A most amazing, beloved friend of mine sent me this poem the other day.

I realized in the silver unfolding of that day, how words reach in and rearrange priorities, how we can be urged, guided and loved into more compassionate living, simply by our willingness to receive beauty.

In this spirit, I offer this poem, for the heart of all seekers.

May it lift a tender place into gentle flight.

 Morning Song

by Marcia F. Brown

Here, I place
a blue glazed cup
where the wood
is slightly whitened.
Here, I lay down
two bright spoons,
our breakfast saucers, napkins
white and smooth as milk.

I am stirring at the sink,
I am stirring
the amount of dew
you can gather in two hands,
folding it into the fragile
quiet of the house.
Before the eggs,
before the coffee
heaving like a warm cat,
I step out to the feeder-
one foot, then the other,
alive on wet blades.

Air lifts my gown – I might fly –

This thistle seed I pour
is for the tiny birds.
This ritual,
for all things frail
and imperiled.
Wings surround me, frothing
the air. I am struck
by what becomes holy.

A woman
who lost her teenage child
to an illness without mercy,
said that at the end, her daughter
sat up in her hospital bed
and asked:
What should I do?
What should I do?

Into a white enamel bath
I lower four brown eggs.

You fill the door frame,
warm and rumpled, kiss
the crown of my head.
I know how the topmost leaves
of dusty trees
feel at the advent
of the monsoon rains.

I carry the woman with the lost child
in my pocket, where she murmurs
her love song without end:
          

Just this, each day:
Bear yourself up on small wings 
to receive what is given.
Feed one another
with such tenderness,
it could almost be an answer.

One of the reasons I love the 'blogosphere' (in spite of its ugly name) is the way it can, with magical synchronicity, sound different but compatable variations on the same theme. In my last post here I was opining on how easy it is for me to view myself through a single, distorted, narrow focus lens. How interesting, then, to read this sentence from Barry Brigg's 'Ox Herding' blog: "there may be no other way of revealing ourselves to ourselves than through the apocalype of opposites."

Meanwhile, on Nigeness my attention was drawn to  'To Night', a sonnet by Blanco White (1775 - 1841.)  In its lines, the poet, noting that the bright sunlight of day obscures the majesty of the sky that is revealed at night, reminds us how easily we can be deceived by and trapped in appearances:

"Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find..........

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!"

Yet, even though the distorting lens of habit and culture typically prevents us from seeing into our depths, we all sense the unexplored territory that lies beneath our surface. This sense is beautifully expressed in a poem by Kay Ryan (also posted this week on Nigeness.)

Carrying a Ladder

We are always
really carrying
a ladder, but it’s
invisible. We
only know
something’s
the matter:
something precious
crashes; easy doors
prove impassable.
Or, in the body,
there’s too much
swing or off-
center gravity.
And, in the mind,
a drunken capacity,
access to out-of-range
apples. As though
one had a way to climb
out of the damage
and apology.

That sense of clumsily blundering through life as if carrying an unwealdy ladder is the wake up signal that alerts me to the fact that I need to spend some time and energy exploring exactly what the ladder is 'this time'.

Thank you fellow bloggers for a wealth of wisdom!

Two days from now participants will be gathering at Kripalu in the Massachusetts Berkshire Hills for the Opening the Heart Workshop.  They will be coming home to their hearts,  reconnecting with themselves,  taking time out from  the challenges and stresses of workaday lives. We wish them all a safe journey to Kripalu. The migration brought to mind this poem by Mary Oliver:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves.


Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.


Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,


the world offers itself to your imagination,


calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--


over and over announcing your place


in the family of things.

There is still time to register and there are still some places available,so - if you have been wavering, let  this be a gentle nudge to join us. I know that you won't be disappointed.

Peter

Jon's post yesterday, coupled with the imminent occurance of The OTH Workshop brought to mind this lovely poem from Rumi. It speaks to the value of community, of joining with others in hard times. Many of the people who come to OTH face life challenges that are  difficult or even impossible to face alone. All are amazed at the positive effect of immersion in a completely supportive community for just two days. Rumi completely understood the value of community.

Being Woven (an extract)

"The way is full of genuine sacrifice.
The thickets blocking your path are anything
that keeps you from that, any fear that you may be broken
into bits like a glass bottle.

This road demands courage and stamina, yet it's full of
footprints!
Who are these companions?
They are rungs in your ladder. Use them!
With company you quicken your ascent.
You may be happy enough going along, but with others
you'll get farther, and faster.

Someone who goes cheerfully by himself to the customs
house to pay his traveler's tax will go even more
lightheartedly when friends are with him.

Every prophet sought out companions.
A wall standing alone is useless, but put three or four walls
together, and they'll support a roof and keep grain dry
and safe.

When ink joins with a pen, then the blank paper can say
something.
Rushes and reeds must be woven to be useful as a mat. If
they weren't interlaced; the wind would blow them away.

Like that, God paired up creatures, and gave them
friendship."

From Rumi – Selected Poems (Penguin Classics)

Translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne