scribbled on a scrap of paper

diving into the depths...
do i fight or
will i surrender?

are you leading me
in my dreams?
will i awaken
to an ongoing nightmare

or shall peace
finally flow & wash
over me
with new, abundant
life?

now that i'm free...

Feeling slightly less discombobulated...I spent some time yesterday in nature with only the elements and creatures as company. Earlier today I found this very apt poem by one of my favorites, Mary Oliver.

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, I can read books.

"What's that you're doing?"
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

"What's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.

"Doesn't it?" says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

-Mary Oliver from Blue Iris

I'd love to hear what this poem says to you. Personally, I find myself hanging onto the first and last stanzas. Now that I'm free...

compost

The following photo was found at Abbey at the Arts and is part of the prompt for Invitation to Poetry. Pop on over to read the wonderful poems submitted by others and join in the fun yourself!

the spring wind blows across my face,
while rustling the remnants of fall leaves that remain upon the ground.
the leaf is given a moment of reprieve before it sinks into the earth.

does it merely rot and die, or
will it gloriously continue the circle of life,
leaving its legacy for generations to come?

more birthing going on...

Sometimes "once" is enough to get my attention and other times I have no idea how often something must be put in front of me before I notice. This time I think it was two times...maybe three. Yesterday, I read Abbey of the Arts reflection on the darkness with this poem by David Whyte. I recalled that I had seen the poem before and found that I actually had used it to write my own version. (Original post is here.)

Commenting at the Abbey, I enjoyed that little piece of serendipity. And then this morning "#2" (or is it 3?) appeared while I was visiting Zena Moon where she has another lovely poem by David Whyte posted. Hmmmm. I then noticed something in her side bar called "Women at Rest", clicked on it and voila, there was "Sweet Darkness" yet again.

So, as I sit this morning pondering not necessarily the darkness, but rather the sweet white snow falling outside my window, I offer you my words on Sweet Darkness. I am still pondering why...however, I don't really need to know the why of it, do I? Enjoy!

In Praise of Sweet Darkness

The dank, moist smell of a cave.
The skin of a snake molting away.
The rich loam of life.
Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own.

A mother’s womb.
One mustard seed of hope.
The blood of crucifixion.
There you can be sure you are not beyond love…

Holding & sustaining.
Nurturing & growing.
Rising from the dead.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn

Birth moving into new life.
The oak rising from an acorn.
Darkness giving way to light.
Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.

photo by lucy 12.18.08

Goddess

The December Reflection by Marlene Marburg

Goddess poem

Go inside the poem
Feel the warmth, the
roomy safety. Feel her
boundaries yield, stretch
to accommodate your flips
and turns, your struggle to
find the comfy space, the
just-right holding. Listen to
sounds familiar and muffled,
and rounded lullaby rhythms
growing inside you, nurturing
your voice, your claim to be
heard, to be silent. Go inside
the poem. Feel your body
move with fear and love,
retrieving the slippery
traces in the poem
you know, the
poem we all
know.

found @ "Membership Moments" Spiritual Directors International