Month: November 2012

For all that we dress worship

in fancy robes,

loose silk or thick brocade,

it is really just a simple thanks.

It is the act of grateful pause,

the uncertain offering of just one

cherished thing,

or even the hole where it used to reside,

and a pause for noticing

how that one beloved

is attached to more,

like the tip of a magician’s bright scarf

that can be tugged endlessly.

It is the necessary humbling

that comes from remembering

the vast expanse,

both inside and out,

a thank you without words

that may find a way to fit into them,

or drip into music

or the rustle of gathered breathing.

And this can be a guide

when you are lost

in the many exhortations;

to listen for the voice

that rings the most true joy

to free your gratitude.

 

The reason we hate witches

is because they know

we belong to a dirty decrepit family

we want no part of.

 

They welcome us into the coven

of the damned

when we want to be the lucky escapees.

 

They don’t even have the decency

to be outcasts

in their various states of decay

and bedragglement

but cluster under the moon

and practice soaring.

 

They access secret wisdom

through the use of everyday potions,

imbuing a ripe kitchen

with terrible power.

 

We can’t even be sure they like us,

for their stares are piercing

as if we are naked

in ways we learned not to be.

 

On dark nights

when we have no choices left

and find ourselves

clutching cold gravestones

we may peek

towards their circles of firelight.

 

We can stumble

towards their hot brew,

listen to their harsh songs,

take our place.

 

Eventually

we feel stirrings,

the urge to fly

becoming

the reason we love witches.

Some words for a coming-of-age ceremony or as vows before a marriage:

I promise to love my body

and care for it with healthy compassion

to the best of my changing capacity.

 

I promise to listen to my feelings

and pay attention to what they can teach me.

I will try to be courageous and humble

when I share them.

 

I promise to seek alignment

with my own true journey,

and notice when I am being pulled off course,

and care about the journeying.

 

I promise to hold out my arms to the world

even when I am afraid of risk,

and honour whatever finds its way into my embrace.

 

I promise to keep discovering more about myself,

my limits and my expanse,

so I can know and share authentic goodness.

Do you know

she once gave a butterfly necklace

and a much-needed cup of praise

to a thirsty girl

who then became an artist?

 

And she doesn’t remember

but I know it was her

because of her affinity for transformation

and the way she used butterflies

to spread subversion,

promoting flight.

 

And usually I like to hide

the fountains of my wisdom

under universal disguises,

but this source is obvious:

my lovely mother,

who touched so many lives

and does not often get to see

the fruitful rains

stirred up by her wings.

I am the birther,

head flung back

and then staring forward

without a plan

and only the deep contraction of pain

that is also exhultation.

 

Too long I worried about

what kind of creatures

I was growing,

whether they had what they needed

to suck nourishment

instead of paltry poison,

and what they looked like

in the light.

 

Too long I worried

that the bleeding was not fresh,

a residue of afterbirths

layering in my womb.

 

Too long I feared

the debt of caretaking

with all this proliferation,

and even had the gall

to question the parenting

of many I hold dear.

 

The labour room has space

for all of us,

come lie down

for the rest

between the times you are gripped,

listen to my moans

and I will hear your panting,

know

that we are safe from madness

through our surrender.

“To birth the baby and dwell on the baby at the same time engenders madness.” – Chogyam Trungpa

 

Arise

aroused,

let life take shape

inside your messy form,

 

watch before dawn

for curtains of aurora

blown in breezes that you cannot touch,

stand still

so their movement has even more visible flux.

Let the bright cry of starlight

fill your heart

and empty your chest;

the momentary flash

of yet another meteorite

reminding you of an urgency;

the sky will only chuckle.

 

Try to bathe

in the puddle of your desire,

wallowing it deeper

until it swells into a ditch

that might meet

the large river.

 

Follow shadows

with the curiosity that comes

from remembering

they are a gift of the light,

an offering of insubstantial perspective,

another means to see.

 

Remember too that colour

needs you to see it,

that all this splendour

waits for your eyes to open.

 

“I am strong but lazy”

I said as a joke

but it is true…

why is easy for me to turn a blind eye

to the fact of the world’s dying

as if I don’t need

to take it personally?

 

Why is there

such sweet temptation

in the offer of help?

 

How do I channel

this restlessness

and shoulder my part of the load?

They belong in the wood boiler

those poems,

about the way the young lover

took me by surprise

even though it was planned

from my first gasp,

and the way I was a madam

in the whorehouse

that I never even saw

or knew the way to.

 

It is not fun,

but perhaps necessary

to let the ego run around the room

for what might be the last time,

watch the way it preens

or has a tantrum of unrequited need

that it calls love,

because it has no other word.

 

There is a hot spring nearby

that has a source

and runs back into the earth

so it is not trapped

but fully fluid.

 

My pretty ego,

my Gollum in disguise,

my crying child

and frustrated mid-life lover

intermingled

can feel the draw of warmth

by the water’s edge

and are getting ready

but not gracefully

to enter.

Fecundity

and libido,

both protrusions;

both require a way of making room

for new shapes,

for the discomfort of thrust

from within and without,

for the letting go of plans

in order to receive.

 

Inextricable

and different,

they entangle me

when I let them

and then sometimes

there is no me

but just the sound of bodies panting.

And because the word “tousled”

does not do justice

to the wild unfettered red of his hair,

let me say this:

when he said it was better

to be a pessimist

because then you don’t get hurt,

I smiled at him with courage,

not bravado

or false cheeriness,

and said

that optimists

can roll with the pain

and open up to letting in

so much more.