Lada and the Moon

Every so often our writing group meets. Yesterday we sat under the bliss of morning air while a mother duck and two ducklings wandered by. Flowers bloomed around us as we feasted on food that filled our bellies and communion with one another that filled our souls. I am so full of gratitude to have these women in my life.

It was my turn to bring the prompt. I work from images. I write a movie in my head with each poem or musing I pen. It’s who I am. Maybe because I am an actress or a child who sees the world in bright colors and story. I brought images from which each of us chose one. Then each of us offered a word that we had the option of using or not: sweet, suspicious, shadow, clumsy, ice, monarch.

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Lada and the Moon

Moon rested between the split of rock. Sweet sadness poured into the stream below. Lada wiggled her toes in the dripping as she ached for Moon and its tears of a clumsy affair gone awry. It was a shadow of her own.

The night cast its spell around Lada hiding trees and blooms, rocks and fractures. All that formed were sounds or scents – hoots and musty rose, bright eyes and scattering stones. She was safe, a monarch in this place of solitude interrupted only by that which wasn’t seen.

Moon’s bright face shielded all but the sorrow.

It was a cycle, her cycle, one she understood. Under dark Moon before the silver crescent kiss began to appear once more, there was always chaos in Lada’s life. It was as if they waited for the deep dark to come out and play.

Play was too easy a word. No, not play. Under dark Moon life released prisoners to do their deeds, revel in their piracies, prick her until she bled.

This was all she knew of dark Moon, suspended until silvered light issued its shape once again. She learned dark time was time to be still. She learned to watch, not jump. She mastered protecting herself, mostly. It was a hard study. She usually remained suspicious under dark Moon, at least until this last round.

Then, mostly, as the delicate sideway smile of light entered the new course, Lada could breathe more deeply. Her shoulders would drop, her jaw loosen. Hope and new ideas would grow more freely each fertile night. Her stride became smoother and in sync with afterlight music. As Moon grew fuller like a woman’s belly filled with life, she could sing again and smile. Moon’s luminous glow accorded to her once more, Lada overflowed with joy and danced her purpose under full-blessed glow.

Until now.

Tonight was different. Caught up in her exuberance, Lada forgot. She entered dark Moon time unguarded. And now full Moon rested between rocks, dripping its dream into the stream.

Lada could only watch, listen to Moon’s loss while her toes dabbled in moon-glow tears. An ice story she knew much too well.

Between

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I am filled with You
ab84545d-7af3-4f77-a7d4-4cdeae27fff4.jpg in dragonfly shimmy
two realms inhabited
between water and air,
dreamtime waxes
and wanes, I am
replete in You.

I am filled with You
bounded by moon and
sun, in balance
of wisdom and Light.
Within I trust
both pitch and blaze,
I know I am in You.

I am filled with You
as rigid crumbles into
softness, compassion
and forgiveness fill in.
I am calm in your cradle,
held tight in dear repose
under Your stars and roots.

In gratitude I see
through my heart,
not eyes, no longer
lost in appearances,
a portal opened.

I bless you, myself, 
and all around
to wake up Beingness
that flows through all,
the pathway back to You.

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Author’s Note:

 

Coming home.

I understand that allowing Spirit to flow through me is the gift. When I struggle to find the right way or the right ministry or the right worship, I am lost in appearances, veiled in confusion.

I am a portal, a way for Spirit to enter the world. When I release and allow flow without attaching my harness, I am given to the world as a gift. I am not in charge. I fall away when I try to take control.

Art is my passion – writing, photography, imagery in all forms. The photos here are always mine unless I give attribution otherwise. I love to create. Right now I am filled with words and joy of PicMonkey and an iphone camera. I watch dance and hear music that lifts my soul. Theatre brings Spirit alive through real people saying words of writers, a deep ceremony.

I do my work even if there is no audience, because Spirit is always here.

And I don’t have to be “good” at it, afraid to share that it’s not perfect. I share because it is what I do and don’t need to worry about judgement. It is what I am.

