Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.--Rumi
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Gift of Music
Martha Argerich playing Frederic Chopin Piano Concerto in e minor 2nd movement
Perhaps the most beautiful music of all time? Instead of words today...
Photo by Daria Obymaha on Pexels.com
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home.
Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home.
Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home.
Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home.
Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home.
Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home.
Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home.
Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home.
Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home.
Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home.
Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…
After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.
I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier.
Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.
However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…
I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing.
I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline.
The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here.
There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons.
My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a single mom for…