Bowl of Sand

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In quiet of morning pause,
growling its mission,
the recycling truck moves
steadily toward our house.
Benny snoozes secure
somehow knowing
there is no worry.

I went one day to the edge
of big water flowing in from
the sea, like sky turned
upside down, I couldn’t
tell if I stood on land
or in clouds.

It is all perspective,
a matter of turning in
to realize the angel-winged shell
or five-ordinaled star,
the bubbly huntsman
or petite pebble configure
myself into the Mystery.

Upside down or inside out,
not growling nor in slumber, 

at edge of ocean
I am hushed 
as tides
brush my feet,

a gentle nudge to affirm
my Heartbeat sanctuary.

.
.
.
Author’s Note:

I have a bowl of sand from my recent trip to the Seattle area. In it I keep the shell of the lightest purple. And a stone of black spiraled with white. I don’t know how it was formed, but am in awe of its simple beauty.

Puget Sound. I call it “big water.” It’s technically not the ocean, but it is. Just like I am not technically Spirit, yet I am. The Mystery.

e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets when I was young, mostly because he went against convention. I guess I’ve always been a quiet, stubborn rebel. And he used whimsy. Most of which I really didn’t understand when I was young, but laughed anyway. I love to laugh.

That’s my delight in poetry by ghosts of the past. It takes time to mature and understand them. However, they are always there waiting for me to realize that whether I stand on ground or in clouds, they are there for me to see more deeply the more hush I allow.

Just like Spirit.

Aho,

Lexanne

 “Ghosts, right, have nothing to say to us,
Obsolete. Gone. Not so.”
– Natalie Merchant, Leave Your Sleep

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and        

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

                     – E. E. Cummings, 1894 – 1962

Holy Heretic

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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

 

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