Posts Tagged ‘dissolution’

One Inspiration

white clouds blown by wind
losing shape to become one with blue—
what a soul can do

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A Gentle Grief

Thin clouds smear against clear sky
like questions in white chalk being erased

or like streaks of tears
just before they have evaporated.

On this sun-glorious morning,
steeped in blue, I am crying.

Is it strange grief does not bother me?

The river is higher again today
as the snow from high peaks starts to melt.

I stare at the spot on the bank
where we used to stand and throw rocks,

squealing with pleasure
as the water splashed and formed rings.

The kingfisher clicks as he follows the shoreline,
his beak a needle stitching this moment

to the past. I, too, am melting,
melting into this generous morning,

forgetting who I am, then remembering again,
everything blurs, oh this beautiful dissolution,

the tears almost cool, the sun so warm.

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Strange Communion

Today I am suspended
in the clear winter air, hovering
above the field—no wings,
no strings. I float here,
as if I am air, unboundaried,
as if everything moves right through me—
song, sorrow, beauty, light, hope—
nothing sticks, nothing lingers,
and then, as if all it took
was for me to notice it’s possible,
I expand out in all directions—
into the startling blue and into the generous earth,
across the valley and beyond the plateau,
and it keeps going, this glorious, dissolution of self.
How is it I am free today,
unable to be weighted, uncontainable?
Is it because of you, grief?
Is it because you
have broken me open so competely
I can no longer pretend
I am not spacious,
can no longer believe I am separate from the whole?

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Going In

The way the river meets our bodies,
meet me that way. Though I resist,

surround me. Rush to me. Lick me.
Drench me. Insist. Touch me

everywhere at once. Float me.
Don’t care about my name. Always

leaving me, always arriving.
Bring me news of the sky.

Shine me. Glisten me. Shiver me. Hush.
Bring me the moon. Bring hum.

Wet me. Wake me. The years go by.
We are more ourselves and less.

Meet me the way the river meets
our bodies, with infinite tongues,

none of them thirsty, all of them
curious. Surprise me with your

strength, your pull. Say nothing.
Meet me. My hands are stone.

Erode me. Soften me. Release me
in you. You stretch in both directions

as far as I can see.

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How’s the dissolution going? –Joi Sharp

Flatten me.
Shuck me.
and melt me.
Disperse me
in the air.

Scatter me.
Shatter me.
Fling and
unmatter me.
Shred, slough,
shear, split, tear.

Loose me.
Reduce me.
Erase and
untether the
small self
who compares.

Help me
any hope
I’ll ever

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Vivian pours the sugar
from the cup into the mason jar.
I add the boiling water.

“It is magic,” I tell her,
“We’ll make the sugar
disappear.” She does not

believe me, and of course,
she’s right. It does not disappear,
but she is fooled as I hoped she would be

and squeals in delight as we swirl
the jar until the last white spiral
dissolves into the clear.

“Where did it go?” she asks,
in disbelief. “It’s here,”
I say, and we dip our fingers

into the water and lick the sweetness
as proof. It is only later
I remember the salt doll story,

how it stepped into the ocean
and lost itself. Or found itself.
Your call. We add cold water

to the simple syrup, four parts
to one. Then chill.
The recipe is simple.

The story simple, too.
I look at my hands. So solid.
So full of grasping. So

familiar with want and need.
And part of that longing
is to dissolve myself. And part is

to find stronger glue.
The feeder is empty now.
Best not to completely dissolve, I reason,

at least not for today, not while
there are still birds to feed
and a young girl to hold

in these so solid arms
as we watch through the window
the approaching blur of gray wings.

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I asked the night to
swallow me, it said, Darling
I already did

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As salt dissolves in ocean,
I am swallowed up in you
beyond doubt or being sure.
Suddenly, here in my chest a star
came out so clear it drew all stars into it.

—Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks, Say I Am You

Dear Rumi,

It is easy to believe that a star could come out so clear in your chest,
a star so clear it could draw all stars into it, but in my chest? Here?

A star so clear? I don’t think so. No wonder I stumble
each time I try to memorize this line. I don’t think this is humility.

Is it fear? Fear of being responsible to my own light?
Here in my chest my own heart is straining against the cage

of my ribs, pushing hard all the oceans of blood that stay
in the shores of this skin—some interior ocean I am afraid

to go swimming in. “Not past the tip of the nose.” That is what
my teacher says, and time and time again I feel how true it is,

and now, your words like rocks in my mouth, here in my chest,
the same lesson again. I have been dreaming of stars,

dreamt that they were being poured into my mouth, not just the stars
but the spaces between them. Are these the stars of which you speak?

My god, here they are, already they have been given to me, and I am somehow unable to see them, unable to believe my own experience,

unable to unwrap the packaging and receive the gift. Here in my chest—
but these stars are not for me. Not something to make me brighter,

but a light that belongs to everyone. All of us dissolved
into the same ocean, all of us dissolved in the same night.

I can almost touch this, and then it is gone,
there is still too much of me here.

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