Share freely of yourself. You are the gift Divine. Let go. Release. Let Spirit live through you. All is good, so very good.

 

May you sing with morning birds,
filling air with newness.

May you dance with dragonflies,
gilding sky with prisms of light.

May you speak with bees,
words of honeyed sweetness.

May you live in Spirit
opening your heart
to grace and sureness
that we are all One.

And dream this world into being.

 

Aho. Munay. Amen.

Lexanne

Consecration

If given a chance29964129-4ad3-4ceb-90b4-dee2bf301f36.jpg
I would pare it down.
I would do it all over again,
heal keen wounds
carved to make me fit.

I would do it all over again,
heel when I come to titanic doors.
If given a chance at the pair,
I’d stay in sun, not enter shade.

A chance, if I was given,
I would banquet on each juicy pear.
Again, I would do it over,
He’ll welcome my redesign.

Under skyward arm of branches wide,
feet bared to moss and stone,
tides brushing sanded earth,
and air a swirl of life I’d stand.

This temple granted all,
no one left aside,
no one banished by belief,
or refused by creed or rule,
all embraced in gifts profound.

I’d honor bird and bee,
beast and human.

I’d honor me, formed in grace
in perfect flame,
one hand in Yours, the other open,
one path for all to be.

May all walls crumble into gravel.
May all breathe in the depth of You.
And may we, everyone together,
walk each other home.

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Author’s Note:

Orlando.

Another one.

I am from Colorado and a first grade teacher, too many to list now.

I am tired of boundaries, lines drawn over and within religious belief systems. The whitewashing, justifications, excuses for the arming of those who live in fear.

There have been many touching, wise, angry, heartbroken words shared this week, much more eloquent than I can summon. They pass over me once again, yet not provoking change. The only thing I can change is myself.

A full Moon is Monday, the Summer Solstice. I join with others to welcome newness, wholeness under a moon given to all without sanction. I drop the conceptions of my past by embracing the new without fear. No more systems to alienate. No more boundaries drawn. The search is over.

I consecrate myself on a new path open to all.
I step into Oneness, Compassion, and Wisdom
under sky, feet grounded to earth,
in breath of air,
this temple given to all.
I honor myself as a mirror of the Divine in you
to recognize the Divine in me.

 

This is my chance to do it again, revised.

Lexanne

 

For more on this piece, please visit JOURNEY/lex. You can also sign up here to receive it weekly in your e-mail box.

Warrior

Do you know the tenacious bee,ae0a76c6-1da1-4dfd-b73c-4cb7327ca164.jpg
one who moves from bloom
to bloom without fail, without
regret, without losing faith…

Do you know water as it
runs cold from snowed
peaks, down to settle in
low places, without question
to its purpose, without fear…

Do you know the sun as it
pushes above the horizon
without falter, without doubt
since before time that we remember
until time when it is burned out…

Do you feel your heartbeat,
a gift given, one you cannot
contain, one that speaks to
you in every moment, at each turn,
in every breath, unwavering passion…

Warrior,
one who does not abide in fear,
acknowledges its impossible grip,
but leaves it to shrivel unfed.

Warrior,
who is built on faith.

Warrior,
who opens space
for that which will be,
that without ego.

Warrior,
who trusts and moves
in rhythm of heartbeat.

Warrior
who releases all to the One who Is –
a marriage without question,
a union of tenderness,
a hand fasting of strength
to move a mountain,
if such a thing be needed.

You are warrior,
born to trust,
made to honor,
sent to be you.

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Author’s Note:

I once had a discussion with one dear to me who when I read a poem about being a warrior, a dismayed looked came upon the face of my friend. It must have seemed unlike me to consider myself a warrior. In my friend’s mind, possibly, understanding a warrior to be one of violence.

If I place myself into a historical context I would probably be a hippie – peace and love and all that jazz. I struggle with eating meat, wearing leather, supporting the zoos. Trash. Oh, the waste. I don’t seem to have anything warrior about me, in the traditional sense of war.

