Sporadic blogging as we are in the midst of relocating again ...
 |
| from this view ... |
 |
| TO THIS VIEW |
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
relocating
Monday, March 12, 2012
paradise
Striding along the walk, crossing over the lines, established trees with their white skeletons showing through thin skin provide spotty shade.
All flow is in one direction, a single purpose, we move toward stories and fun, footsteps rapid we are like letters streaming from fluid ink across thirsty parchment.
Feel our common intent.
Walking, talking, quiet voices echo the hush of library sanctity, and then other streams of equally eager yet more resounding voices flow into ours and ours into theirs, our creative juices mixing together as the pace quickens in anticipation.
My heart flutters--what will it be like?
Location unknown, grounds unfamiliar to my feet, and yet I hurry so as not to miss even a single moment.
Turn a corner, really a curve that is gentle and easy to navigate, and see a hive of activity with colors and textures clamoring for attention more loud than even the voices of swelling crowds.
This edge is only the beginning.
Shoulders bump and bodies collide.
Some hurry while others meander creating ripples among the flow.
A carnival celebrating words and stories.
I smell the kettle corn and my mouth waters with desire, filling with juices.
Balloons bob and weave as they are tugged along by eager children being themselves towed by book-loving parents.
The chaos, or what seems that way, is exciting yet overwhelming as I read signs and trace my finger along lines of a map.
Where is it?
A bump from the side and I lose my place.
Farther?
I continue, a slightly impatient air arises within as I feel my body tense. Release it.
Blocked ahead, go the other way, wind around and back again as a stroller nearly runs over my exposed toes. A close call.
There!
My gaze latches onto an arrow pointing to the large brick building to my left that is the destination I've been seeking.
Phew!
So close yet it seems to take forever to part the wide river of people in order to turn and swim in a cross-wise direction to the primary flow.
And finally, I arrive, plopping down on an auditorium seat in a moderately sized lecture hall; the perfect size, I thought, except that, as I watch the last few minutes tick away before the presentation begins, people are turned away at the door.
Seating full. No more room. "I'm sorry ... fire codes ..." I hear only bits of conversation, the soft but firm voices of volunteers as they transform into sentries.
And that becomes the pattern for these two days, class after class.
Thankfully, the majority of people seem to be here for the tents housing books for sale in all genre, or simply to soak up the atmosphere of a festival on these bright, warm days so normal here yet still a wonder to any recent transplants like me.
A rare opportunity to hear so much great experience, advice and wisdom coming directly from the voices of authors who have traveled the writer's path and had their work recognized.
In every class, there is near-silence until Q&A at the end.
I can feel myself, along with everyone else, leaning forward with attentive energy if not actual body.
Well-known authors mingle with first-book novices and the joy of stories is a bubble enveloping the entire campus this day.
I am grateful for the event and the timing; the joy of immersion in activities so precious--writing and reading--helping to ease the past week's grief.
Yet it is neither escape or distraction from loss but rather filling each moment with presence and content that is an expression of life in another one of its many aspects.
All flow is in one direction, a single purpose, we move toward stories and fun, footsteps rapid we are like letters streaming from fluid ink across thirsty parchment.
Feel our common intent.
My heart flutters--what will it be like?
Location unknown, grounds unfamiliar to my feet, and yet I hurry so as not to miss even a single moment.
Turn a corner, really a curve that is gentle and easy to navigate, and see a hive of activity with colors and textures clamoring for attention more loud than even the voices of swelling crowds.
This edge is only the beginning.
Shoulders bump and bodies collide.
Some hurry while others meander creating ripples among the flow.
A carnival celebrating words and stories.
I smell the kettle corn and my mouth waters with desire, filling with juices.
Balloons bob and weave as they are tugged along by eager children being themselves towed by book-loving parents.
The chaos, or what seems that way, is exciting yet overwhelming as I read signs and trace my finger along lines of a map.
Where is it?
A bump from the side and I lose my place.
Farther?
I continue, a slightly impatient air arises within as I feel my body tense. Release it.
Blocked ahead, go the other way, wind around and back again as a stroller nearly runs over my exposed toes. A close call.
There!
My gaze latches onto an arrow pointing to the large brick building to my left that is the destination I've been seeking.
Phew!
So close yet it seems to take forever to part the wide river of people in order to turn and swim in a cross-wise direction to the primary flow.
