My Blog has Moved to:

https://whisperingearth.ca/blog/

These Kinds of Mornings

I love these kinds of mornings,

clouds are heavy and gray,

it will inevitably rain. 

The air is still and smells rich with soil

and of puddles in the forest. 

The birds sing loudly and there is an eeriness to their song

in this slightly gloomy time. 

It is still warm enough to drink my coffee outside,

but the coming rains nudges me back to my bed.

These mornings I feel safe and held. 

I feel as though I live in a fortress,

surrounded by raw nature, snug in my bed. 

I think this must be what heaven is like;

gentle and raw,

wild and calm. 

I am blessed with a preview on mornings such as this.

There is a fellow who lives down my street.

Every morning he walks to the convenience store

to get himself a coffee. 

The thing is, is that he sings all the way…

at the top of this lungs. 

It doesn’t matter how early it is…

he sings. 

The songs aren’t really recognizable,

he doesn’t sing very well,

but he sings loud and strong. 

I adore it. 

And each morning I look forward to his song

cutting through the silence,

singing me to hope. 

Hope that we all will find our voice and share it with the world,

with the morning birds,

with neighbours we do not know. 

I think heaven must be like this too.

Tight Knot

A tight knot loosens and she can breathe.

Her lungs releasing air in a surge from her lips

– holding breath can end badly.

When the letting go happens and the air finds a way,

in the emptiness between the silent invisible space,

there is possibility. 

In the small space where no one waits,

there is potential. 

In the sliver of darkness behind the light,

there is hope. 

A tight know loosens and her body opens.

The chains are broken and she dances

… lungs fill and sweat breaks.

She shimmers beneath the moon.

 

There is always the next breath

and the next…

always the choice to hold or release.

Faith

See that tree over there,

shrouded in the autumn mist?

STRONG & MIGHTY,

letting go of dying things.

Not screaming,

not clutching,

not hanging on to what once was…

Just letting go, letting fall,

that for which

time has come.

Leaves now exquisite decay

yellow, gold and brown,

blanketing the ground.

And the tree,

hemmed by death,

retreats deeply into itself

saving its life

for when the sun returns.

Dearest young one yet to come...

Dearest young one yet to come…

I hope for you a quiet place where the whispers of God are heard on the wind.
I hope for you unfettered access to our Mother Earth and her healing ways.
I pray you find your body manifested in the trees, the rivers, the dark rich soil and that you know the animals, birds and insects to be your brothers and sisters.
I pray you love and are loved with tenderness and compassion that ignites a fire within you to stand with the oppressed and stand for justice and peace.
I pray your courage takes the form of vulnerability and your hopes and dreams take the form of service to this Earth and all life within and upon her.

As I settled into a place to write this I find a small dead bird in a plastic bag, left by the lake under a tree.  Someone placed the poor creature here, I imagine, so her spirit could rest in beauty.

And I remove her from the plastic bag and dig for her a cradle in the Earth so she can return to the nurturing womb of our planet and feed the lives of those to come.

And this I do for you.

Anyone alive on the planet today is in a state of grief.

Anyone alive on the planet today is in a state of grief.  Unless we fully allow ourselves to inhabit the grief we carry, to drop our armor and stand naked in the midst of it, we cannot and will never be the embodiment of holiness that we are meant to be.  We will never fully experience life and our own trans-formative power if we are constantly running from our grief.  If we refuse that which wells up within us by forcing a stopper on the fount from which it rises, then we have no true freedom and exist in slavery to the necessary numbness this denial demands of us. 

Anyone alive on the planet today is in a state of grief.  Some are aware of this grief and seek to deny it through various means such as drugs or alcohol, some are aware and seek to medicate it ‘legitimately’ through pharmaceuticals, some are aware of it and lose themselves in its despair.  Still others are ignorant of their grief and spend their days in a false state of happiness, fully dependent on materialism, relationships, social structure and definition.  Others immerse themselves in a ‘spirituality’ that embraces the light like a drowning man embraces the buoy, acutely aware that he cannot survive the depths he is in and that letting go of that to which he clutches means death.  There are those whose grief has turned to anger and who find this a more comfortable state of being with its illusion of power and fierce protection.  These ones are no more powerful than a kitten – fierce though it may seem to the fly, it is after all still a kitten.

