Dream wakes me with words,
“Pay attention! One clear path —“
(So many directions.)

***

The labyrinth calls. 
One path in,
One path out. 
Twists and turns,
Facing all the directions,
In the center place, a nest —

Searching for the one way,
The one thing,
The word, the phrase,
The workshop, the quote,
The “once and for always”
obsessive narrowing of focus.
The pathway to bliss,
Peace and presence assured,
Pain kept at bay.

I yearn for the Celtic path,
A triple spiral,
One continuous path,
Just three turns in one circuit.
A deeper stillness,
A singular path
To the nest within me.

What if focus could be a deepening,
A compassionate returning,
Again and again, 
To the radiant spark within,
A practice of breathing,
Stopping, 
Resting,
Releasing,
Opening,
Receiving,
Repairing,
Rejoicing.

Then returning and re-engaging,
Each time with more ease,
To what is close and essential,
Yet also — strangely —
To what is larger and more complex.

Amidst the difficulties
And the chaos
And the untoward —

…….My dog in his last days,
…………His suffering eyes,
…….My body aching with each step,
…………Each bend an agony,
…….My heart yearning,
…………For simple acts of love.

Amidst all of that,
I come back to 
The one I am becoming,
The one who pauses
To breathe in courage
And love
Then turns to face
What is.

Some days I don’t want to write something lyrical and beautiful. I just feel cranky, and I wonder what a cranky poem would sound like. And then the voices come in with all their disparate views.

“You shouldn’t feel cranky. You have so much to be grateful for. So just stop!”

“I feel what I feel. I shouldn’t deny it just because it’s not ‘nice.’”

“What’s really wrong? What’s underneath all this darkness?”

“Look, I’m tired And my back hurts. And it’s painful to climb the stairs. Everything in my body hurts. And no amount of Tylenol or Advil make it go away.”

“Right, and you are particularly good at avoiding the exercises the PT suggested. Maybe if you were more disciplined.”

Then I remember my last session with Alison and the horses. Remember that this is the time to breathe. Not rejecting those voices. Just breathing. 

Remembering the source of those voices. The time after my father died and before I became a rebellious teenager. A young girl of 9 or 10. The nightmare years. 

Those voices — whether self-critical or complaining or pained or cranky  — they come from a time when I was most broken, most alone, and trying to survive. Wishing I could die but trying to find a way to live. 

Much of my creativity in that time was expressed in writing and bookmaking. I searched magazines and greeting cards and music lyrics for words and images that would comfort me, inspire me. But mostly, just keep me alive.

I searched for hope. Hope that these terrible, wrenching sobs that lived deep inside me would somehow stop haunting me. I wanted to bury the darkness with words of goodness, of love, of something or someone that would come and rescue me from the unending weight of my life.

I can tell that story and feel the desperation building in me again. Of course, I learned to try hard, to please everyone, to manage everything. Of course I learned to anticipate trouble and create systems to keep everything on an even keel. Of course I understood who was feeling what in every room I entered and immediately tried to fix whatever needed fixing.

Of course I cared deeply for the ones who were lost, who had no voice, who were dependent on absent adults. Of course — if I could save them, perhaps someone would see me and save me.

All of that began to turn when a horse named Parome stood with me one day while I remembered that time of deep grief. He stood stock still while the deep wracking sobs shook my body. While I felt all the pain I’d been trying to fix. He stayed with me until I could breathe again and see myself in a different way.

I didn’t need saving. That girl of 9 or 10 didn’t need to be swept away from her grief. She did need someone to see her, stay with her, sit beside her, be with her.

Today, I am that person. When the crankiness shows up, I’m here to be with that part of me who is hurting and discouraged. The part that wants to manage and control. The part that wants to be better, do better, dispel the darkness. Be more disciplined. Try harder.

Today, I am the part of me, the self that breathes into the pain. That invites the despair to sit down and rest. That gathers all the broken parts into her lap and begins to sing a wordless song of gathering, of belonging, of being-with.

I am here. I am whole. I am standing with the one I am becoming.

Sunflower beckons,
Irrepressible face of joy,
Dispel my darkness.

“If you can embrace your place in the web of existence, you will always be original. Let your task be simple: rise, and deliver the message you were sent to carry.” — “Dictation,” in The Magpie Art.

I’ve been writing since I was in elementary school — poems, short stories, haiku. I’ve also been creating books and collections of stories and songs and memories and images. I like to edit stories partly because I like to shape the presentation of the story into something with visual impact. The form of a thing matters to me. I’ve learned to let go of what others might settle for in pursuit of “saving time and effort” but I know what pleases my eye. So when I have the chance, I like to shape the visual impact of a poem, the sweep of fabric on the altar, the shape of a bird’s wing on the page.

