Dancing with the Jellyfish

"Nature...a source of renewal and perspective, a place to be made whole." Mimi Farrelly-Hansen

Walking on the shore, I find myself staring at transparent beauty. Beauty began to stare back at me – to cry out – to breathe and gasp – “Help me” “Save me” “I’m melting…melting”.

Breathing or melting? The sun drying out her ethereal body. Only a spark to be left at the center.

The core. The center. The soul. The outer withering away. Dried up and gone with the wind.

The jellyfish pled to be saved. She looked at me from that transparent soul. “Water of life, I need you.”

And so the dance began. Scooping her up with a sheet of broken plastic – garbage left in the sand. Scooping and tossing. Over and over again. The currents – the waves - would not cooperate. They would not carry her out to sea.

Watching the rhythm – landing her in the ocean – she began to swim. Her tentacles spreading and floating. Beautiful and deadly. They are her power and they are deadly. I nearly forgot they could harm me, so mesmerized by the beauty was I. Her power full and floating free. Could she escape to the open sea?

No. She was destined to arrive on the shore. I could not save her. Did she know and feel that I fought for her? Scooping and tossing again and again until I knew I could not save her.

And so I left her by a rock. A small pool of water keeping her moist. Life giving. Life sustaining. Maybe that small pool of water was enough to nourish her. Perhaps the tide changed and pulled her back to sea. Back to see the depths of the ocean.

Did she know I fought to save her? Was that enough? Did she know?

Will I let my power flow or will I tuck it under and shrivel up and blow away?

She was 85% water. The sun drying her out. The heat. The fire of day. Shriveling into sand. Beached upon the earth. Blown away by the wind. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Perhaps the morning rain released her. Maybe her soul dropped into a new body. The joy of a dog. The laughter of a child. The brilliance of a woman.

photos by lucy 5.07.09

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...

discombobulated

I am really having a hard time finding my center these days. Perhaps it is being away from home and routine. Late nights filled with a little too much wine and festivity. Groggy mornings spent lounging and sipping cappuccino while the ocean breeze blows across my face. Is there such a thing as too much paradise?

I wonder if the discombobulation comes from too much activity – lack of routine – overindulgence. Or perhaps is it a result of my recent “retirement” from a job and institution I have loved for five years? What comes of being surrounded by people who talk of high-level politics, economics and other “ics”? I want to indulge in matters of the heart, but find there are few doors in. My heart feels lonely and sad. I am a spiritual misfit here.

The crowds are thinning and I will hopefully have a little more time to center over the next few days. My favorite monk arrives this afternoon. Perhaps the spiritual balance will shift. I am really having a hard time finding my center these days. My writing feels stifled. My voice sounds hollow. And even my skin is having a strange reaction to the sun.

Weird unfurling and a struggle to list Bliss even as I sit in the middle of paradise. Wonder what’s up with that? Anybody besides me (and Sue) ever feel discombobulated?

are you awake?

"Only that day dawns to which we are awake." Thoreau

Posts to help awaken your May day:
Blisschick
Abbey of the Arts
Anchors & Masts