from Pen (elope) with love xxx E-Book

Diana Button

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 289

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Who are we? What are poems and stories? Can their messages touch us so deeply that we are transformed like The Ugly Duckling transforms into the magnificent swan it was all along? These are some of the questions that are at the heart of this book of poems, prose pieces and letters from two decades of Diana's writing life. It is a collection of work filled with imagery, insights, intimacy and emotion. From Pen (elope) with love takes us to the centre of the human heart and invites us to dance with our humanness, our vulnerabilities, our passions, our childlike wonder and delight, all the while, heading in the direction of our true home. This book will speak to anyone who is on the path of self-discovery and spiritual awakening. It is also for fellow writers and poets seeking nourishment, encouragement, and company on the journey.

Leseprobe

For the family of man,

this miraculous journey

and the opportunity

to wake up

together.

Acknowledgements

No book is ever the work of one person alone. Even if only one person puts pen to paper, it is always an act that happens with the support of many others whom I would like to honour here.

Thank you, Norbert, my dear husband, and Kevin and Erik, my dear sons for all your love and support. You enrich every moment of my life through your free spirits and creative hearts. A special mention to Kevin: it was your booklet, Poetry on the Move that inspired me to publish this work. Your offering reminded me how important it is to share our writing widely in the world.

Thank you, Sarah Mason, my dear friend of thirty-seven years, for walking the spiritual path with me and for our many rich, thought-provoking and heartwarming conversations along the way.

Thank you, Tricia Heriz-Smith, dear friend and sister poet for all the cross fertilisation in poetry. I am so very grateful for our many poetry exchanges over the years and that you kindly offered to proof-read my manuscript and write the foreword.

Many poems in these pages were inspired by the Poet-in-Residence group meetings at my house or in cyber space. Thank you for sharing your vulnerable poet hearts and in doing so, repeatedly encouraging me to do the same: Roland Brinkhoff, Susie Clare, Sanford Clark, Nada Kojic-Edwards, Neil Houltram, Theresa Loder, Lori McDonald, Sultana Raza, Jennifer Rundle, David Rynick, Frank Telwest, Ana Villalobos and Wendy Winn.

I am deeply grateful to many others who have supported and honoured my creativity: my mum and dad, Karen and Derrick; my sisters Corinna, Nicola and Julia; writers, friends, teachers and mentors including: Melissa Blacker, Mary Carey, Stewart Cooper, Roderick Dunnett, Sylvie Flammang, Helga Goehring-Schneider, Charles Muller, Angela Pisani, Beate Ronnefeldt, Dana Rufolo, Sophie Seale, Naomi Tasker, Susan Tiberghien, Roos Vrouwe and Martina Zähner-Scheel.

Thank you, yogis and yoginis who practice yoga with me: I feel your beautiful energy flowing in my heart and into my writing.

Please forgive me if I have not mentioned you here by name. I bow to you now and thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

POEMS ALL THE WAY

Hands

Muses of a Creative

I have woken up

Lion on the Sofa

A Cup of Yogi Tea

Sun Salutations

Your Birthday

Softy

A Tea Party

Alchemy?

March

Breaking the Fast

Harvesting

Me and My Beanstalk

Queen of Middle Age

Soft Fruit Season

What is Your Teaching, Body?

What Body Has to Say

Shadow and I

Wholly Human

View from a Heart

On Being Human

Love in the Lawn

Under the Waxing Moon

Dream Spirit

Life in Prints

Yes and No Game

Mare Nostrum

Onset of Spring

Where are you going so hastily?

Poetry on the Lake

Imagine This!

Dear Gardener,

It's Official

Eavesdropping

Venus and Moon Mind the Night

By Water’s Edge

Moon Meditation

If Conditions

Dropping the Tissue

Metamorphosis

Today I Awake

Coming Back

Under the Bodhi Tree

At my Open Door

Feeling What we are Feeling

Day after Day of Downpour

How to Joy Ride

Up with the Larks

Thoughts and I

Ushered In?

Shopping for Cheese

An Age, 26

Everywhere and Nowhere

I am a Weeping Woman

Beyond Measure

Sister Love

As you Are

A Taste for Mu

Haiku or 17-Syllable Floats?