And finally, I arrive, plopping down on an auditorium seat in a moderately sized lecture hall; the perfect size, I thought, except that, as I watch the last few minutes tick away before the presentation begins, people are turned away at the door.
Seating full. No more room. "I'm sorry ... fire codes ..." I hear only bits of conversation, the soft but firm voices of volunteers as they transform into sentries.
And that becomes the pattern for these two days, class after class.
No time to wait in long food lines though as an amazing class could be missed.
People scurry in and out of bathrooms faster than I've ever seen!
Thankfully, the majority of people seem to be here for the tents housing books for sale in all genre, or simply to soak up the atmosphere of a festival on these bright, warm days so normal here yet still a wonder to any recent transplants like me.
A rare opportunity to hear so much great experience, advice and wisdom coming directly from the voices of authors who have traveled the writer's path and had their work recognized.
In every class, there is near-silence until Q&A at the end.
I can feel myself, along with everyone else, leaning forward with attentive energy if not actual body.
Well-known authors mingle with first-book novices and the joy of stories is a bubble enveloping the entire campus this day.
I am grateful for the event and the timing; the joy of immersion in activities so precious--writing and reading--helping to ease the past week's grief.
Yet it is neither escape or distraction from loss but rather filling each moment with presence and content that is an expression of life in another one of its many aspects.
Happily exhausted.
The End.
_______________________
The Fourth Annual Tucson Festival of Books, over 100,000 attending last year, was held on the University of Arizona campus (the photo is of the building called Old Main). All the presentations were free (as was parking which was great). If you are a writer or avid reader, go HERE for my notes on the authors and classes/presentations that I attended; they were amazing.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Before and After
THE DAY BEFORE LOSS...
See through a glass clearly yet all is upside down,
a reflection reversed and up-ended,
so that ground is air and wind is earth,
and we are all one in the bubble of the world of illusion.
We think we are one way and yet could easily be the other,
only our vision, our perception,
details the path we travel.
So many eyes that see the same yet perceive what is revealed so differently.
Crystal clear depths that rise above the sky into the ether where all is so transparent.
And down below,
the solid is translucent allowing freshness and insight
to flow easily into the grounding of rooted Oneness.
Continue writing,
allowing the flow without restriction,
without control of thought as pen sweeps upon the page and
mind is magically transmitted onto something that will last longer than the fleeting spark itself,
a keepsake of the moment not necessary and yet a gift here and there where we share together,
each of us writing, and knowing, simple trust,
that what spark emerges upon the page is an expression of journey
that blossoms here just as the flowers in the field.
The clarity of perception does not have to make sense in the moment
for at some point it will simply BE the sense of that moment of expression,
and will be right side up for some and
upside down for others.
We all perceive in the way we need to,
our paths unique yet following a common star across the galaxy,
mirrored within the bubble that is the world illusion.
Words, just words.
Helping us communicate, that is their gift.
Coming from love and desire to reach others, to reach out.
Hands open.
Palms exposed.
We are the tender center, the heart of the spark, and when we open,
the honey of love flows, transformed by those who welcome,
we embrace each other in our common field of seeds and blooms and spare stalks of what once was.
Trailing thoughts that have no control, just flowing, releasing,
escaping into the world to be born again and again,
rearranged or captured briefly.
Only we who write can share so broadly with fine lines
like wrinkles upon the face of time Herself as we expose our innermost selves,
the thoughts that are hidden by some become revealed for healing into Union.
We are all One.
What we express is not alone and abandoned,
not an orphan walking the desert without hope for always nearby,
beneath the prickles of the armor we raise,
lay the tender hearts of love and nourishment.
Blown hither and yon, delicate words of ancient measure,
we tremble upon the moment, kneeling and offering our meager thoughts into the world,
the form a blessed gift of illusion's joy to explore and learn from and find comfort within.
We all walk together yet alone.
Each of us finding our own way in the clear crystal we see through
when we shine and polish the dirty walls we've built around us
until they fall gently away beneath the caress of a soft, warm cloth
and our scars are buffed until smooth.
See the wounds, healed through gentle touch and precious birth,
each of us wandering into a mystery too beautiful to behold directly
so we see through the glass,
the colors reflected,
and drink from Her goblet of life waters flowing forever,
touching each droplet that connects us all.
No separation for all our oceans pulse together and we see clearly.
Upside down or right side up is no matter for all is perception of the One.
