The Soulscape of My Heart.

 

Outcrops of rock and

Lichen covered pinnacles of grandeur are

 

God’s favorite places,

Places where he lets us see,

 

Lets us in on the secret,

Lets us in on what makes him happy.

 

His eyes sculpted the mountains with a glance,

His hands scooped the valleys with ease giving light and dark a place to play.

 

His breath still powers the winds that sail and howl over the cliffs

And stir the hearts of human kind.

 

The mountains are God’s sacred place and

A place where I go to feel His power,

 

To be closer to heaven

To touch and feel His love.

 

He exists forever in the hard landscape of rock and

In the soft soulscape of my heart.

The Soul of the Storm

 

3:30 am February Thunder

 

What is it that speaks to me through thunder?

Why does it hold such fascination?

 

Why does it bring from and to me such joy?

It is just a sound, a physical reaction to the heat of lightening, a compression and release of air pressure, That is all it is, but is it? What more does it represent to me?

 

It is nature, it is God speaking to me, it awakens in me a sense of personal connection, me to God, me to nature’s voice, me to the divine Mother Earth.

 

Lighten is the spark, the bright flash of Satori,

But thunder is the voice, the depth of feeling, the depth of God’s soul in sound.

 

Thunder emanates from the extremeness and storminess of the soul.  It is the release of charge, not the lamenting of loss but a celebration of depth.

 

The sound echoes between the hills and shakes the ground.  It cracks and air and then rolls in waves of intensity lower and lower until its vibrations shake the very core of the earth and of my being.

 

It touches me in a very primal way, a way before time, a way before and above thought, a way that has no need for thought or time.

 

I feel as a tree must feel in a storm.  I picture how it must be in my head…

 

Standing in the night, warm summer air flowing through my branches, gentle purposful breezes stirring my leaves and off in the distance the brief brilliant flashes of lighting appear.  Their light, reflecting over the towering cloud tops,  announces the storms approach.  I know what this means and I await its arrival with mixed emotions.

 

The breezes start to stiffen, my braches and leaves are tossed and startled.  My trunk is strong but so is the wind and I am fearful.  As the storm approaches, the very darkness and emotion of the air is changed.  It becomes charged with anticipation, with expectations and apprehension.

 

The rain arrives first in wind carried drops, miles ahead of the storm.  My leaves dance to the rhythm of these gentle drops while waiting for the violence of the curtains of water that will accompany the storm.

 

As the storm gains ground and draws closer, I feel it rather than hear it.  It is a deep feeling that travels through the ground and vibrates and shakes my roots.

 

Then it begins to crackle overhead and toss my limbs like whispers of silk.  My leaves are turned upside-down by the wind and my storm facing bark is soaked by streams of rain.

 

The sky lowers and pressed heavily on my crown.  Forest creatures take refuge in the shelter of my branches where I hold them tight against the onslaught of power and turbulence from the storm.

 

The storm roils through my forest, soaking the soil and bringing energy and life to the earth.  Its violence is only its great need to communicate its passion for life, and then it begins to fade…

 

It moves off to the east, dragging its lightening with it.  The thunder fades quickly with distance rolling back into the silence from which it was born and the forest night resumes its rest as if nothing had happened.

 

 

As the storm passes I return to me and to my soft, warm, dry bed and dream of being a tree as the trees watch me though the open window.

 

They understand better than I do our connection, me to them, them to me and all of us to the soul of the storm.

Dreams

The dreams, they come and they go

Realized and not.

 

Fantasy and fulfillment,

Mine and his.

 

Which are which?

Mine overlap each other.

 

The night time not their only province.

They wake me and hold me

 

Sometimes up, sometimes down.

His hands can hold both ways.

 

Too much importance in

Misdirected feelings.

 

The sounds replete with endings,

The beginnings done in silence.

 

Masks of unreality, his and mine but

No one knows but me.

 

All the tales have been told,

The smashing is all done.

 

Vibrations are all that are left

But like a tuning fork

 

Will they cause the other to answer?

The Now of a Heartbeat

The darkness in the depth of my tea mug

Is as vast as the universe.

 

Its emptiness the very thing

That makes it useful.

 

But depth is relative,

My cup can be as deep as the ocean and

 

The universe as shallow

As a thimble.

 

The night sky calls to me

To come and explore the spaces between.

 

But they are all the same, the spaces between you and me

Hate and love, all and nothing – no space and only space.

 

We are made of space and little else so my being can hold this limitless space

And my body the universe just as

 

Infinity exists in the now of a heartbeat

And forever is defined in the bloom of the milkweed

Inner Stillness in Predawn Darkness

There is inner stillness in the predawn darkness as

The forest begins to stir around me.

 

They seem to notice my presence

“Someone is among us”, they mummer.

 

As I sit in silence and wait,

The Eastern sky begins to lighten and

 

The earth responds with movement,

Air movement, a stirring, ever so slight and gentle,

 

More sensed than felt.

I continue to sit in silence and wait.

 

At last I can feel them coming closer, one by one.

Not in outer distance but in inner peace.

 

As they circle me I can feel them saying “Welcome,

We were wondering when you would come”.

 

“We are drawing closer to protect you,

We sense your weakness; we give you our collective strength.

 

Take us as we are as we you, you must know by now that

Your heart is not alone here and never has been”.

 

They bring such wisdom in their silence.

Such kindness without motion or audible voice

 

But a voice nonetheless, a voice that is felt with the soul

Not heard with the ears.

 

A voice that is eons old, no, older than that:

A voice that has existed since the beginning of time.

 

Since the time before manifestation.

Their voice speaks to me in the sweet darkness of the woods

 

Telling me a tale of love, acceptance and kindness,

A story of life, of the essences of loss, the pain of suffering

 

The agony of misunderstanding, of mind induced perceptions and

Selfish longings and needs.