Anyone alive on the planet today is in a state of grief.   All those from whom the most evil deeds flow, all those from whom the kindest and most generous of deeds flow, all those who sit in stupefied silence share this state of grief. It is inescapable.  The leaders of the world share it as do the reality stars, the addicts, the rapper, the teacher and the old sage.  This grief resides and prevails; it paralyzes us, drives us, and defines us – we can know this truth or not know it. Either way, it persists.

For we are born into a system that is founded on the absolute need for the oppression of our spirits, our bodies and our minds.  We are born into a species that survives based upon the destruction and supplication of life and love and that demands that we surrender our humanity in payment for our comforts.   We know that our survival is at a tremendous cost to life elsewhere and that the price is too great and that we are no more worthy then those who suffer for our benefit.  And we know that we all benefit.  This secret knowledge is what feeds our despair and what forges the tools we need to manage it.

No one that sees the suffering and the carnage that is the result of our desperate desire for comfort and security, for material wealth and power, for immediate gratification can ever un-see it – be it innocent faces of starving and dying children, bodies tangled in the wreckage of corporate sweat shops or the acquiescent eyes of the caged and tethered pig awaiting slaughter.  These images sink into our bodies like a weight in a lake and may be forgotten on the surface but are ever present in our depths.

All life has always depended on the death of something other than itself.  This is a natural law and in the miracle of creation and the cycle of life, a beautiful thing.  For life to thrive there must be sacrifice.  The life of plants are required for our sustenance and for our shelter.  The life of one person is required to end so that there be space for the birth of another.  These are desirable states of sacrifice that are in order and in keeping with a natural law in perfect balance and harmony. And although all death elicits some measure of sorrow – from the infinitesimal to the profound, our minds, hearts and spirits can make peace eventually with these necessary loses.

However, no human soul can make peace with the state of this world in our time, so bound up in capitalism, patriarchy and consumerism.  Even the Corporate CEO knows that his exorbitant salary depends on the suffering of other sentient beings.  He may, on the surface, appear and behave not to care and he may even believe that this is a good and productive system he oversees.  Yet his soul is intimately tied with all of life, is in desperate need of love; to be both received and expressed, and is crying out for humanity to rise and stop the lunacy that we all create, uphold and call “progress”.

And he grieves; he grieves for the loss of life, of beauty and of promise.  He grieves at the unnecessary destruction and war that his greed requires and demands so that it be momentarily satiated.  At the bottom of the lake of his soul sits the weight of all he has seen and knows and denies, drowning in the tears he has not shed.

This is true for all of us.  Some of us are so consumed by this grief that we cannot see our way out of it.  We are rendered paralyzed by it; our paralysis allowing for its perpetuation.  Some rally against this unjust system…protest in a thousand ways as we fight for justice.  We congratulate ourselves for the baby steps we take when the system permits a small opening, then scream in anger as it closes once again and pushes us out or traps us inside.

So dismal this landscape we live on yet so unyielding our desire for change.  We have no time or inclination to embrace our grief, to lean into and come to know it, come to love that part of us that responds to evil not with rage but with grief, recognizing that evil is the absence of something tremendous…love.

Evil takes up the space that love is barred from when it is unknown and unexpressed.  It strangles out all else that might grow from the ground on which love is planted.  The rise of mental illness; depression and anxiety is equal to the rate at which we destroy this planet and all of creation, the inescapable truth of which is imparted to us through technological wizardry meant to feed an insatiable hunger.  And we just can’t hide from it.  The more we destroy, the more we destroy ourselves.  The more we grieve, the more we engage in excessive and self-indulgent behaviours meant to deny grief. 

We cover our grief in one of two ways; through rage or false happiness.  We see this through increased warfare, politically and personally.  We see this through the rise of corporate religion that promises happiness by boxing up overwhelmingly deep and sacred questions and hand feeding answers to the masses.  We see this in the glorification of the soldier and the shiny faced pastor, scowling and grinning at us from our TV and computer screens.

We could heal ourselves, each other and our planet if we were to only acknowledge the profound grief we carry; acknowledge it, express it and make room for it in our hearts and minds.  Our grief could be channeled authentically into action that reaches out, one to one, for our grief could make us strong, could make us whole, could make us rise.

What causes us to resist sinking into that tender space where sorrow awaits?  Are we fearful of the power of our grief and the beauty that could be revealed to us if we were peel back the layers of armor we have donned?  Our grief is evidence of our love and our deep and burning desire to connect.  Grief is a testimony to pure love – agape love – that which we are meant to achieve, to receive and to impart. 