POEMS ON SUNDAYS

A Poem on Sunday I

A Poem on Sunday II

A Poem on Sunday III

A Poem on Sunday IV

Beside Myself

Some Sundays

Morning has Broken

Purple

I Bow to the Peach Tree

When you Come…When You Go

Winter Meditation

Blessed be the Face

Grace

Retreat

Para Doxa

Bless the Children

Blind Navigation

On Your Own Side

One Key Fits All

This Morning on the Rocky Ridge

New Year Advice I Like to Abide by

Memo: remember to remember

Instructions for a Whole Heart

Remember: you are

Choose Love?

Advice for a Spiritual Warrior

On This Path

Into Your Element…

The Question is Not

Breathing Room

Morning Mantras

Trusty Compass

Here with Me

POEMS FOR WRITERS

The Delivery Room

Serious Advice for Unformed Poets

What to Remember Each Morning

Before the Poetry Reading

Poet in Residence

What is a Poem?

Poem Falls

Divine Force Shapes

Poetry Time

Poet in Residence Life

Another Writing Book

Usually it’s a Tuesday

I Cannot Hold Back

Twinkle in Your Eye

Sometimes and Then… All is Resonance

Morning Writing Practice

Intent

I Dip In

No Midsummer Day’s Breeze

Catcher of the Prose

POEMS PLAY AND SHAPE

Wish upon a Star…

In this Garden

Germitaleng I

Germitaleng II

Bedtime in Luxembourg

Fouling around the Fruit Bowl

Strictly for the Birds

In the Place I am Now

Anticipating the Call

Back Together

Water Borne

Mindful Moment

Dressing in Blessing

1: One Company

Wholly Communion

SONNETS

Sonnet I

Sonnet II

Sonnet III

Sonnet IV

Sonnet V

Sonnet VI

Sonnet VII

Sonnet VIII

THIS IS NOT ABOUT POEMS

This is not about Butterflies

This is not about Lizards

This is not about Thunder

This is not about Leaves

This is not about Star Trek

This is not about Fennel

This is not about Soup

This is not about Coffee Tables

This is not about Blackbird Song

This is not about Cloaks

This is not about Engines

This is not about Herons

This is not about Pumas

This is not about Clocks

This is not about Time

This is not about Beaches

This is not about Breezes

This is not about Ladybirds

This is not about Light

This is not about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera

This is not about Fact, but Meaning

This is not about Judgement, but Truth

AFTER POEMS

The Mind and The Heart

Greed and the Big Feed

Thank You…I am: a writer’s song

Ode to Rough Paper

Sonnet XVIII

There’s a Wook in my Book

ESSAYS AND PROSE

Under the Wisteria

Morning Pages

Shutters

Timing the Growth

Feeling the Well

Plucking Eyebrows

Sacre Coeur

Travelling to the Yoke

Berlinese Impressions

Fricassée Argenteuil

Man’s Unsexy Wife

Man’s Stressful Wife

The Doctor and his Pet Chimpanzee

Dial S-T-R-E-S-S for Success

The Flute Player

Into a Breath of Warm Air

She

Peppermint Moment

Horse Power

Enough to make a Cat Laugh

Dear Reader,

ITALIANO

Andiamo in Italia

Regali del Passato

L’ Estate del Duemillasette

Due Bambini e un Gatto

Il Mio Più Caro Amico

La Luna e L’Amore

I Capelli di Clara

La Nostra Pendola

L’ Esame

La Studentessa

Il Vecchio Libro

Una Nascità Rapida

Danza Settimanale

Leone sul Divano

LETTERS AND POSTCARDS

Dear writer friend,

Dear soul sister,

Dear creative friend,

My dear friend,

Dearest soul sister,

Hello my dear, dear friend,

Postcard I

Postcard II

Postcard III

Dear Pen (elope),

Postcard IV

AFTERWORD AND RESOURCES

About the Author: Spiritual Autobiography

Poet in Residence Blog and Press

Teachings and Wise Words Along the Way

Books by the Same Author

Foreword

What a privilege it is to be asked to write a foreword to this moving and beautiful book that Diana has created. It is testament to her incredible fortitude, courage, tenacity and humility as well as a collection of intensely moving and intimate insights into a personal journey with which we can all, in some way, identify.

from Pen (elope) with love xxx is hard to put down once you begin, yet each entry calls for its own time and space, inviting the reader to linger and savour the richness of the imagery, the depths of emotion and thought, the beacons of hope and change that it encompasses.

