I’ve had a series of intense deepenings this month.
Meeting versions of myself that merge with co-creation herself,
and in the process shadow selves loosing
their momentum, their appeal, their
magnetic pull. Discovering who is boss.
(Pssst it’s never the small self.)
The choice to feed love…
it may be simple at it’s core, but it requires
a simple burning courage, to go the path
less travelled by conditioning, by neural networks…
to go turn towards what is true, and leave
behind what is false.
A calling forth of all the will one can muster,
knowing that at its core it’s not will at all,
but deep unabiding surrender.
Many of these poems are in reference to,
in homage of
the depths of remembering, of the re-membering I find
myself traversing within, and prayers that I may
stay In.
I am grateful for spaces and places that allow for words to come.
Words which help me to process and fall into the embodiment of love first.
****
Feb 6 Jail writing circle fast write.
Where is the love in a genocide?
My heart burns, my eyes are
a space in between.
I breathe, because breath feels better than indignance
because I love my friend
because I want to be patient, and kind, and open.
I breathe because I trust breath to care for me
because then I can remember that all is in motion, is growing.
I breathe because then I remember that I am this universe, and everyone else is too.
I breathe because we are alive poems and
I want to remember that.
I breathe
*****
Feb 10 Fast write
“The quality of light by which we scrutinize our lives” is deepening into me,
a theme following me around right now. The choice
of what metic I’m utilizing or orienting to…
and a movement from resonances connected with preservation, vigilance, suspect, worry….
towards resonances of… well, as Audry Lorde says, “the quality of light.”
A friend shared something with me yesterday and it was
fun to see how
what he shared could be approached using a deficiency of lens, or it could
be approached from a lens of
generosity towards self.
Turns out both can be valid, but the lens of generosity
stood up for itself energetically within my system and I
continue to be excited about a deeper embodiment of this,
where nothing is left out,
nothing is bypassed,
nothing is denied, including
the quality of light.
*****
Feb 10 Fast write
Inspired by. “How do we bring these intentions to life throughout every change, in every aspect of our work?” amb, Emergent Strategy
The light so bright, the beckoning so strong.
And yet my insides twist and turn, as I hear the cries
see the images of strewn bodies.
Trauma, individual and also collective, has trained my attention to
keep one eye on the darkness.
I know darkness so well. The deep caverns, the calling.
The despair.
I know of this territory.
Death. hopelessness. Forgetting, forgetting what I’m held within.
Believing only I can save me. Believing nothing can save me.
I also know the territory of Love. And Love knows me.
Love reminds me that love is more powerful than the darkness.
That Love is more powerful than anything.
My insides twist again.
“But what about…. “
And I offer Love a long list. But mostly I can’t stop thinking about
Palestine and Sudan, and my siblings burned alive in the Holocaust
Gahhh Love loves me so much, my commitment to justice,
The depth of compassion that I have for humanity.
Love strokes my hair, and holds my hand.
Love- this light- is not going anywhere.
I pause.
My insides twist.
I feel love’s lamp post shinning eternally bright.
I see the twisted faces of my human siblings.
I am torn in two.
Love waits.
Love waits for me to remember
To Re-Member.
Love wipes my brow, and I feel a movement
that I’m held within, that carries me.
The twisted faces call out- “what about me? Don’t leave me!”
My heart widens full. Burning open, burning deep.
They are here within me. We are here together.
I am almost out of tears.
“What about me? Don’t leave me,” they call
I am in co-creation’s movement now and can not change course.
“Come with me,” I call out to them
Just as Love has one hand, I extend the other back.
“Come with us.” My hand is wide. Love’s hand.
I want to know what will happen.
I want to be in charge of what is decided.
I want to manage, and control it all.
I want all human suffering to end.
Lady love knows, and keeps my hand in hers
And we keep moving forward.
I give up the control
I give up the managing
I keep my eyes towards life, in Love,
towards Love who knows all things,
that is in all co-creation,
even what seems like death.
I don’t get to know the answers to all my questions.
I can’t rely on my managing self to figure out the future.
I can’t know past this moment.
I just know that in this moment the
clouds have spilt open, and although the rocks are jagged
and the rive of blood runs deep, we are Home together
****
Feb 11 MIE Gathering Fast write
Joy Harjo’s poem, Remember.
I listened to it today, again, and my body says,
this is my favorite poem.
I don’t know if it is, but today it feels like
an anthem I never want to forget.
I want to remember the remembering of my wholeness,
my always and ultimate inclusion,
that I am part of a web of co-creation so wide and deep that I can
only feel a little bit about what that means and yet
my oh my how it is so big, so deep, so everything.
I remember Loves lamp post and I am transported into
what I am already within.
The remembering is instantaneous because
it is already true.
If only every cell of my being knew it.
Compassion remembers me to knowing I am
co-creation in process, not in finitude,
and that my discoveries of what is already true
follow a path that I am not in control of, that I can not know ahead of time.
Remembering draws me into Love and we are Home.
We giggle and look around, and sometimes
sob with the depth of a volcano.
The lava never cools,
growth never stops, and
abundance keeps flowing.
*****
Feb 12 Vacuuming, fast write
Mars is in Aquarius right now, in my 4th house.
Our foundation.
And in she comes, knocking at my door.
Grandma Otty was a poet.
No. She was an artist.
Born under an aquarian sun, she was destined to create,
to move the collective.
Yes poetry, but also paintings,
via clothing… via her heart…
all expressions of a creativity she could
not stop, that fueled her, and tortured her too.
Living as a refugee, amidst strangeness.
Who even was she?
Grandma Otty was a poet.
Often misunderstood, as artists often are.
A visionary.
Finding her way through creation, split in two,
harmed from the outside in, and then from the inside out.
Music provided a salve, and lots of Goethe.
Her heart burned, sometimes in joy,
sometimes in despair.
Her heart burns now, in mine.
Sometimes in joy, sometimes in despair.
She tells me- burn open, Liza. Burn open.
I burn. We burn
