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

What does a Mirror do?

The sun has set, the sky turned black.

The view through the window is now looking back. 

I see you. Can you see me?   

You have eyes, but can they see?

They say the eyes are windows to the soul.

But when I look into your eyes, looking back into mine, 

my mind sees you, in time 

sees me, the person that you stole.

Are you thinking what I am thinking? Or thinking what you will?

Or are you thinking much at all? Alas,

has your mind become so clear, so empty and so still?

Empty mind. No mind, smooth as glass?

I wish that I could have this buddha’s mind I see. 

Within this glass, you look like me,

perfection in duplicity.

But sorely lacking in humanity.  

You mock me while I am looking out, while you are looking in.

What truths do you hold, that in this glass call home?

The life you claim you take within,

save only what I give you from my own.

When I gaze at my reflection,

I see your silence. I hear myself put words into your mouth.

So soft, almost beneath detection.

A northern whisper heading south.

Do you even have a choice?

Of whom or what appears?

For that alone would free your voice

from beneath your cold veneer. 

Speak to me, my face, with words with great inflection.

Speak to me with words, words of your selection.

Talk to me, enlighten me, give me words of direction.

Let me know that I am real and not a mere reflection.

I see me.  I see you.

But which of us am I talking to?

Do not answer that, but when you do,

are you asking me? Or am I asking you?

Reflections cannot lie,

they do not live; they do not die.

Forever is their nature to reveal what they are shown

but their eyes are blind to what we all have known.

If you look into the eyes, one may well see a spark

but you will never know what truly holds the heart.

Unlike you, unlike me, it can never mourn

or shed its tears with empathy torn.

A mirror is often held aloft,

for qualities it holds true.

But behind those eyes is reverence scoffed.

While silent, it emboldens you.

Is there a soul behind those eyes?

In essence we do realize

in humanity, a soul resides

and who determines truth or lies.

I see you. I see me in the mirror of our lives.

I see the heart, the soul and all that that implies.

I see me. I see you.

And that is all that mirrors do.

—Paul Causey

The Light

Hope, is in the dark corner, behind

the doctor’s head, who has just told

you that your cancer is inoperable. 

Let your eyes, your thoughts hold onto 

that infinity point where all that is possible

is awaiting the birth of its potential to

make a difference, for you. 

It is the gift that gives us life and death

- each being its own gift, when you look 

at it in a certain light, right? Light 

perceived as an infinite wave length in 

which our particles have our time, our song, 

our dance.

What will you wear to your last dance on

earth? What poem or what song will be on 

your lips when you cease to breathe? Where

do you want dance through infinity?

You say you don’t want to be free, you want

to stay and see, another dawn, high noon,

sunset. Do, please do, and know, too, that

in each of these you are the Light.

—Martha Ward

To Robert Bly

 "A four-year old speaks some ancient language"
"Ravens Hiding in a Shoe"

We gasp to hear the boy.
What is he speaking? Old Norse? Hittite?
But don't we all speak an old tongue?
We cry the stroke of galleys in our dreams
sweat on our oars across a wine dark sea.

The broom by my hearth
straw sewn brushy around the handle
speaks to my hand in an ancient's voice
Grandmother Broom.

The baby who looks across the room at me
from silent eyes, sees with the eye of the raven,
with the stillness of the deer.

When the pines close round us and the path is lost 
something in us knows the way.
Trees have sprung up and boulders tumbled
but under the silt and the needles
a way we've walked.

Die and rise up, die and rise up
we and the deer and the child.




—Sarah Webb

The Winter Night

I went out into the winter night

to place the trash at the yard's edge. 

Just as I completed my task, I stole a glance 

upward to see the waxing quarter moon 

shining brightly far out into the sky,

far enough to reach my eye.

I was captured too by a reddish planet 

hovering below the moon, a bit off to the west.

My eyes shifted a little to the left to catch the

regularly flashing green lights of an airplane

crossing the blackened sky.

Bit by bit, more stars began popping into my awareness

as I slowly turned my head from side to side.

Just then, I became aware of the silence of the night.

I wrapped the stillness around me and

for the first time that day, I felt at ease.

My eyes drifted downward onto the spidery

arms of the Arizona Ash trees. I imagined 

some as witches' fingers pointing off into the distance,

while others seemed to encourage me closer.

These darkened silhouettes drew me in

as they appeared to have a story to tell.

As I leaned in, I heard the few remaining leaves on the branches

rustle as they scraped against each other in the evening breeze.

Standing alone in the darkened street, I found myself

savoring this moment of beauty, peace and imagination.

It seems curious that something so simple as a night scene

can remove all the stress of the day; or is it simply the act 

of being with the night that soothes.

—L. Winnette

Life

We stand at the threshold only twice.

Once when we enter,

And once when we leave.

What happens in between is just this.

—Paul Causey

Here

 Here,

Sitting at this desk, and yet,

Not here at all…

I find my home in the waters

Of the deep blue sea,

The sanctuary of a holy sky,

Lit by the embers of time.

The candle burns brightly

As I imagine a life beyond this desk.

Am I really

here.

—Ivory Smith

Hungry But Loving Grackle

—Kim Mosley

slow dance

slow dance—

beats pass through

the d.j.’s hands

—Melanie Alberts