily missed. In any case, they were the story behind my headline “Ruth’s Plane Trip to Cali” but they had no idea, minding their own business, alternately napping, checking out Youtube videos and discussing plans while I dottilized and pondered the work and fun awaiting me. We were cordial, considerate and appropriately distant as some travelers can be on long flights. Besides the passing smiles, considerate shared space and taking turns to get to the loo, nothing eventful or significant occurred.
But then the plane landed and the long line trailed down the center, people disembarking as quickly as they could. The three guys disappeared and I stood, somewhat hunched, in no hurry to trample my way past people. It seemed the typical “every man for himself” and I didn’t want to participate. I waited for a lull. And finally this pause as a young man, my former row-mate, comes back up the center, moving against the flow. He’s maybe 3 rows up from me as I’m inching my way closer to moving into the flow of bodies exiting and our eyes lock. I smile, wondering what’s he doing back here, looking around to see if he’s left something behind, seeing nothing but assuming he did. I inch forward and look up to see if there’s anything I can do to get myself moving and assist if he’s left something and in those short increments of time he’s moved up to an arm’s length closer, stopping exiting passengers and looks at me: “Do you need help?” I’m puzzled. He’s not grabbing any lost gear. He’s standing there, blocking the flow and making it possible for me to get out of my row easily. I do so and respond “I’m good but thank you.” He won’t relent, opens the overhead, sees the lone carry on (mine) and asks “Is that yours? Can I get that for you?” I’ve been accused of not knowing when I’m being flirted with but the truth is, I typically do know and by the time I’ve fought my initial shyness it’s over. (Youngest of 4 daughters typically expects to be unseen except for the red hair. Old imprints die hard.) I can say this was no flirtation or con or, or even the effort of a man to get his gear and be helpful to assuage the reality of blocking traffic. He wasn’t looking me up and down, a strictly eye-contact encounter. Nothing unusual except an enormously unusual concern. He didn’t get anything for himself, hadn’t left anything. I don’t know what initially prompted him to work his way back up the row, against the flow of people exiting but he wound up right there, looking at me and insisting on helping, like a kid brother who realizes he’s left his sis behind. In spite of my previous “I’m good!” he reached up, noting my nod when asking if the bag was mine, grabbed the carry on and hefted it down, pausing a split second to find the handle, pulling it out for me and then turning around to exit the plane in front of me. Nothing solicitous. No interactions with others. I was dumbfounded and thankful, expressing my appreciation as I grabbed the handle, moving forward. “Sure, no problem.” he said, disappearing again ahead of me. I melted into the long line, appreciating the time to let it sink in as I smiled to myself: “Gee whiz…welcome to L.A., Ruth.”
I passed him in the tunnel and paused “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.” He didn’t miss a beat, standing with his friend, looking up briefly from a cell phone: “You’re welcome. Have a great time in L.A.!” I don’t believe in karma. Not mostly. Not usually. So many people do loads of beautiful and generous things out of a desire to make the world a happier place and get precious little in return for it (except the not insignificant reward of knowing they have made a quiet difference). Karma? Ha. But I had been helpful on a connecting flight, it was knee-jerk, a seemingly small endeavor, no big deal. It certainly wasn’t in proportion to what came at me, up that aisle, a generous regard against the tide of exiting passengers but I thought about karma as I left that plane and I wondered why it sometimes appears to exist and other times, not so much. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
I know people are kind. This is no newsflash and it’s seldom in the headlines. I get it. But this? It was more than the typical consideration, hitting home, reinforcing something somewhat frayed by life’s less gracious rides. We have any number of headline events to contend with, blurring what’s happening in aisles and homes, towns and countrysides all over the world, all at once. The 2013 headlines for me were such a surreal mix of tragedy, betrayal, renewal and grace I may well have looked wary as I boarded that plane ‘though I was excited and glad to be there. All those headlines make an impact, if we’re not careful, on our ideas of what is “out there” in the big world and in our futures. The truth is, when we make it past the headlines and manage to nurture some level of faith in love, we discover the beauty of what it means to be human in the mean streets and tunnels taking us to places where we can discover a deeper richness of living.
Behind the headlines, we’re thriving, growing a history that defies the worst of our mistakes, flying love in the face of every contradiction of value…as we dare to risk yet another round of adventure.
“Is the exploration of the natural world just a pleasant way to pass the golden hours of childhood or is there something deeper?