We drink of Gaia's clarity together and fall asleep within Her embrace.
All is revealed.
A FEW DAYS AFTER TRANSITION...
The wheel turns,
the hourglass is tipped,
life's cauldron is brimming with charred remains and possibility.
No longer is spirit confined to the soup
but swirling and flying with all colors and shapes
among the winds and into the ether
that gives birth to all
with the sound of laughter and love.
Breathing in the song of the world,
we are free of limitation.
Like the fireflies that seem to appear magically in the dark yet are always here,
lighting my way is Spirit and the souls of all who love
and companions who once were are never gone.
Close my eyes and I can see him.
I can hear his voice if I listen closely,
feel his body beneath my fingers.
He's still here more subtle, in spirit,
it is only that I need to be aware, present,
and pause to breathe him in.
Moving with the change,
lifting my feet and heart to
go with the flow of birth and death,
with the life that is now and beyond.
As one soars away, another calls.
Always there is another blessed being who gives freely and accepts openly.
Not expectation or demands of responsibility but
giving because of love, I am humbled by innocence
that shines through the shadows like a beacon.
Rediscovering this place of freedom,
this space from which to respond out of love,
is an individual path, a unique journey to us all,
one that cannot be forced but simply allowed.
To love and give to another,
then suffer the momentary pain of loss,
and move through it upon soft wings and gentle tears,
is a gift.
Not avoid the love out of fear of pain.
Open to a moment of pure presence so exquisite that it almost blinds.
Spiral into the joy of life and love that includes creation and loss.
I don't want to lose the joy from fear of the pain
that is a final expression of deep connection
now disconnected from form yet still tied together in spirit,
our threads woven as One for all time,
the patterns shared.
Be happy to love and be loved,
without fear of death and dying,
because I can't ignore it or distance myself from ending
if I cherish beginnings and creation
for they walk hand in hand in the world of form.
I look around and see the blossoming of creation and feel joy.
Gratitude that if he had to go, that he left when so much is just beginning.
And if I listen,
I can hear the voices of all my beloveds flying in the wind,
carried around the world,
soaring in song and rejoicing in harmony,
singing the world into Spring.
What a beautiful song.
 |
| the day before writing prompted by this visual |
See through a glass clearly yet all is upside down,
a reflection reversed and up-ended,
so that ground is air and wind is earth,
and we are all one in the bubble of the world of illusion.
We think we are one way and yet could easily be the other,
only our vision, our perception,
details the path we travel.
So many eyes that see the same yet perceive what is revealed so differently.
Crystal clear depths that rise above the sky into the ether where all is so transparent.
And down below,
the solid is translucent allowing freshness and insight
to flow easily into the grounding of rooted Oneness.
Continue writing,
allowing the flow without restriction,
without control of thought as pen sweeps upon the page and
mind is magically transmitted onto something that will last longer than the fleeting spark itself,
a keepsake of the moment not necessary and yet a gift here and there where we share together,
each of us writing, and knowing, simple trust,
that what spark emerges upon the page is an expression of journey
that blossoms here just as the flowers in the field.
The clarity of perception does not have to make sense in the moment
for at some point it will simply BE the sense of that moment of expression,
and will be right side up for some and
upside down for others.
We all perceive in the way we need to,
our paths unique yet following a common star across the galaxy,
mirrored within the bubble that is the world illusion.
Words, just words.
Helping us communicate, that is their gift.
Coming from love and desire to reach others, to reach out.
Hands open.
Palms exposed.
We are the tender center, the heart of the spark, and when we open,
the honey of love flows, transformed by those who welcome,
we embrace each other in our common field of seeds and blooms and spare stalks of what once was.
Trailing thoughts that have no control, just flowing, releasing,
escaping into the world to be born again and again,
rearranged or captured briefly.
Only we who write can share so broadly with fine lines
like wrinkles upon the face of time Herself as we expose our innermost selves,
the thoughts that are hidden by some become revealed for healing into Union.
We are all One.
What we express is not alone and abandoned,
not an orphan walking the desert without hope for always nearby,
beneath the prickles of the armor we raise,
lay the tender hearts of love and nourishment.
Blown hither and yon, delicate words of ancient measure,
we tremble upon the moment, kneeling and offering our meager thoughts into the world,
the form a blessed gift of illusion's joy to explore and learn from and find comfort within.
We all walk together yet alone.