It is the kind of book I will revisit many times, to dip in randomly and allow Pen (elope) to stimulate my creativity from within its varied offerings: It is a lighthouse for others undertaking a similar journey of self-discovery as it explores different terrains and differing routes to arrive at that place we all seek

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time1

Diana, thank you for your courage in gifting us with this work of over twenty years to guide us on our personal journey.

With love,

Tricia Heriz-Smith xxx

1 From Little Gidding, the last of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets. Printed with permission from Faber and Faber Ltd. Royalty Department Burnt Mill Elizabeth Way Harlow Essex, CM20 2HX England.

Preface

You are not

a troubled guest

on this earth,

you are not

an accident

amidst other accidents,

you were invited

from another and greater

night

than the one

from which

you have just emerged.2

Writing is my home. I have known this for years and yet it only became a mantra during my years in Italy. Moving was an adventure with many exciting moments, both challenging and stimulating. At times, I was inspired to create and explore new territory with gusto and delight, other times, I fell victim to my innermost human vulnerability and the thought that I was, indeed, ‘a troubled guest on this earth’.

During those moments, not only did I feel disconnected from the outside world, the Italian language and culture, but also from my own inner world. I felt truly lost, physically and spiritually homeless. Yet, in that seemingly impossible place, if I kept quiet and patient, my creative voice would start to softly speak to me and I would begin to write. Just forming words, making sentences, putting thoughts down on paper was enough to loosen the tight hold of the closed, rigid, or polarised mind I was caught in.

So that I do not forget that writing is my true north and trusted navigator through life, I have created this book, from Pen (elope) with love xxx. It contains a selection of poems, prose pieces and letters from the past two decades of my life.

Through my personal journey and experience, I have learned to trust that writing has the power to bring us back to ourselves, our humanness. It can take us out of depression, despair and darkness; a sense of hopelessness, separateness or not belonging, and back in touch with the larger, all-encompassing, interconnected beings that we are. In this way, writing can teach us how to be peaceful and wholehearted in relation to ourselves, others and all of life.

I further believe that writing (and in particular, poetry) is a mysterious messenger. We do not think poems and prose up, rather, they come to us. On fortunate days, I catch some as they float down to Earth.

Sometimes, writing comes in the form of a question; other times as a prayer or blessing. Sometimes, writing points to where I need to pay urgent attention; other times it brings important insights about who I am - who we are.

The title from Pen (elope) with love xxx is meant to hint at the intimate and personal nature of the work. It is, of course, how you might end a letter or message to someone near and dear to you. Despite some of the challenging ground covered as I explore many aspects of being human with its emotional messiness and difficulty, the title also hints at the playfulness, humour, and moments of childlike wonder that are also very much present in the work.

Indeed, you may have already noticed the playfulness in the way Pen (elope) is written, how it is made up of the words pen and elope.

Pen (elope) is the name I give my inner writer – the one who cares about me and the importance of creative writing in my life. She offers kind, but constructive criticism, and has accompanied me over the years. I consider her my muse, soul mate; as faithful and trustworthy as any a friend I have in the outer world.

Though I primarily chose the name Pen(elope) because it contains the word pen. I also like how the meaning of elope corresponds to my experience of the writing journey: it is as if Pen(elope) and I secretly run off together to be joined in a kind of holy (or spiritual) matrimony – a union of mind and heart and the oneness I trust is our inherent nature and relationship with all of life.

When putting this book together, I further got curious about the name Penelope and learned that it has origins in Ancient Greek, means weaver and that Penelope was the wife of Odysseus, the legendary hero in Greek mythology.

According to Homer’s account in his epic poem, The Odyssey, Penelope waited twenty years for her husband to return home from his journey. Despite over a hundred suitors wooing her, she remained true to Odysseus and, for this reason, the name has come to be associated with faithfulness. I was very glad to be reminded of this because it resonated deeply with how I viewed my relationship with my writing muse. In Homer’s work, Penelope is further portrayed as an embodiment of patience, strength and cunning. These qualities are also ones Pen (elope) cultivates in me through the gift of writing.

