New Year's Resolution - Humor: A New Poem

I don't know about you, but I take things so seriously. It's not that I don't have a sense of humor. I just to need to bump laughter higher up on my list of responses to things.  It could be my new year's resolution, though I really don't usually make them.

So, here's the poem:

Finding Humor

With a Nod to May Sarton

 

 

Is it hidden

under a rock?

Gone underground?

Risen up to float

on a cloud?

Or is it lurking

behind the very serious

redwood trees,

waiting for the right moment

to leap out and

startle me?

 

I am bound and determined

to find it.

I will search through

the detritus for

a flash of shine.

I am coming for you,

humor.

Your pixie ways

do not deter me,

for I was told to

hold to three things:

strength; laughter; endurance.

I can conjure strength,

be resolved and enduring.

But laughter?

Well, then...

Here I am -

coming for you.

The May Sarton reference? It's this poem, which I keep close to me and have for a long time.

Maybe it's here?

Who answers the door? A new poem

 The title of the poem says it all...

Fear

  

He sits, vigilant,

in a hard-backed chair,

twirling a thin mustache

between thumb

and forefinger.

Any time there is

a knock at the door,

he is quick to

get there first.

I never even try

to beat him

to the punch.

 

Look - I say to him –

You have done this

my whole life.

Can’t you let

someone else

respond?

 

Absolutely not – he says.

You gave me this job,

and I will always

perform.

 

All right – I say.

But I will follow

and decide myself

how to welcome

any arrival.

 

His shoulders

slump a bit.

He is so used

to being

in control.

But I am no longer

a child, or even

an adult.

I am an old woman.

It is time

to take my place.

I sit down

In that chair.

He backs off

and goes to stand

in the corner,

waiting.

Redemption: Dream Work and a New Poem

 I had three dreams in a month in which old heartbreaks returned.  After speaking about this and relating one of the dreams to my dream group, this poem came.  I named it Redemption.

Sit in the east.

You are not alone,

but the group

is small.

When you ask

for help,

you are told

to play

your drum and

sing your song

softly.

You obey

the directive,

and a thought arises,

a thread that

you need

to follow,

back through memory,

back through heartbreak,

back through anger.

What brought you pain

lies deeper than

rejection, deeper than

the hurts bestowed

by those who

were never worthy

of you.

To the center

of the maze

you must go,

following the cord

that leads

deep into

your heart.

What loving Ariadne

waits for you

to do what

must be done,

who gifted you

the means

to find your way

home?

SoulCollage® card - Healing Dreams

Facing the Storm: SoulCollage® and Poetry

 In these times of so much grief, anger and suffering, it feels self-indulgent to post about my small life.  But, our lives do go on, along with our emotions around the bigger picture.

Today I want to talk about one of the beauties of the SoulCollage® process.  You put a few images together that have drawn you to them, and often you have no idea what the joining of them truly signifies until you work with the card later.  Somehow, this simple, enjoyable activity manages to get to what is truly going on for you, on both superficial and deeper levels.

This is my most recent card:

When I picked up the central image, I saw the figure as naked, vulnerable, and heading into a ritual, perhaps one of initiation.  When placed on the background, he hugely dominated it.  On the original photo, he did not loom so large.  It's a little hard to see here, but there is an additional image on the bottom of some ruins.  I didn't know at the time why it was necessary, but when I added it, I felt the card was complete.

I've sat with the card on my writing table/altar for some weeks now.  Finally, a short poem came, and it helped me to deepen my understanding of what the card meant.  Here it is:

Facing the Storm

Like Inanna,

I have had

one thing

after another

stripped away,

and still,

I descend.

Naked. Vulnerable.

And yet,

I breathe

up strength.

I rise,

shoulders back,

confronting an

electrifying lightning

storm that

crashes onto

the far landscape.

I stand on

my ancestors’

shoulders, on

the earth

that holds

me up, on

my native abilities

to persevere,

and on

the necessity

to yield.

There are so many powerful storms facing all of us now.  All I know is that art and poetry are important as we go on.  May we be held.  May we persevere.  May we yield.

Returning from Mendocino: Rumi's Caravan and a New Poem

 Last weekend, Rumi's Caravan was invited to Fort Bragg.  We were beautifully housed, fed, invited into community gatherings, and of course, we spouted some poems in a wonderful venue, the Spirit House for Attitudinal Healing.

Barry and I took advantage of being up north on the coast to spend an additional night in Mendocino.  After we got home, this poem came (although the whole weekend was a balm for the soul, not just the way home.)

Returning from Mendocino

 

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places and desecrated places.

-Wendell Berry

 

 

When the early autumn day

is clear and still;

when the broad Pacific’s waves

crash in towards your toes

and then roll the beach pebbles

back out to sea, hissing and rhythmic

in susurrating whispers;

when you head inland then,

alongside the river’s relentless rush

to the opening ocean;

when arriving at the redwood forest,

you enter the trees’ majestic vigil

as into a ritual;

when you leave the car,

feet crunching fragrant dry needles

on the fern-filled forest floor;

when you rest your forehead and palms

against a rough and fibrous trunk

and feel your kinship;

then you know with no uncertainty

what a privilege it is to be

in places so silent and sacred

that man-made desecration

does not touch them.

Oh, there is the tarred road

and the rude disruption of

a passing car or logging truck,

but the holiness is undiminished,

so vividly alive and vital.

All the earth is sacred,

but some places reveal this truth

so clearly, so compellingly,

that your heart breathes

a sigh of relief, and you offer

a silent prayer of gratitude

for this world,

for this life,

for this magnificence,

for this cleansing

of dispirited and

and weary souls.

A New Poem: Balance Is Everything

In the dream,

I had a

sacred calling:

to be a

mask carrier,

one who

could handle

the most holy

of objects.

Two rival tribes

warred constantly,

but one

kept winning

as it held

many more

of the 

sacred masks.

And so,

I removed

some of

their masks

and brought

them to the

other tribe.

I woke up

before seeing

if the wars

stopped, but

I knew that

the power

was equalized.

 

The thing is,

I’ve come

to realize

that balance

is everything.

 

The Navajo live

by ceremony

and Hózhó,

harmony and beauty.

 

The Balinese wrap

their altars in

black and white

checkered fabric,

symbolizing balance.

 

The Hawaiian way

is ho’oponopono,

with reconciliation and

forgiveness at its heart.

 

We cultureless ones

long for that,

for a long exhalation

of relief.

 

How to return

to the center,

where we might

find calm and

the blessings of

a balanced life?

How can I,

how can we,

be sacred

mask carriers?

 

SoulCollage® card - The Mask Carrier