Today I was once again presented with the idea of warrior – one of strong conviction, not violence; respect and honor, not ego.

To be a warrior doesn’t mean I am going to pick up a weapon. On the contrary, I see no purpose at all in carrying guns. Yes. That includes hunting. No war. No pesticides. No boxing or football. No winners or losers. No Game of Thrones or even Harry Potter. Violence is much too pervasive in all we do. I know. I eat meat. I love Harry Potter. I am working on this contrary life of mine.

But I am warrior.

Some call it stubborn. I am also a Taurus. Maybe that plays a part.

In these past four years, especially since January, I have come to acknowledge and embrace my Warriorself – in my faith, in my love, in making my life along a new path. I embrace new ways, ideas, and thought that aren’t new but ancient. And people who are of nature and see our Holy One in all and in everything have stepped graciously into my life. No boundaries or creeds to accept or hide within. Just opening, opening to all in wonder and joy. No fear. No fear.

It is astounding. The path is wide enough for everyone. The gifts to share are stunning if I quiet myself like a warrior, learn to listen, really hear and understand. Stay open to whatever may happen. Make room for those new voices and their gifts who are presented to me, and to welcome all.

It is not perfect or easy, but I am not giving up.

I am warrior.

I hope my friend understands.

May you stand in stillness,
warrior, listening deeply
to our Holy One’s voice.

May you walk in lightness,
warrior, in honor and
respect of all life,
all that is holy.

May you see with eyes
wide and free,
warrior, open stance
accepting of the gift Divine.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Aho,
Lexanne

 

Above is Luna, my new rattle.
I love the gift of her into my life.
Made of leather, sitting on leather.
Oh, my contrary life.
One side is this lovely deep blue signifying the dark Moon.
And, then, the other side is ever so lightly tinted blue
for when she is full.

 

 

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Warrior dancer Gillian Murphy
Photo by Ken Browar and Deborah Ory, NYC Dance
Found on Musetouch Visual Arts Magazine, Facebook.
Project.https://www.facebook.com/nycdanceproject/timeline

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“The two basic qualities of warriors
are sustained effort and unbending intent.”
by Carlos Castaneda | Artist unknown
From Dreamwork with Toko-pa
on Facebook

Elegy in Orange

Lily1

It slipped, tucked between pages
used for memories scribed in words

Transparent orange
recused in my palm
veins delicately lined,
too narrow for wings
a wisp of memory past

There were more

Tumbling from thumbed pages
not yet filled, a puzzle
asking to be stitched

As days press on, memory fades
What once seemed vital, pressing
Now something to emend

Free of past sin I see your face
in tiffany whispers,
a bittersweet elegy

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Author’s Note:

This morning I picked up my journal. It had been a while since my pen kissed the page. Life got in the way. As I lifted it with one hand something floated out. I caught it in the palm of my other hand.

A beautiful orange crepe paper. I stared at it trying to remember. It must have been something I was passionate about to keep it tucked away. As I set the journal down, more pieces appeared and a familiar sense came over me. I saw myself placing an orange lily into the middle of my journal, blank pages, thick petals, wondering if it would flatten without breaking. A desperate sadness washed over me.

What was I to remember?

I carefully lifted each petal off the page and placed them gently on my desk. Yes, it must have been a passion to keep this flower. The stamens, each a separate filament of something that was once whole. Dried so delicately and perfectly transparent. But what was I seeing?

I took a little pause. Michael.

You were taken too soon, my friend. I miss you. I never got to tell you how much I loved you.

Tell those around you how much you love them. Time is short.

I love you,
Lexanne

 

To read entire post, I welcome you to join me at Journey/lex.

 

 

Hope

a new rhythm calls
feet pound a primal beat
hands clap half-time pulse

early morning drizzle
nuzzles with quickened doves
alight on branches high

hope stirs fresh
my own syncopation
a squire for my migration