Another interesting detail in connection with the meaning weaver, is the weaving ruse Penelope used to deter suitors: she pretended to be weaving a burial shroud for Odysseus's elderly father Laertes, announcing that she will choose a suitor when she has finished. Yet, each evening she would unravel her work and thus could cunningly delay re-marrying. Similarly, I experience the process of writing as a kind of weaving that never really ends. When writing, I get to interlace words and sometimes get to glimpse (if only briefly) at the inter-connected, cohesive whole that is the fabric of life. As soon as that moment is over, it is as if all has been unraveled and I begin again in front of a fresh loom and a new piece of writing. How many times have I inwardly celebrated what I consider a personal breakthrough, to wake up the next day (or next moment) to an empty loom and no other choice than to begin again - setting off once more, as if for the first time, my only guides: trust in the process and the faithfulness of Pen (elope).

Every piece included in the book has its unique place. Together, as a collection, the work is witness to the various flows and currents, turning of tides and points of orientation that can lead me to a larger, more connected and wholesome way of being in the world. I have purposely put the pieces in a loose order that is neither chronological, nor necessarily showing progression to a particular place (state) or conclusion; I have experienced the writing journey as far from orderly or cohesive. I would describe the process more like diving, sinking, floating, or spinning around and around and the overall progress, a spiraling - passing the same (or similar) place over and over, each time being given a chance to discover different meanings, views and perspectives not noticed before.

The intentions for creating this book are:

as reminder of the spiritual quests I have been on to discover my true, authentic self;

as a way of honouring the writer in me, in others and the sacredness of life itself;

as a reminder of the above when I forget or get lost along the way.

I am thrilled every time any of my writing can inspire others, or provide nourishment to heart and soul. In that spirit, I hope you will find this book uplifting and encouraging.

2 From the poem by David Whyte, What to Remember When Waking (The House of Belonging, 2011). Printed with permission from Many Rivers Press, www.davidwhyte.com. ©Many Rivers Press, Langley, WA USA.

POEMS ALL THE WAY

Hands

I thank you, hands

for holding this pen,

for turning this page,

for opening this door

and - for being here -

without conditions.

I thank you, hands

for reminding me of

tickling, caressing,

praying and dancing,

and for a simple touch:

hands on heart.

I thank you, hands.

I have been blessed by you

and with you

I can bless, too.

Muses of a Creative

It is my business to create – a business fated to those of sensitive hearts and perceiving eyes. I question all things I see – not with intellectual mind or scientific approach, not with skill or knowledge of current affairs, history, or economy - There is a knowing that is invisible. It comes in through my eyes, invisible; slips down my throat, invisible and does work in the dark, invisible. My business is to create: make visible the invisible, make tangible the intangible and make comprehensible the incomprehensible. At least it is my business to try. Try I must, for that is my call: call to create.

I have woken up

to the sight of snowflakes floating past my kitchen window; specks of softness on the other side of the pane. Yet in my messy mind, I am lost amid to-do lists, unfinished jobs, stalled projects and plans for the future. They waddle and hop, squabble and peck at me like vicious geese. And I am sent out into the blizzard of all that I am not, all that I never will be and all ways I am insufficient and shameful. So very shameful. Outside, all the while, snowflakes glide down to the ground, become a bright white lawn. I open my arms as if to catch some and instead catch my breath. And in that brief pause, I hear snowflake’s song:

It’s

simple, they sing,

breath is here to breathe you,

we are here to teach you

how to go easy,

how to settle down,

how to come home to

yourself.

Lion on the Sofa

You loaf there limp and lonely,

paws: jumbo fur balls off woolen limbs,

mane: a frowsy poodle’s coat.

You sneaked through

my house after dark

and plonked down – a dream gift

to unwrap in the morning.

With ruffled, cuddly-toy look, you lure

my fingers to your dreadlocked coat.

Does your drooping jaw contain

real lion teeth?

Your fluffy paws,

real lion claws?

Your fierce glance is lost

in the frenzy of my fingering.

My mind is lost in compassion

- as it often is –

for all living things

in dreams and

in the waking world.

Who are you?