The anguish we experience but refuse to acknowledge is confirmation of our innate wisdom that informs us of our connection to the whole of life, the web of creation, to all our relations.  If we were to sink into this we might well be rendered incapable of taking another step into the madness of our world.  Rather, we might fall to our knees, weak with despondency, overcome with emotion that we can no longer deny or ignore or medicate but must feel. What hope we could find there!  We could find each other there.

If I allow for my grief to move I awaken to the reality of love. I awaken to the beauty of tenderness and vulnerability – my own and yours.   With this awakening comes the sweet understanding that I can no longer hurt you or be hurt by you.  I needn’t rush to ‘closure’ for such a concept is an affront to my love and limits my capacity for love.  I instead walk with my grief, fueled with the energy of compassion, aware of my place in the web, with my hand outstretched – asking and fulfilling.

Anyone alive on the planet today is in a state of grief.   May your grief remind you of your compassion and your compassion remind you of your humanity. May the remembrance of your humanity be the impetus from which you evolve and transform; reaching out your hand to all of God’s Creation.  And may your grief lead you to the depths of tenderness from which you will rise.

The Mystic

(I dedicate this to all those women who found the Sacred and Divine despite the confinements of the times they lived in...Women like St. Claire, St. Teresa and Hildegard of Bingen)

The Mystic

She stands within the empty cell; the only movement save her beating heart are the dust particles that float in the shaft of sunlight coming from the one high and tiny window.  No sound; no long intake of breath, no gentle swallow of saliva or shifting of the robes that drape her body, can be heard.  To look in upon this cell, to secretly and magically see through the stone walls, is as gazing upon a painting; mostly gloomy, colourless, but nonetheless inviting curiosity regarding the activity that must be occurring beyond the reach of the eye.

She stands long, the will of her body holding her upright beneath the rough grey material that cloaks it.  She has retreated to a darker corner of her chamber, her brow nearly resting where the walls meet.  The air grows stale and the small room hot as a powerful sun heats the ancient rocks of the cell.  You or I might nearly faint, confined within such a place, lacking water to cool our parched throat or muggy body.

Yet she stands; cloaked in heavy fabric, her hair hidden beneath a tightly wrapped scarf, so that she is devoid of character, made plain and unassuming, made invisible to a gaudy world.

Her countenance; hidden by a swath of cloth that reaches from her crown to her shoulders, like drapery framing a window parted only enough to reveal a sliver of the landscape beyond, paints no expression – lashes resting on tender and pale skin, lips non-committal and dull - a face with no expression, holding no clue to the universe unfolding behind it.

She is unaware of her own existence in this dark and silent place, unaware of aching legs or hungry belly as she is pulled effortlessly into an ever expanding void where the blackness around her is pierced with innumerable sparks of light – light that cannot or will not reach her but promises the eventuality of illumination.

She becomes aware of her own presence when she is visited with the knowledge of the inescapable aloneness that surrounds her.  She knows this companion well and it no longer frightens her for she has welcomed it thoroughly and it has become familiar.  The awareness of her presence awakens her to the countless lights around her and she feels the pull of one among the million and she eagerly submits to it.

Oh how it reaches for her this small and flickering light and how her companion rejoices each time it flashes a promising ray toward her.  There is the rising of anticipation within her quiet soul that is cautious and restrained.  And so she journey’s for perhaps eternity, but here time is nothing, neither is space, and she knows these to be the creations of small minds, measurements of the arrogant.  For at once she is embraced utterly in the warmth and brilliance of the distant star, no place around her hints of the darkness she journeyed through and the illumination is not shocking.

The light enfolds her but does not stop there; it pierces her skin through every pore.  It reaches in long strands of gold and silver to ignite each cell within her.  The space between each cell like the darkness she journeyed through to get here.  In this activity she has no earthly body for she expands beyond the confines of skin and bone until she is as vast as the universe around her, until she is one with both the light and the dark and there is no separation she can conceive of.  Desire overtakes her but has no object, is simply pure and unbridled, and she is free.

This light is most glorious and within it there are sounds unlike her ears could ever hear.  Each molecule of light like a tiny instrument that when joined with the whole creates a symphony of sound, music so sweet she cannot but cry.  As the tear falls down her cheek then descends past her neck to her breast she finds herself once again contained in her body, as she stands naked in the light.  All calmness descends over her and she is glad for this boundary, this body that welcomes her back.  It is in her naked sedation, unashamed and untethered, that she sees the shadow of her God come toward her.

