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

Slip

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Spring awakens a childish impatience.
Cool moist soil calls for roots
to grow deeply, nourish
stem and vine.

My thoughts focus forward
on that first luscious bite,
a juicy veneer down my chin,
the cardinal tomato chaw.

I am revived each harvest
after officiating the seeding.
But it doesn’t start with seed
or harvest’s nosh.

It is not the action, movements
I repeat presupposing I create.
I step back, return within,
Earth issues the design.

Roots compelled to dig deeply,
take hold and fill themselves
to thicken stem to tenure leaves
to pop sweet buds where bloom
will ensue to offer fruit
to fill my belly.

It begins where I cannot see,
but where I yield.

The work is compulsory
not for product, but benevolence
for season of bird and insect,
tree and star – each morsel magnified
by one rooted slip.

I cannot propagate, help or heal
unless I have cultivated Me.

It is not what I do for the world to
see, ego pressing me on.
It is not bold and righteous
indignations, ego standing tall.

It is my small quivering voice
answering Your call that I
may fall in love with Me,
the one You created,
deeply and passionately.

In consummation ego will abandon
its lien and You will outbloom
my tender.

.
.
.

Author’s Note:

I am beginning to understand that it is not what I do but how deeply I love that will attend the shift. It does no good to step out armed with ego’s chatter to change the world. Too many are injured when ego is in control.

It is hard to quiet ego, keep it at bay. But when it can be wrangled into a bit of rest, leaving it aside, there is room for roots to take hold. Roots that will grow deeply and thrive in Love.

Even more difficult is where I have to start. That place can only be with learning to love myself. For if I am vessel for the Divine, there is only one way for me to honor that. I must love myself first, as I am loved. Then the Divine flows from me, not in my way, but in full compassion for all – even to those who are formidable. I must remember, they are containers, too.

Lexanne

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Today’s photos, the crow and the seashell, don’t seem kindred to the text. They are. My trip to Seattle a few weeks ago gave me a freedom to discover much in myself. Crow flew by me as I drove to beaches and along lush roadways, sat by me as I rested on driftwood, walked with me in small town harbors. I was alone for two days on this journey, yet crow was there at each turn.

The shell and tiny flowers sat at the edge of a forested area near a harbor on a handrail. It was a Sunday and the altar was set by someone, it seemed just for me and my ceremony.

There I confirmed my call to nature is the ocean, not mountain. Surprising since I am a Denver “native.” I will head the call.

Aho.