This summer, I took two multi-day classes in drawing at a retreat setting in the state of Washington (the Grunewald Guild). Drawing from Where You Are and Connecting Eye, Hand, and Soul through Nature Drawing. I wanted to give myself the gift of experience that would expand my options in my own visual art efforts. The people around me are often already experienced and accomplished in various media. So I often feel like I’m the kindergarten student in a classroom of high school seniors. They bring the sophistication; I bring the joy.

Mostly, I’m happy with that role. I bring the joy of playing outside my comfort zone. I risk the comparison of seeing my simple work alongside the more skilled efforts of my peers. My reach often exceeds my grasp. I like what I am doing, however. I like being in learning mode. I like discovering what happens when I explore different media. I also like discovering what the eye of my heart and mind is drawn to. Vibrant colors, simple lines to suggest more than can be seen, a suggestion of energy in a color or a swirl or even an empty space.

As the days progressed, I experienced myself making decisions about composition, line placement and weight, internal and external space. I exercised my eyes and my hands. I tried one way, then another. I allowed myself to experiment. I discovered that lines have a rhythm I could tap into. I played with colors, letting some drift along an invisible boundary and creating connections between others. I built a network of sensations and feelings and images wrapped up in what I would label a “nest” for myself as a visual artist. A place where I am comfortable, resting in the cushion of various strands of experience and realizations. 

As my classes came to an end, I recognized a shift in the way I see myself in the realm of art and art making. From this unfolding sense of wholeness within my self, I can express the connection between eye, hand, and soul. I can deliver the message that is mine to offer, carrying healing into the world through the creative expression of my Heart’s song. Sometimes in words, and sometimes in lines and color.

I’ve been reading The Magpie Art: Gathering the Brightness of Each Day by Paul Weinfield. You get a lot of choices with this book. You can read it as a daybook of thoughts about the “brightness” of life, as a progression of thoughts through a season (e.g., Love/Spring, Appreciation/Summer, ), or by themes (e.g., clarity, creativity, anxiety). I’m currently moving sequentially through Summer, taking the themes as they come. There’s something about letting a reading come to you in its time, searching for the glimmer of gold that’s meant just for you in this day, this time, this season. 

Today’s offering was titled “The Cook and the Fire.” Right off, the author asserts that creativity and joy are the same thing. Instead of buying into the meme of the struggling artist and the joyful consumer, he urges the reader to remember that the art of connecting to creativity and joy is the art of discerning, in every moment, the difference between what you must do and what you must allow. A cook selects, prepares, and cares for the ingredients but doesn’t actually cook them. That is the work of the fire. 

The fire of creativity or joy must be tended for the work to be accomplished. Whether by writers or painters or meditators, the fire must be left to do its work while the writer/painter/meditator prepares the “ingredients.” We (yes, I am all of those) have only to take a moment to remember the flame and let it work through us. Further, I believe we tend to the fire of joy as an act of love in the world — the world of creation that is, ultimately, a testament to life and its fertility.

Some days ago I picked a word from a little pile of words to write about, think about, notice it’s presence in my life … you know, the thing you do when you are inevitably and perpetually drawn to the practice of contemplation and exploration of all things spiritual. 

That word was “light.”

Perfect, I thought. Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem” came to mind:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

The light of God? The light of our better nature? The light that comes when we give up our tightly managed control?

I don’t question that allowing for the cracks in life and letting the light in is a good thing. For me. For anyone.

But I’m a person of privilege. I am not enslaved nor impoverished. I am white, well-educated, gifted in many ways with confidence, intelligence, creativity. A woman, yes. Which in the eyes of the Southern Baptist leadership is a lesser being. But really, being a white Southern man can be its own kind of prison. 

Still, the concept of “light” remains ethereal. Elusive. Not of this world.

This morning I drew another word. 

“Solid.”

Perfect, I thought. The ground beneath my feet. The place I come back to, again and again. The place I can rely on.

And still, I wander in the realms of what it means to stand on solid ground. My faith in what I cannot see? That stepping into the unknown where I can trust I will be held? Found? Carried?

Maybe a little less ethereal. Still somewhat elusive. And probably falls into the category of “Be in the world but not of it.”

I have a faith that serves me, grounds me. I have a great therapist. I’ve been growing, evolving, transforming, becoming a person of depth, resilience, presence.

Still, I like the balance between “light” and “solid.”

Maybe that’s another word for me to consider: balance.

I can find the light, even “be” the light sometimes. For myself, for others. I can also stand on principle, on what is “real,” on the certitude of hope.

I can be in sorrow, even suffering, without drowning. I can be in joy without losing sight of the brokenness of the world. 

So, yes. I’ll ring the bells, laugh at my imperfection, and embrace the cracks of life.

******

What is the balance
Between the ground and the light?
Become ringing bells.