He comes from the light as though all light converged to make up his magnificent form – he comes as light though his dark skin is most human.  Wounds upon his hands and feet shed ribbons of blood, blood he could shed forever; blood of unhealed wounds gladly bore.  His brown eyes are as gateways to a never-ending wilderness of peace, to fall into the darkness of his eyes would be to know the perfection of his grace.  He casts these upon her and she catches her breath as she is seized by shame at her nakedness.  But his eyes hold only love and wonder as though she is a long searched for and finally found treasure.  He gazes past her skin and she is exposed in an entirely different way.  She exhales as though for the first time.  He knows her sins and short-comings, he knows her fears and doubts, and the weight of his mercy overcomes her and she falls to her knees.  How can she deserve this?  How can she receive such grace?  Her mortality, even in this holy place, cannot contain such benevolence and she cries out her unworthiness.

Yet she cannot hide for there is nowhere he cannot follow and his eyes never falter in their gaze.  He comes to her and gathers her most gently into his arms.

Oh joy without end and for no purpose!  Oh joy so pure and new; joy devoid of small ideas of worthlessness, but boundless in its capacity to heal!  In joy she knows she never needed forgiveness, in joy she comes to know her own perfection, in joy she leaves all earth and flesh behind her and knows no separation between the Divine and her Soul.

He is whispering to her but no one word can be distinguished for all words and voices are riding on his breath and like a warm breeze caress her softly.  Breath of love, air of peace, winds of heaven rage over her.

How can this be tolerated, this terrible love that knows no end, that determinedly persists until its subject receives it?  Who can withstand such an assault as God can reign when the object of his desire is found?  But she must and she does, she submits and dissolves to all else.  She submits and blessedly ceases to exist in any manner not familiar with his love.

And within the tiny cell she now lays prostrate; her cheek resting on the rough stone floor.  No light comes from the window now as night has descended and the cell has grown cold.  No food or water has passed her lips these long hours and to the observer she would appear to have fainted – her thin body succumbing at last to its earthly needs.  But this is not the case, she herself is unaware of making the transition to the floor, no will of her own commanded the bending of her knees or the descent of her body.  Yet here she lay, still and pale, a tear from her eye the only indication of life beyond the form.

It is the coldness she first is aware of as it seeps past her heavy robes and bites at her skin.  Oh how she fights the coming of consciousness that cruelly pulls her back to the world.  But there it is…and once it takes hold she cannot stop its invasion, for the human body will have its desires known and will always reach for appeasement. 

Next comes the aching of muscles long held rigid and stiff to bear the body in its posture.  The awakening of muscles and joints that cry out for tender stretching brings her more fully to herself and she is being pulled back through eternity, back to a most powerful destination, the dominion of her mortal being.

Finally it is the waters of her body that nudge her to full conciseness so that she opens her eyes and in the darkness cries out in grief at being forced from her Divine Lover.  Her soul yearns to return, be it through the pain of death, but her body refuses to obey.

“My God, my Love, take not your grace from me.” She whispers most urgently into the cover of night; these words less a prayer then an entreaty of need – sustenance for her soul to live.

She must rise, she knows this and grievously she does, her legs shaking, her belly on fire with hunger, her face wet with tears, the union with her Lord becoming memory; one that brings the rapture of the bond and the agony of parting and the excruciating desire to return.

So it is, a day and night; her destiny perfectly revealed, a betrothal forged in a simple cathedral where light and dark collide, where cacophony and harmony become the chorus of the matrimonial hymn.

And hidden in a fold of her garment a speck of colour dots the vastness of grey like a buoy upon a fearsome sea, the blood of a wound that shall never close but will save the life of the drowning. 

Sweet Night

Sweet Night you do return

descending as Raven’s wings; silent, dark.

Light does your mercy spurn,

smothering hopeful spark,

all manner of pride dissolving ‘round this heart.

Ebon waters they rise,

cold river; deaths finger, freed from her stead,

drowning both songs and cries.

And I, moved from my bed,

succumb to the rapids into which I am led.

Deeper still ‘neath the foam,

of waters churning crest, peace reaches high.

My Love’s voice calls me home,

I fight no more to rise

and sink into darkness; holy, baptized.

Song to my Beloved

Walk with me each step I take

                my blessed God

Hold me up when I am weak

                and my soul lost

Grant me the sight when I am blind

                to see you there

‘Til every breath that leaves my lips

                is a prayer.

