Author: heather

They dance from nowhere planned,

these bright butterflies

in different colours,

sometimes in pairs or small groups

or in unexpected clouds.

 

Honoured by their flight,

the collector has shrugged off her net,

dropped her pins,

lost the need to mount them on the wall.

 

They flutter

and she stands in quiet joy,

knowing they are too precious

for descriptions,

watching the complex colours

in the rhythm of their airborne dancing.

 

Her stillness is all she has.

The quiet pond or branch

– who knows what a butterfly sees? –

her body becomes a welcome rest

for a landing delicacy.

 

She has no camera,

no precision in her recording,

just the soft touch of a pen

and the memory of wing-stroke.

She believed the story

of the 24-hour day,

the certain tilt of the world

as it bowed around the sun

and kept its spinning gentle

without moods or decisions.

 

She believed that each day

required a shape,

a salutation of the dawn,

a careful honouring of tides,

a shared understanding of the vesper time.

She watched the devotional pattern

like a missed train,

or three cars back

from the front of the journey.

 

The body, yes,

its filtering of sun and food

and penchant for dancing,

learned to follow daylight.

 

It listens to rustling in the dark,

and sometimes flies at night.

 

And she has started to absorb

its whispered secret,

the unseen freedom

in the orbit that it follows,

obedient to the pull.

 

The light she thought she needed

lives in a different synchronicity

than the sun of her own real heart.

 

The orbit of her days

spins to follow a rhythm

she is just beginning to taste in her blood.

 

Each gift of 24 hours

is potter’s clay

for the spinning of her own diurnal web

which lasts a little longer

…so that the waking

and the sleeping,

the rising and setting down,

are not confined to a visible gravity.

 

The movements of her flow,

her true orbit,

do not fit neatly in the perceived day.

She needs more time,

and has it.

Inadequately loved,

we all tumble

from the places where we sleep,

feel the slap

of the floor uprising

in the face of our disorientation.

Our legs wobble

before we can rise

to goodness,

a necessary parenting,

a firm and incoherent caring

uplifting from within.

I watch your sleeping,

the formline of defeat and relaxation,

a collapse into non-effort

while the breathing is all that remains

and I wish you could share.

Where are the hidden places that itch?

Where does the sand in your days

touch the soft flesh of your inner skin?

What tears secrete around this pain?

What kinds of pearls are forming?

Will there be a day

where we can break out

in thoughtful abandon

to let the pearls catch light?

You’ve seen the coffeemaker,

how the heat is required,

how flow and bubble unfold,

and there needs to be alignment

or all that fragrant flavour

is wasted on the countertop and floor.

So too with me,

the way my will

can shove me out of line,

afraid of the devotion

of the shift back

to centre,

unsure of my capacity

to receive warmth.

And yet the subtle shift

allows me to be filled,

receive the drips

until there is enough to share

the energizing fuel.

The writhing oracle

pants in her lair,

swirls with the colours

of burning infinities

wheeling through the skies,

unseen and hiding.

Pandora’s box,

the lid has slid,

an internal spilling,

the crazy chaos

point and counterpoint,

speed and dead calm,

shrieks of disaster

in a field of spring crocus,

tortured innocent children

kaleidoscoped against clean linen on the line.

Too much to speak,

no groan allows

for subtle deep utterance,

a precious symphony,

a billion tones in one gong.

The dancers spin,

bright silks and homespun,

whirls and clicks and jumping.

Musicians pluck and thump and strum,

they blow and tap,

they open up their throats

in deep emergence.

The painters watch like hawks,

absorbing what they see

into their hands,

channeling a vivid use of sticks,

colour mottled on the page

or etched on the rock wall

or moulded by the sculptors,

peeled by the carvers.

The surfers lie adrift

until the madness surges through,

aligned to ride the wave,

to summon graceful bravery,

falling and fizzling,

mastering the art of surrender.

We can all ride the wave,

the vibrant serpent

wriggling up through the belly

gathering an armload of tears and cackles,

breaking through the clamped lid, the vise of good intention,

to reach the heart

with seeds so they can flower.

We can feel the serpent tendrils

move upward to the choked tension of our need,

to free our ears for listening,

loosen our neck from holding.

We can feel a tongue of flame

flicker into the pool of vision,

causing it to bubble or be still.

And when the rich snake of sensation,

of alert unknowing,

touches through the cap

to the broad expanse,

the infinite tender,

all questions disappear.

An oracle can step outside her cave

to share a glance of kinship

with the surfer strolling past,

on his way to listen

to the friend with the sweet guitar.

Like a doula,

she sits with the birthing;

watching the pain

and providing some comfort,

she notices the push,

monitors the heart,

invites more breath.

No prescribing here,

she helps the not-yet-mother

through transition

to arrival of a tender joy.

There is tearing skin, and blood,

there is slowness, speedy intensity,

danger

– her sitting is alert, and poised for intervention.

No delivering here,

she has nothing to impart,

receiver of creation;

one who honours the journey,

helps to ease the labouring,

lets tears and laughter craft a celebration.

It could be play-dough

or paper snowflakes,

a composition of notes

musical or erudite,

or pickling cabbage for winter…

or this intense gaze over the field,

bright gold against sweet blue,

a swirling dance

provoked by scouring wind.

This view from the couch,

where green is unmasked,

its true colour deepening the orange flame

… no jars for this containment,

piercing and humble,

no careful labelled row upon the shelf,

no audience,

no room to tape this on the fridge.

Harvest now,

not as a collector of leaves;

be moved by their connective shimmering,

let movement whirl you

to the stillpoint

where there is no holding.

They wandered to the river,

two grateful hearts

savouring autumn gold

as if it were a plum that travelled far

for consummation.

 

One allowed the cooling season in

to calm the fire,

begin the forward bend,

the slow protective shelter,

descent into quiet,

warm nest against the cold.

 

One allowed vivid tongues of leaf

to lick her heart,

stoke heat in bright rally

against impending night.

 

Two lush fruit at harvest,

sunkissed and windscoured,

rooted in the searing void,

cherishing earth.

 

The river taught,

its ageless empty flow

carrying yet another conversation,

soundwaves lapping at some farther northern shore.

 

The weavers wove their words

on the loom of meandering footsteps,

finding new paths back home.

 

And then –

bright decadent parade,

pure grace descending in the shape of leaves,

a swirling yellow joy

enveloped both,

adorned the day with sweet recognition,

slowing the heartbeat of time

so two could share the blessing.

The way a bee dives,

quivering with effort

but fully engaged,

pulled by the energy of sweetness,

drenched in inescapable perfume

… hovering, attentive,

it drinks its fill,

allows the sticky pollen

to use its homeward flight

for spreading life.

No need to resist,

to filter out the gorgeous whiffs arising,

block beauty emanating all around.

Propelled,

busy and intense,

it plunges repeatedly in soft depths,

absorbing delicious nectar.

Let yourself be lured.