illumination

She did not cry, "I cannot,
I am not worthy,"
nor "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth, raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light, the lily glowed in it,
and the iridescent wings.

Consent,
courage unparalleled,
opened her utterly.

--Denise Levertov

There are multiple layers to this post--as always there are--and time for writing is in short supply this morning. I hope you will visit Abbey of the Arts where you will see an invitation to poetry as well as a brief and beautiful explanation of what this day represents (The Feast of the Immaculate Conception and the Enlightenment of Buddha.) In addition, she speaks of the amazing retreat of which I was a part. Words? Where can I begin?

Here is my own photo as well as the line from this poem that was highlighted in my journal from a few days ago. I believe it speaks volumes.

"Consent illumined her."

May you find this season of Advent filled with your own illumination and "yes" to the sacred in your life! Peace.

what color is your world?

My mind seems to be operating in colors these days. The purple, golden and aquas of my quilt. The glorious changing colors of the trees—burgundy, rust, deep plum and brilliant yellow. The fluorescent green turf of soccer fields. The gray fog-filled sky before the sun breaks through to brilliant azure. And so, this morning my offering is this piece penned while on retreat at Camp Cross in early September.

Blue. I raise my eyes from the written page and I see blue. Water. Sky. Mountains, too. Dark. Light. Rippling. Still. Streaked with gentle white clouds & punctuated by fluffy balls of cotton.

Blue. Surrounded by sentries of green pines. The waves gently moving. In & out. Away & toward. The motion churns my stomach until we become one. Molecules of water—all. Why should we be separate?

Blue. My jacket is blue. My heart, too. The sadness stirring deep within. Inside the depths. It starts as a ripple. Surface smooth. Deep inside I have all I need. The fish deep within the dark pool. Safe inside the womb. Free from the raging hurricane above.

Blue
Water Sky
Mirror of God
Holding me Washing me
You

What color is your world?

recycling

waiting or wasting? blocked or resting? dabbling or mastering? the words will not come. I am reminded of the Nike slogan, “just do it.” alas, I am dry as toast. scattered like confetti in the wind. wrung out and hung to dry. morose? no. delighted? no. extreme? perhaps. love me or hate me, but please don’t be indifferent.

the words will not come, so here is a “recycled” post for today…

the words will not come.
they do not flow like water.
they drip in my mind interrupting solace like a leaky faucet.
they come in ragged, jagged fits and bursts and then
they resist—stop—refuse to congeal and thus
leave me wanting—yearning—aching and unsure of what needs
or wants to be said or heard or read.

my words are insufficient.
cards held close to my vest.
“Thank you but your words are not right for us.”
“Have you tried this or that?”
words of advice slip through the air
and hang like graffiti on a wall.

needing words to communicate—to feel complete.
finding words get in the way.
interpretation.
collision.
mood and mystery.
is there meaning in this text?
mine or yours?

the inner (& sometimes outer) critic speaks.
softly.
loudly.
in fits and spurts.
in screams and sighs.
the words will not come.
And they will not stop.

photo by lucy. la cruz mexico

Advent Journey Continues

So, what do you do when you have too many words, thoughts and events running through your head that it would take pages and pages to even begin? I realized this morning that when that happens to me often a poem will pop out. Advent continues to be an amazing journey for me. I have been very nearly overwhelmed by the thoughtful and thought-provoking responses I have received on my last few posts. I am blessed by each of you in ways you likely cannot imagine. I am grateful. I am humbled. I am pondering.

This graphic is a collage card I made last week at an evening workshop. I am still unraveling what this art has to say to me. The poem is one of a continuing journey; weaving times, places, people, & events in and out. It seems appropriate to preface it with these words of Ronald Rolheiser, given to me in a post comment from Gabrielle.

"Advent should not be confused with Lent. The crimson-purple of Advent is not the black-purple of Lent. The former symbolizes yearning and longing, the latter repentence. The spirituality of Advent is about carrying tension without prematurely resolving it so that we do not short-circuit the fullness that comes from respecting love's rhythms. Only when there is enough heat will there be unity. To give birth to what's divine requires the slow patience of gestation."

she is most interesting to me
gazing at me through pools of brown
lovely eyes aglow
do not be afraid
it is a time of shedding & rebirth
an awakening
creative & colossal
shining in the shadows
hidden light revealed
ancient wisdom in 5 year old eyes
persistent
alert
vigorous
vigilant
vibrant & watchful

she is most interesting to me
poppies in hand
serpent looming
loving
entwined with god
one god
lives rippling outward in time
embracing the whole
the beloved
ancestors dance the bridge between day & night
angels float in shadow bright
golden shimmering
shadows joining light

she is most interesting to me
crown donned with flowers white
lucy of the light
patron saint of blind
mother earth
rebirth & new life
speak of shadows feared
step into them & see
they are filled with light
shadowy brilliance
yearning
longing
advent
waiting
pausing
reflecting
sorting through life

yes, she is most interesting to me

Eyes of My Ancestors

My quiet time continues to bring more and more new results. The most recent in the form of a poem prompted by Christine @ Abbey of the Arts. Part of me hesitated to even post this here, because it feels a bit melancholy. However, there was something very powerful in writing it that gave me a new way to look at things.

When I think of my ancestors, I am reminded of stern faces and more often than not words of criticism rather than kindness. Maybe it was due to the serious times they were raised in or possibly the influence of the Bible belt, but there never felt like there was much, if any, room for play or imperfection.

In penning this reflection, however, I became very aware of the many dimensions of these ancestral women . While their words may have stung me deeply, I believe I can bring something new to the world by breaking their ancient patterns of hiddenness and propriety. I pray that through the realization of my own dreams and forgiveness, these women can be honored in new and glorious ways.

the eyes of my ancestry.
hollow & vacant. cold & elusive. barren of love.
are they my eyes? my fate?

do those eyes still watch & judge?
or do they weep for their veiled dreams?

might I be their eyes today?
might I see things differently & shed grace where once was derision?
might their eyes be washed clear by my tears?

the eyes of my ancestry.
are they watching now?
were they ever?

photo by christine.