‘Til when I fall upon my knees

                and lift my gaze

My silence spent, my voice rings out

                to sing your praise

This love for you on wings of hope

                heard everywhere

And every breath that leaves my lips

                is a prayer.

Within your arms this loving child

                shall never stray

By your tears all of my grief

                is washed away

My heart made new, filled with joy

                and love to share

Now every breath that leaves my lips

                is a prayer.

My Beloved's Call

Despite the sound of my Beloved’s call

I hid beneath the tree.

In fear I trembled so that leaves did fall

and soon did bury me.

But my Love’s beckoning could still be heard,

my ears drawn to Loves’ word.

In the darkness of good nature’s shelter

I tallied all my sins,

even so my Loves’ reach would not falter,

and Love soon entered in.

Then said; “No forest can hide you from me;

Did I not make the tree?”

The gentle breeze of grace began to blow

I was soon uncovered

and washed clean in merciful water's flow

poured forth from my Lover.

I unworthy, no matter forgiveness,

of love so true as this.

My Beloved bade me to an orchard

then nursed me plump with fruit,

until my body was free of torture

and guilt’s harsh voice grew mute.

Then born aloft upon my Lovers sigh

my soul embraced the sky.

Reflections on Psalm 51

Create in me a pure heart, O God,

May the well of my love never run dry, may compassion fill my soul each day.  Let all hurts and transgressions be cleansed in the life blood of my soul and be forgiven with each sunrise.  I release the anger and fear that would disallow for me to immerse myself in a state of unconditional love and I dive into the bliss of your Divine tenderness.

and renew a steadfast Spirit within me.

Each day when I rise, may I be conscious of the possibilities that await me.  May I make my resolve to be in a state of grace and humility as I forge my will to be a vessel of love and kindness.  When the darkness of the night fails to leave me when I rise, let me hold to silence and cling to breath and do no further harm.

Do not cast me from your presence

May my own shortfalls teach me wisdom so that I know in the very depths of my heart that any idea I have that you have abandoned me is born of my own shame.  When I fall let my first reflex be rejection of shame, let my second be to reach for your hand as I rise.

or take your Holy Spirit from me.

In the times of absence, when my soul yearns to wander and I am overcome, may I have the fortitude to see beyond my window the living evidence of you, so near me I need only reach out to the tree or flower to touch you.  May the affirmations you so lovingly deliver be the light of my faith leading me home.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation

The utter bliss that fills my being when I accept your tremendous love, when I submit to your grand direction, when I say yes to your wild proposal, is the sustenance that my faith feeds on and my spirit yearns for.  May I know that your salvation is an invitation extended in every moment of my existence; never retracted, always bestowed.

and grant me a willing Spirit

O the greatest gift of all!  Let me be the freedom fighter for the cause of my bound but willful Spirit.  The fire you ignite in me is the weapon of my faith, the peaceful tool that is all I need to build the house where my spirit dwells and from where I joyously give shelter to all.

to sustain me.

Upon opening my eyes let my first thought be that I am grateful to be alive.  For being alive in this time, on this day, is your will and desire for me.  Let my sustenance be that which is provided to me so that I may be strong enough to do your good works, and awaken me to the wisdom that your provisions are enough and eternal.

Amen, my God, my Divine Mother and Father, amen and may it be so.  Let this prayer travel past rocks and bones to the depths of your Earth and through the ethers to the heights of your Heavens.  Let this prayer permeate the universe, live fiercely within me and flow determinedly from my tongue.

The Souls' Dance

This is where all life will lead if we but listen to the song.

Life like riding on a current of God’s breath to peace.

We are God’s seeds meant to scatter and where we land we are meant to create beauty and abundance.

We have no need to control the movement of the breath; we only need to submit to it gladly.

O to know that when the soul is allowed to rise that she will always submit and in her submission the body will truly find love and rest in quietude.

O to listen to that inner most wisdom that whispers to us about freedom, that reveals to us that no matter what deeds the body has done, that the soul is ever waiting to rise.

We are loved beyond measure and no earthly love can hope to duplicate the passion found in God but at best can merely strive to emulate it despite constant shortcoming.

The soul she leads us always to simplicity and to the gift of creation.  She knows only the tremendous beauty of God’s many treasures and through her we are moved to discovery.

