'we shall draw from the heart of suffering itself
the means of inspiration and survival.'
~ winston churchill
just when i think i am free ~
pushing through
the wailing wall of sadness..
just when i think i am done ~
riding the wave of grief
like a camel underwater...
i crash into myself ..
re-claiming loneliness as my true companion...
there is an art to dying and one to grieving, to be sure..
all coming together, all passing away
om gate, gate..
in one sweep of the hand..
hold mine, will you?
one thing i understand about grief..
the fathomless memory does
rise up as a kind of presence beside oneself..
it is the kindling of this relationship..
odd and intangible,
which entwines
the one in form with the formless one..
this weave of love, of ache, this presence of absence
wraps the mesh tight, tight in..
to become a single prayer rug of benevolence ..
the call to prayer brings forth a bow..
to the inconstant..to the mutable..
this brow down bow knocks
some sense into the grasping one..
the embrace of not two..
'and the fire and the rose are one..'
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Dear Camel Underwater,
It is the season of grief
and if one has been seasoned with grief as you have been
it is the season of melting grief closer to the bone
so it can be retrieved as Light
in the fullness of time.
Where better to tend to this alchemy
than Patmos
where the ancient ways bring this knowing to all.
Where winter turns to spring now
and all is surging to Anastasia
to Resurrection.
You have landed in a heart of
Tonglin
And breathe it for the world
as your days there unfold.
Is that not the Magnum Opus to
which we may all bow?
rosy b..
praise b!
Post a Comment