Between

June 24, 2016 by leximagines

I am filled with You
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.

.
.
.

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

Warrior

June 11, 2016 by leximagines

Do you know the tenacious bee,
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.

.
.
.

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.

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

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

Holy Heretic

January 30, 2016 by leximagines

Photo by Niko Pekonen

It is a leap of faith, not a loss of one.

A leaf deepens into rich shades,
a gift of time and experience.
Audaciously, it releases from what was,
a liberation away from nourishment
no longer adequate,
loosening into the fall.

Crashing to awakening.

It crumbles and molds into earth,
itself now food for roots to overwinter.
Then returns once more, ready
to re-bud, to burst open,
not of its own accord,
but that of Oneness.

It is the way of a holy heretic.
I un-label myself,
open to the Holy One,
an ordination of new birth.

Author’s Note:
Something happens inside of me when I watch the extraordinary creativity of The Piano Guys. It’s not just their musicality, but their masterful technical and production value as well.

Or when I see a spellbinding performance such as Hamlet that was shown live from the Barbicon last year. I was touched, weakened, heart-wrenched by Ophelia’s mad scene in a way I never before experienced.

Or the dance from my favorite reality show, So You Think You Can Dance, when That Leap happened, I gasped. We had it recorded and played it again, and again, and again. It still takes my breath away.

Or when a photograph captures the essence of an animal as in the wolf above by Niko Pekonen.

When I experience stunning art…

…there is something in my soul that jumps and screams, “I want to create like that!”

Inside of me I am a Creator. I know that. That is my blessing. It is my biggest joy and darkest heartbreak. When I experience great art, deep within my solar plexus I feel such profound acknowledgement of the Divine it’s hard to breathe. I know that I, too, am meant to create in some way. Not like those above, but in my own way.

I struggle to find that way.

When I try to make a plan, forge a road, grasp tight to make it work, it doesn’t. It’s been an eyeopening journey to realize that it’s not my plan. I wasn’t listening, or maybe not allowing myself to hear the Voice. I am now. It’s not for me to make it happen. It’s not for me to corral others into my web to help me attain it. When I do, I fall crashing to awakening.

It hurts. It should. Sometimes it takes pain to get my attention, especially when I’m holding the noose.

I’ve come to realize it’s not the extraordinary that I need to reach out to and try to be. I must simply be who I am. But finding that was the rub. I am getting there. I also understand that there will be more pain in release, followed by more time of quiet and listening. It is the Divine road I yearn to discover. I need to liberate myself and allow it to open before me in its own magnificence and time.

I am in a much bigger place than I was a few years ago when I began to let loose of old traditions, habits, and thoughts. I set out and tried to navigate on my limited knowledge of who I was and what I do.

I understand more now…

…and I’ve changed.

I am ready to pack up my tent once more…and listen to the Heartbeat, our Holy One within. The berth is so much wider and more wondrous than I ever imagined. I will never be one to camp in permanence. I realize now that this is okay. All will be well.

It is a leap of faith, not a loss of one.

Lexanne

You can receive my poems and reflections at JOURNEY/lex. Please join me. I would love to get to know you.

Undone

January 15, 2016 by leximagines

When ghostlike fog wraps
itself around your arms,
be wary if you stay.
There is temptation
to welcome softness, allow
a mantling about and through
palms outstretched,
fingers sans raiment.
But its demands are fierce.

There is impregnable beauty
if you do pause as cold
descends stilling fog’s path.
Majesty in each mounded
crystal cling, appendages
knitted one to another,
a new glove and cloak.
Astonishment in delicacy,
an artistry in lethal cold.

I reach to you,
as trees on winter mornings,
undone. My once summer
facade laid bare,
a deathly inevitability.
No longer hiding my array,
I am yours to draw,
an artist’s form
for you to mold and pattern me,
a remarkable fragment of
your bewildering eternity.

It’s not always easy to see grace.

It is in letting go of what we think we are that we become what we must be.

You see, sometimes the Divine is not warm and fuzzy. Sometimes our Holy One comes through cold and harsh demands that make it difficult to realize the beauty unless we still ourselves and take the time to acknowledge it and experience it for what it is.

Nature is a threshold into the Divine. The snow crystals on tree limbs in early January were astounding. Fog hung thick as the bitter cold arrived. The fog, no longer able to stay afloat, settled on trees and turned into new forms of winter wonder. Many photos of this found their way into my life. My friend, Dorothea Madry, graciously allowed me to use her photo to pair with today’s poem.

Enjoy the cold. The barren trees. The icy mounds. You never know what gifts they bring.

Lexanne

Click here if you would like to receive this as a weekly newsletter, Journey/lex. It arrives either Friday or Saturday each week. I would love to have you join me along my journey.