The soul she will dance us out of the church, gently closing the bible with a kiss, and we will then be found in our Beloved’s truest home and among our Beloved’s children.  The trees will reveal themselves as our Ancestors, the rivers as our bloodlines and the soft earth the belly of our forgiving Mother.  The soul will peel away the illusion of loneliness as we step into our place in God’s family.

How is it I can tell you these things and you not turn away?  The desire to help you to see is not born of the need to save you but found in the soul’s dwelling place, the heart, born of love and the desire to share spectacular love with you.

Visions of God are within us, such art as we have never seen.  No artist able to capture the nature of the subject through brushstrokes or the sculptors’ blade.  But for those who have remembered; who have set aside the body in favour of the soul, who have commissioned the body to be the tool of the soul, the visions have ignited the fires of grace and in humility they find their way to their knees.

No wonder the vow of silence for when trying to convey what the soul sees, the movement of the lips and the tongue are futile, words are like the grunts of beasts and the effort to speak them painful.  It is the speaking that reminds us we are only human and in this flesh rendered incapable of being the artist.

So forgive your body of its shortcomings and have no expectation of it to be other than the tool, a marvelous and wondrous tool, through which the soul can find a home for a time and plant her garden for God.

Keep the Faith

Faith believes that there is a greater plan than your own at work in your life, in all of life. The extraordinary gift of faith is the greatest asset bestowed upon us.

Acceptance is being at peace with all that is, as it is. Faith is the absurd conviction that all that is occurring in our world, no matter the consequence, is a momentous contribution to the grander vision of Creation and the unfolding potential of our Spirit.

We come to know faith most intimately in the darkest alleyways of our journey, when there is no light to show us the way. Faith comes to us silently and whispers that we have a light within us and that this light is enough to lead us forward. Faith is tending to this light knowing God is both the light within and the darkness surrounding us – the stillness and the activity, the silence and the din.

Faith sustains us even when the “WHAT IF I’M WRONG?” demon screams fervently in our minds. With faith there are no ‘wrong’ choices; for all is God. I see war on the news, I accept there is brutality within humankind, and I have faith that within the brutality a greater vision is being conceived. Perhaps the greater vision is the yearning, the learning and the realization of, and for, peace. My faith leads me to focus my efforts there. Faith keeps me focused on the one living, green blade of grass in the bloody battlefield.

“Have faith” doesn’t mean to sit and wait for evidence that Spirit is at work, but to work toward the greater vision of your Soul knowing you are being guided by our Creators and that your footsteps will lead you to the magnificence of your fullness – that which is most pleasing to God and to our Earth.

Faith means seeing the ‘green lights’, the indicators on your journey that it is ‘good to go’ and moving in that direction. Faith is following the path that say’s “yes” every step of the way and trusting this will lead to fuller realization.

“YES” does not always point us in the way we would prefer to go or in the direction of ease. YES is always the instinctual nature within that guides us to the best of who we are. YES is the urge to leave a job that is killing your spirit even if it helps pay the bills, it is the notion to open your doors to a lost soul and welcome him to your hearth, it is expressing the most sacred of human virtues each time the urge to do so arises – which, if you are listening, is most often.

We have to be talked out of acting on these urges by the real demons of mediocrity that surround us, the necessity of conforming to the predictable and the mundane. We all have these instinctual urges to love but we follow the dogma of “realism” that keeps us dull and dumbs us down. We have had to convince ourselves that we are nothing…faith leads us to remembering how tremendous we are.

Faith is action; compassion, justice, love. With faith we embrace unfathomable hurt, roll up our sleeves and get to work. Faith is not passive for no action done in faith is passive. Prayer is not passive; neither is planting a garden, lobbying for justice, or placing your body between the oppressor and the oppressed. Faith is the fuel that feeds every muscle in our bodies so that we might move the mountain.

Can you have faith that each wrong committed ‘against’ you was necessary in the greater plan forging you into the complex and powerful soul that you are? Can you have faith that each wrong you have committed against another was also necessary to forge you into the greatness of your soul? With faith, can you forgive others and yourself? Can you let yourself be forgiven?

It is our faith that we incarcerate when we shackle ourselves to anger, envy and fear. Faith weaves us into the great universal tapestry when we remember our instinctual nature and embrace the wilds within us, acting upon the urge to sacrifice, love, give. Our instincts need no reason, no oracle into the future, in order to be there – impelling us to effortlessly expand into our own immensity. Our instincts are the keys to unlocking the Divine that dwells within us and move us to set free all of Creation.

