“Arise and illuminate…”

A MORNING OFFERING

I bless the night that nourished my heart
To set the ghosts of longing free
Into the flow and figure of dream
That went to harvest from the dark
Bread for the hunger no one sees.

All that is eternal in me
Welcome the wonder of this day,
The field of brightness it creates
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate.

I place on the altar of dawn:
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter,
Wave of desire I am shore to
And all beauty drawn to the eye.

May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed.

May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.

- JOHN O’DONOHUE -

“Desire to be known…”

It’s been a quiet time at MY INNER  EDGE. The lens cap has stayed on my camera for much of the winter and lately I’ve been tending to other things. You can check out one of my new endeavors over at my MINDFUL LIVING blog. That said, when I saw the foam on my morning cup of coffee, I just had to take a picture…believe me, this did not come from being a skilled barista.

Part of what’s been happening in my world is the exploration of social media…and the shift from being largely anonymous to the possibility of being seen and known. I suppose if I was under 20, this process would be a no-brainer and almost second nature. And I suppose if I wasn’t so stubbornly independent, I would just hire someone to build my web presence. So, there you have it…I’m fumbling along–rebuilding the website that I didn’t backup properly last year, learning about tweets and fan pages and search engine optimization. And pondering the desire to be known.

P.S. K.H. the coffee and the poem below are for you…

THE PICK AXE

Some commentary on I was a hidden treasure,
and I desired to be known: tear down

this house. A hundred thousand new houses
can be built from the transparent yellow carnelian

buried beneath it, and the only way to get to that
is to do the work of demolishing and then

digging under the foundations. With that value
in hand all the new construction will be done

without effort. And anyway, sooner or later this house will
fall on its own. The jewel treasure will be

uncovered, but it won’t be yours then. The buried
wealth is your pay for doing the demolition,

the pick and shovel work. If you wait and just
let it happen, you’ll bite your hand and say,

“I didn’t do as I knew I should have.” This
is a rented house. You don’t own the deed.

You have a lease, and you’ve set up a little shop,
where you barely make a living sewing patches

on torn clothing. Yet only a few feet underneath
are two veins, pure red and bright gold carnelian.

Quick! Take the pickaxe and pry the foundation.
You’ve got to quit this seamstress work.

What does the patch-sewing mean, you ask. Eating
and drinking. The heavy cloak of the body

is always getting torn. You patch it with food,
and other restless ego-satisfactions. Rip up

one board from the shop floor and look into
the basement. You’ll see two glints in the dirt.

- RUMI -

“Betrothed to the unknown…”

THE INNER HISTORY OF A DAY

No one knew the name of this day;
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.

The mind of the day draws no attention;
It dwells within the silence with elegance
To create a space for all our words,
Drawing us to listen inward and outward.

We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.

Somewhere in us a dignity presides
That is more gracious than the smallness
That fuels us with fear and force,
A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.

So at the end of this day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And wisdom of the soul become one.

- JOHN O’DONOHUE -

“The unspeaking center…”

As ever, I am astonished by autumn. This year, seemingly most beautiful. Leaves still lingering here and there. Colors becoming softer. The morning and late afternoon light luminous, golden. The air, sharp, pure, crystalline. The sky vibrant. These moments, this season, this life, so precious. Gratitude abounds.

FROM RILKE’S BOOK OF HOURS, I, 17

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth–
it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it’s you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

- trans. Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy -

“No trace…”

 

The migrating bird
leaves no trace behind
and does not need a guide.

- DOGEN -

“In no hurry…”

AUTUMN WAITING

Cold wind.
The day is waiting for winter
Without a sound.
Everything is waiting—
Broken-down cars in the dead weeds.
The weeds themselves.
Trees.
Even sunlight
Is in no hurry and stays
For a long time
On each cornstalk.
Blackbirds are silent
And sit in piles.
From a distance
They look like
Something
Spilled on the road.

- TOM HENNEN -

“The heart of time…”

Autumn persists. So lovely, languishing. The color holding death at bay. Maples still fiercely orange, red and yellow. I feel winter at my back and turn toward the autumn that remains; the warmth of afternoon sun; the long slats of light filtering through clouds.

I visit my father who is endlessly delighted to see me. I take the usual rations of junk food that he loves–this time, pretzels dunked in peanut butter and chocolate. As he reaches for them, I press them into his grasp. His fingers seem awkward, his pincer-grabber grip uncertain. I see in him the essence of his being and all the dimensions of who he has been. The boy in knickers, organizing neighborhood boys for sandlot baseball. The naval officer–boy-man navigating the Pacific, pouring over charts and poised with sextant in hand. The executive, briefcase in hand, overcoat and gray felt hat, running to catch the train. The playful father and grandfather–silly beyond measure. The man drank and smoked and outwitted all actuarial calculations, still here at 87 years of age.

This morning I attend a meditation intensive. We do a deep and slow yogic practice–holding asanas and sounding; releasing. A thunderous sadness wells up in me and I know, in a new way, that I must let him go. That it is a generous act to release him to the embrace of what he would call, “our gracious heavenly Father.” I know, too, that he is in me…not just his lineage…not just his legacy, but a complete and lovely sense of his spirit. That years from now, I will be able to say…”Well, your grandfather would have said…” or “your great-grandfather would have said…” Or, perhaps, to simply “be” as he has been in my life.

May you listen to your longing to be free.
May the frames of your belonging be large enough for the dreams of your soul.
May you arise each day with a voice of blessing whispering in your heart
…something good is going to happen to you.
May you find harmony between your soul and your life.
May the mansion of your soul never become a haunted place.
May you know the eternal longing that lies at the heart of time.
May there be kindness in your gaze when you look within.
May you never place walls between the light and yourself.
May you be set free from the prisons of guilt, fear, disappointment and despair.
May you allow the wild beauty of the invisible world to gather you,
mind you, and embrace you in belonging.

-  JOHN O’DONOHUE  -