When it’s dark,
we tell ourselves
any story we can
about the return
of the light. Say
there’s a mother
grieving her daughter
who’s lost
to an underground king.
Say there’s a sister
who hides in a cave
fearing her brother
the god of storms.
Say that through lures
or begging, the girls
are returned, they
bring light
in their wake.
Use history. Say
the light’s always
come back before.
Use science. Say
it has something
to do with the tilt
and the turn and the rate.
Get fierce. Say you’ve seen
enough of hate.
Get desperate. Say
it takes only a crack.
Start chanting. Start
dancing. Bake cakes
filled with cream.
Give your blood. Give
money. Give any offering.
Or taste the darkness.
Begin to know it as itself,
not as the lack of light.
Let it touch you everywhere.
Let it touch your everywhere else.
Feel how infinite it is.
Say nothing. Get quieter.
Be very curious.
Posts Tagged ‘allowing’
Perhaps Easier to Say When It’s Light
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, darkness, light, poem, poetry, story on April 29, 2013 | 1 Comment »
How She Serves You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, poem, poetry, self love, shame on April 21, 2013 | 1 Comment »
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
—Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks
Shame brings you coffee
to wake you. She has laced
it with cinnamon and chicory.
She sits on the edge of your bed,
offers you the warm cup.
This is not what you expected.
For two years, you’ve kept
the door locked
so she couldn’t come in.
Perhaps you thought
she would smell
like rancid sardines.
Perhaps you imagined
she would grasp you
with hideous, deformed
claws and not let you go
or sit on you until you
deflated. Instead, she loves you.
She tells you so. She smiles
at you with such sincerity
that there is no way
to not meet her eyes.
She does not bring up
anything you have or have not done.
You do that yourself.
Good Morning, she says.
You choose to believe her.
To your surprise, almost
as if you are watching yourself
and in yourself at the same time,
you hug this unlikely friend.
And then—is it because you
leaned toward her instead
of hiding under the covers again—
she leaves. Just like that.
You almost want her back.
The cup, though bitter,
is easier to drink than
you thought
it would be.
You drink it until
there is nothing left.
God, you feel awake.
As if you could walk
to Wyoming from here.
As if you could rip off
the door lock with your bare hands.
As if you could meet anyone,
even yourself.
Two of Many Practices
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, Non doing, poem, poetry, spiritual path on April 15, 2013 | 1 Comment »
(with thanks to Barry Spacks for the fine title)
practice 1:
Do nothing. At the moment
you feel your shoulder
pull back to strike the child
who has just hit his sister
and made her cry. In the next
moment, let the next plan rise.
practice 2:
Let the day know more
than you. Say it is raining.
Say there is a tree. Though it does
not keep you dry, there is a swing
hidden in the branches within reach.
Swing. Though you are drenched,
my god, it is fine to swing.
And Not Push Any of It Away
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, housekeeping, light, mess, poem, poetry, presence on February 7, 2013 | 3 Comments »
And Not Push Any of It Away
The way the morning sun
in the kitchen shows up all the fingerprints
on the cupboards
and casts shadows past
every crumb on the floor—
isn’t it like that,
a woman who once
begged for more light
only to see, as the light
grew, so many messes
that had gone unseen.
That is not how she’d
told herself it would be.
Perhaps this is
part of what she sees,
not only the mess,
but the one who thinks
she must do something.
Our Names Here
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, change, love, poem, poetry, sky on January 13, 2013 | 2 Comments »
The way the sky
changes in the morning,
so swiftly from rose billow
to long gray brush strokes,
that is the way we love.
One moment we think
we know something—a contour,
a hue, a silhouette. We say,
I love this. We say it fiercely
or tenderly, it doesn’t much matter,
it changes. There is no sadness
in this, though we weave sadness
out of our longing. Blush, it will come
again, only different, a gift
offered and offered, endlessly.
Oh fools who think we prefer
it one way or another, when
at every moment the sky
comes alive for us, even in
darkness, sweet sweet darkness,
even in whatever shade
and shape we see right now.
Four New-lings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, approaching the world, haiku, new lens on January 5, 2013 | 4 Comments »
like playing piano well
this love, practicing
every day
*
show me, said the leaf
another way to see
the fall
*
trying to find
an oracle when it’s really
just a broken glass
*
cranes in the field!
or just geese—bidding the heart
to swell equally for both
Contrary
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, new year, poem, snow on December 31, 2012 | 6 Comments »
So easily the world
makes itself new.
Like today, how all
the footprints and tracks
of yesterday are buried.
The cars are buried. The drive.
The pinecones. The birdseed.
Of course they’re not gone.
We all know the snow melts
and the world will be
the same as it was, only
it won’t be. We know
that, too. I have dreamed,
perhaps, of the snow that
could cover me, make
me new, erase all the
scars and pains. But I don’t want
to start over again. I bow
to all those thoughts, all
those pains, all those scars,
that brought me here
to this snowy windowsill
on this last day of the year
when the world looks new
and I am so grateful to be
this woman growing old.
Five Reframes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, beginning, haiku, losing the self, name on December 25, 2012 | 2 Comments »
on the wall
those shadows so much larger
than our problems
*
in the frost
on the window she writes
her name
*
recalling all those
prayers
I never learned
*
like a worm in kale,
something nibbling
all night on her dreams
*
air, snow, shadow, wind
she loses any names
she has been given
How It Is
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, fear, opening, poem, poetry on December 21, 2012 | 5 Comments »
All day fear knocks
or bangs at the door,
sometimes whimpers,
each time an invitation
not just to open the door
but to tear it down,
the walls, too,
to unclench both hands,
though you think, I can’t do this,
but you do, and while
fear hangs on you like a leaden
scarf, like wet gray wool,
you notice how dazzling,
how warm the sun.