Male Emperor Penguins incubate the eggs of their offspring, while the females leave for weeks to feed. It is possible that the female will not return, being eaten herself by a predator. Yet each male tirelessly protects his potential offspring by balancing it on the tops of his feet, enduring unimaginable cold, with no food or shelter for weeks. Huddling together against the cold, these fathers find what warmth they can through sharing their body heat while nurturing their individual eggs. The mother-penguin, if she survives the weeks of feeding, returns once the egg has hatched and finds her mate and chick by instinctually following the call of the male, leading her home. It is then that she sets to the task of feeding the chick from her own stores. The success and survival of the species depends upon following the instinct to do what appears nonsensical at the time and holding to the faith that the life that so delicately hangs in the balance over the long cold weeks, will be fed and nourished into fullness.

Instinct and faith are inseparable. When we rely on these we step back into the wonder and awe of the vast mystery around and within us. Instinct compels us to shelter one another from the cold, and faith warms our soul while we await the sun’s return.

Wisdom is always a woman

Wisdom will not be restrained to a book or the language of mankind.

On hard earth under a merciless sun,

she cradles her babe in her arms,

eyes grace an innocent face,

 dark lashes flutter in restless sleep.

There is no soft place on her body,

all roundness has shrunk to bone,

so she holds her babe to her yielding heart;

as brown eyes open,

and a small hand grasps

for her empty breast.

What wisdom does this mother have

cradled in her heart?

The child upon her thin lap no longer cries;

and soon the grasping hand falls,

the silence of unmet desire

overwhelming the clamour of her sorrow.

She cannot look away

as the hungry eyes of her child close,

heavy from the weight of emptiness,

and fading sighs escape from sweet cracked lips.

What wisdom does this woman know

about the nature of desire;

which reaches beyond the frail body

to seize moments of awe

in the presence of miracles?

How she yearns for suffering to end

and barters for the freedom of her child.

She swallows hard the din of anguish within,

and a primal urge to scream.

She pulls a threadbare shawl over her head,

sheltering them both from a cruel sun,

and softly cups the tiny chest,

faintly rising and falling now.

From somewhere in her starved mind

a lullaby is freed

and rises on her own weak breath

to sing her sweet infant to sleep.

As peace settles forever upon her child

and all the hope in the world goes still,

her song endures, stretching eternally

across a barren land.

Wisdom is always a woman.

She rises from all of creation,

bravely clutching faith in her hand.

She is sung from the lips and born on the breath

 of those who never speak her name.

Self-Love 101

Self-love is the only way that we truly glorify our Creators and demonstrate our gratitude for the gift of Life.

So much of our energy is spent on the pursuit of learning how to love ourselves; self-improvement, self-help, self-realization. We have created an entire industry whose mandate it is to sell to us the promise of self-love and we eagerly purchase the many ways in which these are packaged for us. We often find these effective for a time; while reading the self-help book, attending the self-realization seminar, listening to the recordings of the self-improvement motivational speaker. Yet once the noise of the activity is over, the anger and loathing of self creeps back inside us.

We are the embodiment of Spirit and the manifestation of Nature. Many of the self-love instructional booklets talk of the first – that we embody Spirit, yet the second is neglected; that we are the manifestation of Nature.

Nature does not loath itself nor seeks to improve on that which it is. Nature simply grows into the fullness of its purpose; the flower blossoming into the perfection of a flower, the tree growing into the grandeur it is meant to be, the eagle soaring into the enormous sky.

Nature simply grows into the realization of the purpose it was created for and does this by uniting with that which has been provided for it to flourish.

We are Nature; our bodies manifesting each element – our bones the earth, our blood the water, our breath the air and the heat of our passions the fire. When we rely on these, on the gift of Nature and the instinct of our Soul we come into fullness and truly comprehend why we exist. We can then share with all of Creation the gifts we are blessed with and radiate the essence of our Soul.

Look to Nature and see how simple it is to love yourself, place Nature in the exalted position of being your mentor guiding you to grow into that which is your purpose, your reason for living. Turn your eyes inward and see the miracle of your form; relish in the way in which all of the elements within you come together to sustain your life. When you can dance in the splendour, lose yourself in the sensual, dive into the pool of gratitude for your perfect body – then you can unite with all of our Creators provisions to fulfill that which you were born to do.