I am sure there is something much deeper, something lasting and significant. Those who dwell, as scientists or laymen, among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life. Whatever the vexation or concerns of their personal lives, their thoughts can find paths that lead to inner contentment and to renewed excitement in living. Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for the spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature — the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.” (Rachel Carson, from The Sense of Wonder)
I reflect on 2013 with surprise, amazement and gratitude. The landscape behind me unfolds many growthful moments sustaining but not without the visitation of potent losses and some ridiculous scuffles with bullies in grown-up pose. Yet, an underpinning of daily love-wealth and a sense of wonder grows in the midst of it all, somehow not diminished by all that could potentially block the light of such a beautiful sun shining down on our fleeting lives. The blossoming of new ventures and friendships, the growth of my children and their ability to nurture the creative within, feltness of soul and the wisdom of authenticity, these realities settle all the questions posed by events impossible to control. The punctuation of some fractured bonds and tides of change suggesting something I should have done differently or might have foreseen if only I hadn’t trusted, loved, kept my heart open…had a pulse, passion, and vision…these moments whisper at me too. “If only” takes me nowhere. So I try not to go there. The alternative is to close off, shut down, refuse risk, assume it’s all caused by some fatal internal flaw. Those “laws of attraction” can pose some ugly possibilities and ignores how ironic it is when the narcissists presumably thrive while the givers receive loss and those who never had a chance take the blame. I’ve concluded popular beliefs are not validated by their popularity any more than when most preferred the flat earth theory. While it’s critical we stay aware of the wicked unconscious within, doing what we can to transform, or corral or oust the more destructive layers of self, I find myself nauseated by the assurances of so many platitudes and easy answers. There are times I want to barricade myself against the world, humanity’s confusion left to boil itself out.
But the sky.
But the hugs and sounds of three birthing the soul of the world in their own unique ways.
But love.
But the call of birds.
But the feel of softness against skin.
Rain on face.
Sun pouring vibrations vibrant.
So much wonder.
Here’s to letting go, leaping into the unknown and trusting love…
A couple weekends ago, we trekked to the woods of Hillsborough, NC for our annual family gathering at my aunt’s lovely home in the woods. While there, we managed to rub elbows with family from Virginia, Georgia, Illinois and Texas – to name a few. The hug count squeezed itself into the dozens. Doses of Purple Jesus and chocolate chip cookies added a flare of whimsy in the afternoon. Purple Jesus is a bit of redemptive alcoholic juice, 100 proof sanctification for the courageous, awaiting brave imbibers in a white bucket with a lid on it. It sits there begging dogmatic reverence find a new vibe, a sort of salvation from anything stuffy or pretentious. Besides the warning signs, the tiny little paper cups are a dead give away: you don’t want much of this heady stuff unless you’re up for a long nap in one of the hammocks or a loud show of your less-than-reserved self. Or one followed by the other. I have about 4 big sips of Purple Jesus every year as a rule. I laugh at the irony, a bucket of 100 proof liberal for a few diverse backgrounds creates that inevitable doorway into common ground. We’re human after all.
It turned out to be one of the best times for me, in spite of my qualms. I often face these gatherings with a contradictory mixture of reticence and pleased anticipation since it’s a lot to ask of my energy in general these days. And our group of folks consists of a mix of significantly conflicting political and spiritual backgrounds. It includes my parents and sisters, the characters from a past life story within my ongoing dynamic life reality, one far-removed from the territories we had claimed together. I much prefer my religion of love, trees and earth but the divide created by such profound change is often best bridged by a river, with a few sips of colorful salvation to make it all go down. It can feel surreal out there under leaves and sky. But we manage to reach past those differences and find the love in the company of trees long lost to ancient resonance, swaying in breezes oblivious to the mind’s pitfalls, sinking roots into radical grace. We take our cues from their silent testimonies, unaware and sedated by their hypnotic ministrations.
And we often walk away wishing for more opportunity to see each other beyond the woods and songs of an afternoon.
In retrospect, I find myself wishing an annual gathering for all the nations of the world, a greet and hug fest of Purple Jesus and chocolate chip cookies for the body, mind and spirit, where we set aside our differences and remember our appetites for affection and common ground, where we listen to music, pull out our guitars and sit by a fire as the river winds her way through the magick trees. We need our place of remembering where we meet, what we share beyond all the differences we pose as obstruction to unity. We need to remember how we’re all reduced to beautifully being human in the arms of earth mother, the flow of elixirs stripping pretense and pretend under the seeing sky so blue.