 

But there is sympathy and empathy in this voice too because they know the pain,

They have felt the suffering, tasted the tears and watched their own hearts melt with disappointment.

 

The agony of loss is no stranger to their collective heart, so they truly understand my

State of mind today and give me comfort and love in a way only they can.

 

They know how I miss he who passed through the veil, they know him and he them. They are one together and it is his presence they allow me to feel here in this mourning morning softness.

 

The trees are my saviors; they surround me with their gentle strength and hold me in their arms

In the hardest of times, they understand without judgment, they feel my heart beat with theirs

 

As they stand together – silent sentinels of everlasting light and hope in

Noble silence and truth.

 

I am renewed by their strength, honored by their kindness and

Forever grateful for their love.

 

2/1/16

The Light Everlasting

What is it trying to tell me?
Anything?

 

The quote in the window,

The quick car in the night.

 

Is it all in my head?

Probably.

 

But if not, what is trying to break through,

Break into this world through me and why show me if it isn’t real…no, I have to stop thinking…

 

I need to see the moon lit patterns of white and shadow on the snow and hear how they speak to me.

The chimes are calling me again from the silence of my soul to look, listen, observe.

 

I need to hear the hungry owl’s cries in the night, feel its silent wings move swiftly in the darkness,

Too swiftly for its pray and watch with detachment the

 

Swift death, natural and inevitable but made a villain

By my thoughts.

 

I need to leave these thoughts and become

Stillness in the chaos, I need to reenter the silent swiftness of the owl’s wings and moon shadows.

 

For It is the only place to be and

The only place I have ever existed.

 

My being had begun to seep away while I was preoccupied,

Distracted by the other, the unnatural, the evil of my own making.

 

But the owl’s wings are bringing me home now,

My time of regression is waning but it has taken its toll.

 

My heart is weaker, my thoughts harder to read.

There is no regressing without damage to me and the object of the cause.

 

Solitude and stillness, as the getaway to the road back are coming into view…

The road to the place of reclamation of my soul,

 

Back to the essence of bliss, the light everlasting and

The hand in mine.

Curtis Field in Winter (originally posted 2/27/15)

 

Waves of white,

Dunes of snow.

 

A magical expanse

Of openness and light.

 

Wind swirls the

Snow in columns,

 

Leaving patterns of circles

In their wake.

 

The wind howls in eerie

Cries of loneliness and desperation.

 

All life is kept covered

Awaiting the sun,

 

Resting in the silence

And stillness of cold.

 

A ring of trees keeps watch

And defines the space.

 

I sit in the snow and sing.

My song resonates in the emptiness changing forever the space within.

 

This place fills me

And I am empty no more.

 

 

In Honor of Small Things

“The Great arises out of small things that are honored and cared for” Eckhart Tolle  A New Earth

 

Such wisdom in so few words.

But what is the Great if not a compilation of the small.

 

Nothing is too small to be part of the one,

The Great unmainfested, is manifested in everything, including the small, especially the small.

 

It is through the ordinary manifestation of the One that it’s true

Heart and meaning is able to shine through.

 

Honor all “things” as part of the creator

Made touchable, reachable, real.

 

Ceremonies and traditions, ways of honoring the small things, act

As symbols and representations of caring for the One, the One all pervasive energy, the Creator.

 

Everywhere I look I see evidence of that truth.

When I open my eyes each morning, I acknowledge and honor the new day.

 

A new beginning with each sunrise, with each chime of the cuckoo clock

As the fresh born light angles across my bed and bedroom walls.

 

My breakfast food of sweet potatoes and spinach

Lies in splendor on the golden yellow dish,

 

The lightly colored beautiful orange sweet potatoes shine

In stark contrast to the dark green warmth of the spinach.

 

They are contrasts in wholeness, beautiful small things to be honored and appreciated.

As is the tea steaming in my tea mug which shares the mug’s space and honors its useful emptiness, tea honoring mug honoring tea.

 

The shower water’s warmth and the soap’s scent of softness and peace

Honor my body and I honor their usefulness and dedication to service without selfishness.

 

And with each step and in each and every place I go throughout the day

I try to take the time, maybe only a second or two, to notice and honor the small things.

 

After all, I am a small thing too.

Now

I was at the bottom with

No end in sight.

 

Mind numbing pain and sorrow

Blocked my vision and stopped my breath

 

But then, from a soul sister, in the silence of despair

Came a glimmering of hope,

 

A way to stop my ego, to

Reign in my mind.

 

She brought wise words of knowing,

A knowing and watching, a feeling and seeing.

 

And as I accepted that seeing and knowing, the thoughts began to drop away

One by one like autumn leaves.

 

There came an absence of words,

A deep stilling of my soul.

 

Finally a way to be, just be, the only way,

But not quite a total release as I was yet too weak, too exhausted from my struggle.

 

Parts of my ego and anger still held on, their grip

Like tentacles wrapped around my heart.

 

I wanted to let go, I thought that maybe the “wanting” was in the way,

But I accepted that soon even the wanting would be of no consequence, it would drop away on its own and

 

The anger would stop sneaking up on me,

Grabbing me from behind when I least expected it.

 

I know now that my ego and willful mind will not

Let go without a fight.

 

A fight to remain in charge, to perpetuate their control

And continue deluded behavior.

 

But I have changed, grown, and can now watch them from a safe distance and

At times even smile at their antics,

 

But I grow tired of their stubbornness, their uncooperative nature, their disdain for what is best for me.

 

They do not have my best interest at heart.

They have no heart.

 

Those two are not who I am and when I am finally in tune to the being that is my true self,

All else will naturally fall away and I won’t have to “deal” with either of them,

 

Nothing else will exists but the Now and

There I will happily stay.