Integer of Creation

December 5, 2015 by leximagines

I.

The moon hung, a bittersweet glow
cupped against midnight blue behind
boney arms of our grande dame maple,
whose leaves never turn red in fall,
only yellow then brown on fallow grass.

As I watched,
just past a new day’s first hour,
I could almost see her luminous
crescent rock back and forth drawing
my eye upward, higher, a need to tilt
my head back and forth to discern
Your gift through lacy silhouette
branches standing guard between
me and Eternity.

But she pointed me to it,
to a god always present,
maybe in a conflicting place
from one night to the next,
but always there, Jupiter,
a thunderbolt-bright comfort
knowing once and again
he would meet me.

I am created no more
or less perfect than these.
I hold within myself the same
wonder of stars and moon
and trees rooted deeply into earth.
I grow and change, not staying
in one place, although I have lived
in this same place all my life.

II.

When the world groans
under sorrow made
by hands of stone…

Not stone that changes
the course of rivers.
Not stone that greets
a wanderer along her craggy pass.
These stones are as Spirit filled
as every heart that beats…

But when the world groans
from counterfeit hands
made of false stone that cannot see
within themselves the utter sweetness
of the Beloved, nor the Beloved’s
consummate sweetness in souls
they stone, I feel pieces explode until
all that is left is blackness, a dark hole
so profound not even Jupiter
could spark a flame.

From where I stand
I must be what I am first made,
gentle light, devoted lover,
precious consecration of You.

My hands, made of Your passion,
must open
to each integer of Creation.

I cry out like thunder in the desert,
groan and writhe,
but know You will hear my prayer
and open our eyes
to our manmade
stone hands of annihilation.

May our prayers transfigure
our false hands
back into cupped hands
ready to receive Your timber.

If you would like more on this poem, please join my weekly reflection at Journey/lex. It is a weekly newsletter that arrives in your e-mail in-box usually on Saturdays.

Thank you,
Lexanne

Snowblind

November 17, 2015 by leximagines

I wish you knew how crazy you make me
like bony arms of winter trees
heavy with ice scraping across
the window, clawing the roof
in the blizzardwind of my mind
I want to scream

I wish you knew
how my naked feet catch on water
warped wood near the fridge
that leaked unnoticed for weeks,
the pleasure of sliding them
across smooth varnished floor
taken by indifference

I wish you knew
how the turn of your head
away from the opening door, brushed
aside as if I hadn’t entered, makes
me want to scream, “I am here, notice me”

I wish you knew how fire burns
when your smile ignites, your eyes
catch mine in those moments
where we meet in words shared
from ancient ones who know how hidden
souls entwine so tightly by accident, or by
some sweet mystery only known by
another’s Hand.

I wish you knew when I open my eyes you are
there in the silence of each new
beginning given and how I wish I could
tell you.

Sensory Overload

September 29, 2015 by leximagines

When I close my eyes,
sometimes,
I feel you so close
it stops flight.

In the roar of quiet
when my heartbeat
isn’t thumping but
pushing blood,
a rushing bloody ocean,
I grab my breath
because of the glimpse of you,
so impossible you are.

In that pulsing
soundless air,
I feel you
and I breathe
and I rest
and sleep.

Abandoned Places

September 13, 2015 by leximagines

“What good would it do to get everything you want and lose you, the real you? What could you ever trade for your soul?” – Mark 8: 35 The Message

Abandoned places.

There is a photo of a church in France, one that is abandoned. Through the broken windows, light streams in. It is not a dark place. In fact, it is bright with life.

The rich wood of the past blanches to an almost cream. Ornate trim, it’s difficult to tell if it is tile or plaster or paint, has paled gracefully with age.

Greenery of all kinds – bushes, weeds, trees – sprouted up through the broken floor tiles, not to be dismissed.

It seems the church found itself, its soul. Its true self has come into fullness in a grand, yet humble stillness. The glory of the Divine finally has been allowed to take over, be.

It is not the stuff we have, the places we visit, or the power we achieve. It is the finding of our souls where the Holy One thrives.

Don’t lose it.

Loose the rest and Love will grow eternal.

Peace.

Animus Barbaric

August 27, 2015 by leximagines

The sun illumined the thread.

A silver shimmer just so,
I brushed it away.

Not alone in its strength could it hold
tension, sorrow. The consternation.

It was what was hidden. Under shadows,
behind branches, a weaving so complete nothing
could break its grasp of the unaware taken by surprise.

One stilt thread interlaced within others,
perfectly patterned, quietly savage.
Its architect patiently meshing and looping
one delicate noose to another.

A handsome work,
barbaric in purpose.

In pause of light, I see it whole.
In stillness, I choose the way.

I unbraid its tie
with my own singularity
conceived in the image of God.