From Amanda Palmer’s blog, a response to a reaction to a young lady much twerked about. Wait, I mean talked about…
“I want to live in a world where the internal dialogue of a woman’s brain has evolved to the point where a female performer can wear a sex-pot outfit and, instead of the all-too-common head-chatter chorus of ‘UNFAIR! MANIPULATED! WEAK! MANIPULATIVE! EVIL!,’ she dons her sexy costume and hears internal voices screaming ‘FAIR! POWERFUL! PLAYFUL! BRAVE! SEXY!’ You know…you go girl. But not ‘you go girl and be manipulated by the man, or manipulate the men in your wake’. just…’you go girl and wear whatever the fuck you want. And play smart.’
I want to live in a world where WE as women determine what we wear and look like and play the game as our fancy leads us, army pants one minute and killer gown the next, where WE decide whether or not we’re going to play games with the male gaze and the starry-eyed hard-ons that can make men so easy to manipulate. But seriously, let’s all play the game together, with a wink and a nudge…so we don’t hurt each other. If men and women don’t have a constantly open dialogue about how we do and don’t (or should and shouldn’t) manipulate and play with each other, we all lose. We are all fragile humans with little time on this beautiful, sexually-charged, ecstatic planet. Let’s share it to the fullest extent that we can and make the playing field for all of us the size of the whole earth.
In other words, let’s give our young women the right weapons to fight with as they charge naked into battle, instead of ordering them to get back in the house and put some goddamn clothes on.” Amanda Palmer
Spot-on supreme read found here: http://amandapalmer.net/blog/20131003/
I find myself at this shoreline, drenched and still in a wash of life tides. So many little storms and awful swells tossed me around in a night long, almost endless. In those storms and swells were faces I’ve never known personally and those I cherish dearly daily, often kissing, celebrating life. And some faces I’ve never seen or touched but love. I kept grasping for the best wreckage to cling to, the “right” perspective to trust, knowing truth calls out somewhere in the love-support our hearts can illuminate. But with every grope in the direction of what looked to be secure and safe purchase, the waters welled up and slammed back down, turning these lovely safety vests into monsters plunging me under murky depths.
And then I let go, floating to a wild surface, holding to some faith in love, finding myself afloat while gentler tides swelled from within, sending me to foreign shores. But home. Home longed for but not known before all these little storms releasing.
While resting on this shore, I remember what was learned in my tossing, how the worst enemy out there is within. And the ugliest apathy claims some beating hearts and sleeping minds because it’s all they can do to cope. But, regardless of all these injuries, cripplings, wobbling feeble feet, mysteries of goodness divine thrive, sometimes found in wicked shadows. The long-tossing night of endless effort reveals no bad guys or good guys, no heroes or foes, just this washing flood of human artistry sometimes flotsam, jetsam surreal.
All these crashing tides found me not some profound and releasing truth but a freedom in surrendering to the artistry of love’s wilder works and savagespeaking songs singing out loud, sometimes screaming our lives a human collage of vivid soul. Those seas tell me there’s no sense to be made but love-sense and the sometimes nonsense of sharing discoveries as we accept the mutability of the known and the true. Only love redeems our loss and not always in ways we can measure, but as we let go and float, we’re soaked in a wonder no hands can hold…no grief can drown… and no tide can destroy.
Great mother, lover goddess within…
Make for me huge heart bowls bigger than life itself,
bigger than all the worst spills and hurtiest moments,
bigger than the ocean in my soul or the crater in my heart,
bigger than the highways in my mind and the ache that just won’t quit,
bigger than what has been or what could be.
Goddess… make them especially to receive, to insist on welcoming,
to persist in opening, accepting a partaking,
refusing the worst breaking of heart,
make them especially and shape them ruthlessly for love’s bigger feasts,
the ones we spread after betrayal, after misunderstanding,
after the long, long con
the one we watched knowing, seeing others’ schemes
and hoping they’d somehow fizzle out…
Make them relentlessly open to being open again,
to lavishing on top of loss,
for holding more than all the worst or the last best
or the limits of our creativity…
Make them in the face of grief,
in the face of all those limitations I cannot overcome…
Teach me to rest within their stillness knowing,
growing welcome for all I cannot fathom just yet,
all that might be if I could just nest
in their ancient, restoring grace supreme.
Teach me how to use their round and receptive energy to begin again…
and again.
J. Ruth Kelly 