Certainly not Aslan the Great Lion?

The Cowardly Lion from Oz, perhaps?

Or does your foot hold a thorn

I have overlooked?

It becomes a game.

I dance around you,

excited with my new toy,

eager to unravel great mysteries

from the dreamworld.

I had forgotten:

you are lying on my sofa;

you are my dream,

my lion.

Where is the wildness?

That grand roar?

Power and majesty?

I cannot remember.

I am far from home.

I am not just lying on the sofa,

I lie in the real world -

I care for all living things

except one.

A Cup of Yogi Tea

On my tea-bag label this morning, the message:

Do not feed the fears!

I have to laugh. It is still early and

I have faithfully fed a family of ten:

Fear of failing to live my life well

Fear of letting others down

Fear of procrastination

Fear of neglecting my body

Fear of growing old and frail and ill

Fear of confusion, and mindless living

Fear of losing all I love or hold dear

Fear of not responding to the call to write

Fear of living from my limited human mind

Fear of not truly living from the heart

Fear of not touching the divine.

Then comes the refreshing cup of tea

and a second reading of my thoughts.

This time, I recognise the f-signs

and know

I need not

follow them.

Sun Salutations

Surya3 still rests

as I clear some space

(and my voice) at the crest

of the hill; I remove my shoes,

sharp sticks and stones

from the ground

and stand

tadasana4 tall,

hands

palm to palm:

Om Suryaya Namaha5

Arms reaching up, I greet Sky.

Body bending down, I greet Earth.

Legs lunging back, I greet Water.

Hips up, then down, I greet Mountain,

I greet Lake.

Flat on the grass,

I greet Worm,

I greet Snake.

Standing tall once more,

I greet Tree, Forest, Bird, Bee

and include myself:

I greet Me,

I greet You

I greet All

who do not believe

we belong

or have forgotten

we live with this

one same sun, this

one same breath.

No matter what we tell ourselves,

we are here,

in deep - all of us -

invitees.

3Surya, sanskrit meaning sun.

4Tadasana, sanskrit meaning 'mountain pose’ or ‘tree pose'

5Om Suryaya Namaha - a mantra to the sun which honours the sun as life giver, a masculine force that dispels darkness and brings activity and transformation through light, heat and fire.

Your Birthday

All that was important was to sit with you. No timetable. No ‘things’ to do - Just sit. Spend time. Sixteen hours of space.

You didn’t understand much I said, or remember I now lived in Italy. You didn’t know I would leave later, or that it was our last day together.

You kept forgetting your age, that you were unable to

walk, shave, dress, or visit the bathroom

without the help of nurses.

You just knew moments, snap-shots of

past, present and you found the

sense of it all

in the patterns of your dressing gown.

Julie Andrews beaches

in Wales

the

Tenors

your

daught-

ter’s

voice old family house

You followed the checkered lines with your index finger and stored them there:

forever!

I may have been with you for just an hour,

for a week, a year, or had never left home at all.

To you, it was all the same

time.

In this place, you have everything you need:

peace.

Thank you, Daddy for your 87th birthday gift to me.

Softy

You sweet, smooth softy,

snug inside your shell -

outside,

the fast, furious world

turns in crisis,

screams for help,

begs attention.

Your telescope eyes

barely find extension.

You sweet, smooth softy

silent inside your shell -

outside,

the crazy, complex world

turns in circles,

sobs for solace,

wants for action.

Your sense and sensitivity

barely find expression.

At least as long as

one million years, it seems

I have been spiralling

inside

these smooth, forgotten routes

steadily and alone.

The solution is simple:

feed me some salt

and I will die for you.

A Tea Party

I shall have a tea party and invite them. No point not inviting them. They’d barge in anyway, Maleficent-style. So, I will invite them and I’ll be polite and offer them some tea with plenty of sugar. Yes, I’ll ask them in and sit them down and let them vent their complaints. I will listen. I will listen the way children listen to a nagging parent. I’ll let the wind of their words pass softly through and take some of the cobwebs away. Yes, I really do think this is the best plan: a spring-cleaning tea party; just me and the two of them. No need to invite the others. I shall seat Seamus Shame on my right and Gilbert Guilt on my left and I will smile pleasantly. I will offer them home-baked buns topped with icing and a cherry. I will pretend to like their company and I will be very friendly. All the time I will be spring-cleaning and their voices will drone on in the background like a train drones across a wide valley. Yes, I shall invite them to my exclusive, afternoon, spring-cleaning tea party and we’ll sip tea together and eat buns. There will be music in my head as their rhythmic chatter diddledy-dees and diddledy-dums through the valley of my mind - a passing train - an express: a noisy but short disturbance. Then, I will open my eyes and my house will be quiet and clean and I will look out into my garden and see the exquisite brightness of spring’s greens and yellows and pinks.