Loving yourself becomes the method by which you reveal your sacred purpose. It becomes the path through the forest that leads you to the Divine. It is the song of love to the Mother and the Father which gave you body and soul.

Self-loathing, the religion of Wretchedness that permeates our culture, is a lie and rooted in the doctrine of original-sin. There is no sin by which we were created. The Mother and the Father created us through love – the original-blessing. How we insult the Divine when we entertain the notion that sin is in any way involved in our creation. How profoundly we dishonour the blessing of life and our Creators by assigning sin to their union.

When we look to the wilds we learn that love and acceptance is what all of life is predicated upon. We revel in the purpose of all creatures and celebrate their existence. We see no need to sequester ourselves from the world – to live apart from the very evidence of our Creators or to choose between body and soul, for love creates everything and we are blessed when we live among all of creation.

There is no teacher who can teach you the secret to self-love. None who can unlock this wisdom from the prison you have confined it in. You alone hold the key; the choice to still yourself, listen to the Divine within and witness the wilds of Nature.

Each day allow silence to enfold you. Escape the din of the experts and journey to the gentle melody of Nature and you will remember that which you have never needed to learn.

13

What would I tell you if you would listen?

What do I wish I had known?

Slow is better than fast

in nearly all things.

In love especially…and growing.

Slow to know, not so eager to be held,

details reveal who you are becoming.

Life is short but time is endless,

there is enough to savour each smile and tear.

Think about hot days lazing under the sun,

that small bead of sweat that inches down your neck…

life is better lived like that.

Slow is better than fast; a journey made on foot,

each step more delicately placed under our own steam.

Burdens we carry chosen more wisely

when there is time to choose.

You know how sluggish time is when you are anticipating Christmas?

That’s good – that anticipation flourishing in the slow hand of time.

It’s giving your body time to know how intuition feels,

giving your heart time to know how love feels,

for you… to you… in you.

Slow is better than fast when welcoming another body

to dance with yours;

the space slowly closing filled with electricity 

(which travels fast so we don’t have to),

time to say ‘no’ and time to say ‘yes’.

Wisdom can catch up with you, so can heartache…

and come together in uncomfortable alliance,

both so vital to the refining of your spirit.

Slow is better than fast – I wish I knew this like I know it now

but I’m glad I finally do.

So I can tell you,

before you rush into life like I know you will,

before you trip, before you fly, forgetting all of this

like I know you should.

Happy Birthday precious one.

Sanitized Woman

Women have become sanitized in a culture that fears the wild and the natural.

How did it begin; the systematic refining of our nature?

Who first sought to bind our spirits by binding our bodies?

And why?

To what end the sale of the maiden,
the vilification of the mother,
the taming of the crone?

Was she slowly and methodically enticed from the forests;
the moist, rich home of her foremothers?
With sweet music, entrancing songs and vows of everlasting love,
was she seduced to follow the call
of those who would domesticate her?

Or was she hunted; ripped from her home,
her nails breaking as she was torn from the tree?
Did she scream at and curse her stalkers?
Then was she bound by chains until
her scream went silent and her rage was spent?

It is the howling wind or the eagles cry that stirs her memory within me.
She walks with smouldering strength within her wild domain,
she tends to the gardens and the fire,
and easily she takes up her charge.

I see through her eyes when I look upon the sunrise
and my body stirs,
my skin awakens and aches
for the heat to caress me.
She reminds me of a power that rests nestled in my hips
and I find myself swaying with the rhythm of desire.

I lament when I think upon her submission
and the cost of such an act.
I struggle with the insanity that such an act demands,
the relinquishing of her body and the shunning of her intuition;
the sources of all the wisdom in the world.

And I ask of all my sisters, as I ask of myself;
to what end this sanitization?

Through seduction or rape we surrendered our home;
when will we take it back?

Remember, we once were warriors
and sentries of our Mother.
We knew the feel of power in our hands
and the grit of earth on our feet.

What has submission cost you, my sister?

No matter the method of her abduction
they did not consider
all the times she sat on the earth
under the fullness of the moon,
her blood enriching the soil.
So that even when they placed her in the castle,
the bedroom, the kitchen,
she continued to cultivate under the tree.

I could not write these words if it was not so.
The sunrise and the eagle’s call would not stir a rich and bloody scent,
not cause my hairs to bristle.
I would not hear her footfalls,
twigs breaking under her sure step,
as I walk about the cultured hallways
and tread upon polished floors.