Leaves in Memoria

 The sun sets through broken clouds,

reflects off flickering leaves falling

to the ground before

the cold winter sets in.

In a passing moment, 

        their lives reflected 

                before they dissolve 

                away to nothing.  

They are not real. Not now.

Their flesh was only an illusion 

        of every other leaf,

                every other face 

                        that gazed upon them.  

They were the buzzing bee 

        that pollinated its flowers,

                the caterpillar that feasted 

                        on its tender shoots 

                                and laid its eggs among its branches.  

Each leaf was something else 

        experienced a hundred-fold.  

They too were not real. Not now.  

For what once was, 

        death takes away.  

                Becomes something else.  

We loved, we hated.  

        We were sad, joyous.  

Not now.  

        No longer real.  

                Simply were.

—Paul Causey

Tenderness

 

—Kim Mosley

Swaha

A tribute to those affected by the Marshall Fire that occurred in Boulder County, Colorado in December.

When she first told us, she listed out the things most dear:

Two decades of soul collage.

Handmade mosaics in every window.

Process painting.

Gardening.

Children’s art and birth books.

Grandparent’s legacy.

Dad’s meditation shawl.

Her wedding ring.

Her son’s clay turtle.

Rainbow weaving and sunflower and self portrait.

Her other son’s family newsletters and battle scenes and mazes.

Decades of pictures saved on a laptop.

Hammock.

Trampoline.

The porch her son built.

Their cars.

Climbing, camping, skiing, and biking equipment.

All of this that made up not merely a home, but a self-proclaimed sacred space. A part of her, like bones.

Then she said:

Swaha. All is gone.

I have been holding this word – swaha – ever since.

Swaha.

So be it, by the fierce power of agni, the fire.

Swaha.

OK. I surrender. I surrender now. And now. And now.

Swaha.

It is easy to curl into a ball and let the inertia of grief envelop you. It is the greatest courage to let the inertia be alchemized into the gratitude that gets you up and open to all that is being revealed to you.

Swaha.

I am connected now to all of the griefs of the world, for all those who have lost everything.

Swaha.

I am not my possessions. I am something else entirely.

Swaha.

When all has dropped away, the steady gaze and comfort of compassion remains. It lives in our blood, behind our eyes. It helps us to remember the power of the invisible.

Swaha. 

To raise your hands to the sky and say thank you, thank you for all that remains, for all that is not lost, that has not gone.

—Liz Tucker-Rogers

winter booster

 

winter booster

the surprising depth 

of his eyes

—Melanie Alberts

No Resistance

"To offer no resistance to life is to be in a state of ease, grace, lightness. This state is

then no longer dependent upon things being in a certain way, good or bad."

— Ekhart Tolle

I experience a lot of resistance to life. 

I experience a lot of judgment.

Even now as I write, I notice the judgment, the anxious wondering 

whether readers will find my prose articulate, my words clear, 

whether the essence of my message will come through. 

I resist the urge to backspace, delete, as I desperately strive towards

A state where my worthiness isn't dependent 

On judgment, on good or bad.

Ease, grace, lightness. Life has felt anything but. 

Heavy, burdensome, stumbling.

Forgetting what's in the path is part of my path, 

   that the obstacle is the way. 

But I wish there weren't so many obstacles… 

I wish I wasn't in my own way. 

The obstacles of my mind, and my judgment, and my wishing things were different. 

The obstacles of seemingly insurmountable grief and pain and suffering. 

The obstacles of this quivering mountain, threatening to swallow me whole.

But maybe if a landslide is bound to happen, I can learn to ride the wave. 

Become a part of the mountain, be at one with the suffering, be submerged by the

insurmountable. 

Remember that things look steeper from a particular angle. 

Remember that we’re all made of stardust and I can one day be part of the journey others

traverse. 

Indeed, I already am.

Maybe one day my bones will shatter, and my corpse will turn to ash. 

To be scattered into soil, my death and my passing 

To nourish, give life to what’s next to come. 

Death and rebirth into different forms, until I learn that we are all empty and we are all one.

We are all empty, and we are all one, there is no perfect form, These constructs are

judgements; separation - illusion. Emptiness is where we all come, to where we will all return.

If are the universe experiencing itself, this part of the universe is suffering.

And that's okay... it's not good or bad, I need not resist. I need not persist. It just is. It just is. It

just is.

—Maggie Huang