Alchemy?

Bear, tell me:

are these Merlin’s tricks you play?

Or have you made mercury

from this diamond

and that furry

hump of yours?

I float, buoyant, light

on silvery beads

whilst your bulk

lurks

ambivalent

in the shadows.

Where is your power?

That roar?

Are you resting,

or are you prowling

and ready to pounce

at the first sign

of my ignorance

and the next step

on this journey

to gold?

March

The old lady's door is open.

A sign of spring?

It says: I invite you in,

we'll drink espresso and chat a while.

I hide in my kitchen

unready to leave my winter den.

I am still dressed in grey,

ugly duckling that I am.

Despite primroses on the sills

and twenties in the sun,

Swan has not yet come.

I continue to hibernate.

Lonely nonna6 will have to wait.

6 nonna is Italian for grand-mother.

Breaking the Fast

This morning I lay down

in your cereal bowl

under morsels of kiwi,

under the Country Crisp.

Crunching through

will you taste

the softness

after your tongue has licked

sour fruit,

frostbitten to sweetness,

underneath it all?

Harvesting

This year, the best year ever

for beans. The green and strong

fagiolini7, the long and wide

piattoni8; some skinny, some fat,

all ripe and bulging

like meat morsels

on the pizza I prepare,

filled with good will

and goodness: protein, riboflavin et al.

Vitamins A, C, K,

folate and phosphorus,

magnesium and manganese.

My own harvest: this heart beat -

I connect to self-compassion and

deep living in moments like these:

picking beans, washing and slicing,

steaming and frying -

freezing in bags for winter.

I harvest self-knowledge, too

through food for thought,

for growth and next spring,

hoping to blossom

and bear fruit

other colours than green.

7 Fagiolini, the Italian term for string beans or French beans.

8 Piattoni, a type of Italian runner bean or flat bean.

Me and My Beanstalk

Bean prana9,

full of energy,

of vital force:

potential to expand,

reach for the sky

like bean stalks do as they climb

and like Jack's did

and mine does too

now that my cow has been sold and

I can stretch up high and

dig down deep

into fertile ground

and feel

how Earth and Heaven

are real,

how they heal,

how they lift me

to other gardens,

other harvests,

other realms

beyond imagining,

beyond what mind calls -

‘The best you will ever get!’

9 Prana is Sanskrit meaning breath or life force that permeates all levels of reality.

Queen of Middle Age

I don't go on diets

I don't believe they work

but when I grew

the dreaded

middle-aged spread,

I decided I must

reconsider my view,

try something new,

new being:

The 50+ Diet:

Ballet and buns for breakfast

A lion of a lunch (yogic style)

Skip through dinner

At night: dine on dreams.

Now that I have shed

all the extra weight,

I like to be seen

and feel

like a Queen

of Middle Age

with added guarantee:

I start each day

with a round beat

rooted in my heart.

Soft Fruit Season

The soft fruits have arrived

from the south. Market stalls

have transformed customers' gazes

and baste in the brightness

of the red beauties:

Raspberry,

Redcurrant,

Strawberry...

How bold you are!

You demand attention,

attract many a mouth and purse

to open wide, hands

to dip in, tongues

to wrap around

your juiciness.

Senses dance easily

in soft fruit season.

How I wish to be dancing

in tune to this harvest;

yet I find myself in a season

of a different kind -

Rosacea has arrived

and is announcing it to the world

through inflamed cheeks

that burn, scream for attention

and win

the red competition.

My soft animal inside

has scurried away and

curled into a ball

like a young hedgehog

whose outer spines are in place,

but not yet strong to

make an adequate defense;

not yet matured to

embody the wisdom:

'There is nothing to be defended!'