Each of us finding our own way in the clear crystal we see through
when we shine and polish the dirty walls we've built around us
until they fall gently away beneath the caress of a soft, warm cloth
and our scars are buffed until smooth.
See the wounds, healed through gentle touch and precious birth,
each of us wandering into a mystery too beautiful to behold directly
so we see through the glass,
the colors reflected,
and drink from Her goblet of life waters flowing forever,
touching each droplet that connects us all.
No separation for all our oceans pulse together and we see clearly.
Upside down or right side up is no matter for all is perception of the One.
We drink of Gaia's clarity together and fall asleep within Her embrace.
All is revealed.
 |
© Jarosław Brzychcy | Dreamstime.com |
The wheel turns,
the hourglass is tipped,
life's cauldron is brimming with charred remains and possibility.
No longer is spirit confined to the soup
but swirling and flying with all colors and shapes
among the winds and into the ether
that gives birth to all
with the sound of laughter and love.
Breathing in the song of the world,
we are free of limitation.
Like the fireflies that seem to appear magically in the dark yet are always here,
lighting my way is Spirit and the souls of all who love
and companions who once were are never gone.
Close my eyes and I can see him.
I can hear his voice if I listen closely,
feel his body beneath my fingers.
He's still here more subtle, in spirit,
it is only that I need to be aware, present,
and pause to breathe him in.
Moving with the change,
lifting my feet and heart to
go with the flow of birth and death,
with the life that is now and beyond.
As one soars away, another calls.
Always there is another blessed being who gives freely and accepts openly.
Not expectation or demands of responsibility but
giving because of love, I am humbled by innocence
that shines through the shadows like a beacon.
Rediscovering this place of freedom,
this space from which to respond out of love,
is an individual path, a unique journey to us all,
one that cannot be forced but simply allowed.
To love and give to another,
then suffer the momentary pain of loss,
and move through it upon soft wings and gentle tears,
is a gift.
Not avoid the love out of fear of pain.
Open to a moment of pure presence so exquisite that it almost blinds.
Spiral into the joy of life and love that includes creation and loss.
I don't want to lose the joy from fear of the pain
that is a final expression of deep connection
now disconnected from form yet still tied together in spirit,
our threads woven as One for all time,
the patterns shared.
Be happy to love and be loved,
without fear of death and dying,
because I can't ignore it or distance myself from ending
if I cherish beginnings and creation
for they walk hand in hand in the world of form.
I look around and see the blossoming of creation and feel joy.
Gratitude that if he had to go, that he left when so much is just beginning.
And if I listen,
I can hear the voices of all my beloveds flying in the wind,
carried around the world,
soaring in song and rejoicing in harmony,
singing the world into Spring.
What a beautiful song.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Pockets of Presence
 |
How we fill the pockets made from silk or cotton is a choice as we
reach to the sky and into our hearts where ocean waves pound gently upon shores pristine or scattered over with the remnants of untended dreams and purpose.
My fingers delve deep, the pockets seeming small from outer vision yet they are truly without end, feeling their way through a bit of grit here or an old M&M or a fluffy ball of lint that once hid Her Voice with a muffled sort of echo that could only be heard among the silence of solitude on distant mountain trails where songs were played and harmony swelled and scampered.
Always the pockets and only my mind keeps them tattered or soft as flannel or ironed with starch so stiff I cannot reach in without scraping my knucles.
Pockets of presence that emit dark secrets and the light of love and the ever-changing gifts that flow like a river of warm oil onto dry parched skin.
Magically changing, they are full and then empty, and allow for the shifting that occurs without warning.
All the tools that I need are here in my pockets like little felt treasure boxes lining my pants and my shirts, the pockets all colors and textures.
See here the denim that resists all the dirt or the lacy one of handkerchiefs grandma kept in her purse.
Or look there's a sweet one all sticky with honey from harvesting love freely offered.
Pockets of presence are all over my skin like the soft petals of flowers.
I wear them without knowing and then see them suddenly when I stop looking.
Pause and reach down or across and they appear.
A reminder ... all that I need is always right here.
My form is shaped by the pockets of past
that shimmer and wrinkle as time flies so fast.
Here are the moments of each step on the path
and they all contain gifts, treasures beyond measure.
If they are dirty be washed, if tattered be mended.
And with only a thought they are whole.
Pockets of presence clothing the Soul.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