What is Your Teaching, Body?

I have read that the body

is a learning lab,

that this flesh

is not who I am

but mind wants

to possess it and calls it me

and I see skin in anguish, in distress;

eyes looking out of puffy lids,

red like my rash and

full of folds,

as if zoomed into old age

in just a few days.

I wish to age

with grace and compassion

but what about this:

blemishes, spots, wrinkles;

mind looking on, judging,

calling me 'ugly', 'shameful'?

How to speak kindly

when feeling thin-walled and crumpled;

when feeling pummeled and knuckled;

when feeling split, ripped off centre,

capillaries spidering my face?

I know these veins, like stains

will not remove easily.

How do I still love her,

still hold her close,

still care enough to allow her

to be here?

What is your teaching, body?

Breathe with her!

Rub ointment into your sore skin;

caress with a tender voice

and speak deep into her ear

so that she hears without a doubt:

'You are unique and complete.

I love you just as you are.'

In the midst of this anguish,

let the sunlight in

and fertilise your own soil,

feed seeds of trust

for all that is fragile inside,

for all that needs to be seen.

All of us are in season and

can be harvested

as we are,

lifting us beyond (yet not making us immune to)

scorn and scrutiny

for being as we are

for being

ultimate vulnerability.

What Body Has to Say

I am here for healing.

I am here for you whilst you are here.

Listen!

Listen well!

Listen again!

that rumbling,

that grumbling,

that aching,

that paining,

that straining,

that bleeding,

that problem of the body…

…that is not who you are!

that discomfort,

that disturbance,

that disgust,

that distress,

that discord,

that disease,

that long list of all that is wrong…

…that is not who you are!

we are messengers

passing through,

rapping on your head,

knocking on your knees, 43

rattling your bones,

boiling your blood,

twisting your back,

pulling your arm,

scratching your skin,

trying to get in

to where you hide,

deep inside,

where you shine

beyond the limiting mind,

beyond the limited body,

beyond all limits

beyond space and time.

Shadow and I

I shall not entertain

jumping over my shadow;

I shall jump in

like a child jumps into a puddle -

in and out,

in and out.

I shall entertain

wallowing in puddles.

I will wallow away

like a pig in mud -

over and over,

over and over.

I entertain

jumping into puddles.

We jump together

like dolphins in oceans -

in and out,

up and over.

I stop entertaining

and we leap -

we leap

unlike any way we have leapt before -

high and beyond.

Wholly Human

It's strange to be human!

I look, observe, wishing to see

who I am, who we are;

odd creatures we are.

I do not know or understand

who I am, who you are;

yet I do catch glimpses -

in moments like this,

whilst writing, feeling alive,

connected to life.

It's human to be human!

I become quiet and ask:

Who am I?

Who are we?

I do not know or understand

and catch myself thinking

I am not at home,

or welcome in this world.

Is there an explanation for this?

I do a little research

and discover: only human

beings feel this way;

honey bees don't.

So, why can’t I be

‘just me'-

a plain human being

without the trimmings?

An answer does not come,

but imagination does,

in the form of mercury.

I am suddenly entering

a tub filled to the brim.

There are no sides,

no bottoms, no tops -

just a mass of silvery blobs

that flow and merge

this way and that.

Another moment of imagination

and I know I can let go -

I will not fall down.

Perhaps I will fall out

and into the whole

like a droplet from an ocean wave

sprayed skyward,

then landing

back in the water

from which it was

never separate.

View from a Heart

I am called to return

like an artist is called

to an unresolved painting;

one that has been brushed over and over

by a dissipated heart,

wiped out

then held,

suspended and ambivalent

- waiting -

for just the right light,

for just the right perspective,

for an unveiling.

I visit the boat –

the one moored by the trees,

leaning in close to see inside,

hair dipping into her portholes

down to the hull

where lifejackets and

ropes are stowed.

And my brush loads

with all the greys and browns and blues

of taupe,

of shadow and chagrin -

A world of lost depth and contrast

moving as it must

through such weather conditions

like my heart,

at times,

hanging out there

on those feint lines 49

between ocean and sky,

between boat and shore

among watercolour clouds:

the only lighthouse

guiding me home.