Tag: hope
The Other Side
“Summer was like your house: you knew
Rainer Maria Rilke
where each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.”
THE OTHER SIDE
This morning
forcing myself
to rise from
the Other Side of
the bed
the world
a sky where
rain fell
no bombs
not rising to
cram essentials
into small bags
before entering a corridor
of human strength and
misery
This morning on
the Other Side of
the world
the bed
first foot
met the floor with
“Thank”
the second
“You”
humanity rising
no Other Side to
Courage
Truth
Freedom
We rise
unstoppable tide
forcing
everything
everyone
Forward.
wcw 2022
” I am Losing my Mother Words”
Hieroglyphic Stairway
It’s 3:23 in the morning
and I’m awake
because my great great grandchildren
won’t let me sleep
my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the planet was plundered?
what did you do when the earth was unraveling?
surely you did something
when the seasons started failing?
as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?
did you fill the streets with protest
when democracy was stolen?
what did you do
once
you
knew?…
poem by Drew Dellinger
___________________________
“I Am Losing my Mother Words“
This statement reached my ears and I was unable to process the meaning, my deep heart had no such trouble.
“I am Losing my Mother Words”
These words were in response to a call from an adult son. A call to his mother, an attempt to make sense of the myriad of events tearing humanity apart. He was looking perhaps for ‘mother words’ of long ago, the ones that somehow put pieces back in order, that securely strapped you in even if it turned into a bumpy ride.
His question was one of bewilderment, how so many failed to see beauty, failed to choose peace over war, acceptance over hate.
I too am losing my ‘mother words’, my initial reaction was deep sadness but I soon realized that the ‘mother words’ of the present were of no use to either myself or any intended recipients. They were slowly being unmade, new words were forming, sent from the Ancestors for Future Generations. Words of transition and transmutation.
The speaker then described the beauty of apple blossoms in her garden and then the horror of bombs falling in another part of the world. What ‘mother words’ were being spoken by mothers and fathers huddled together holding children close as bombs exploded around them? What words will comfort in that reality?
Her next thought haunted me…
“Perhaps it is not,
never has been,
Either/Or
it is
Both/And
Apple Blossoms and Bombs.”
Forced Landing
“Life has a way of testing a person’s will, either by having nothing happen at all or by having everything happen at once.” Paulo Coelho
FORCED LANDING
Departure uneventful
Arrival anything but,
long past the
Point of no Return
we spiral.
Flight diverted
holding pattern unsustainable
hoping only for
safe descent,
arrival intact,
grounding.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have been cleared for landing”
Fuel low, patience short,
They are not coming to save us
We are They
we always were,
Courage found in
Fear with prayer.
We are not out of the woods yet.
“We hope you enjoyed your flight with us today, this leg of the journey ends here. All possessions should be left onboard. Those of you travelling onwards will find signs as you exit…..safe travels“
wcw 2021
The Way It Is
This poem by William Stafford speaks of a thread, I feel it also speaks to the times.
“You don’t ever let go of the thread.“
THE WAY IT IS by William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you can do to stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
Reflections on the Sound of Silence
Hello darkness my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
because a vision softly creeping
left its seeds while I was sleeping
and the vision that was planted
in my brain, still remains
within the sound
of silence.Sound of Silence Simon and Garfunkel
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
In this year of a thousand months a silence has settled, palpable, like silk against bare skin.
One by one freedoms slip away in an unintentional game of musical chairs until we find ourselves alone, gazing into the Great Mystery.
Fooled into thinking this was unexpected we see plans for this journey seeded long ago with every “yes” carelessly spoken.
Each moment becomes a new invitation, moving deeper like a lover searching for that place on your lip meant only for others.
Eyes closed, surrender drifts like wafting smoke to linger over new terrain, unsure of where to settle.
Shadows that once held fear dissipate with every wind gust, free now to ride this undulating movement…
We are danced into the unknown.
photo westcoastwoman
“swimming in clues”
All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop. Kabir
“swimming in clues”
Our lives in pieces
reflect through
mirrors, shattered,
barely held
in fragile frames.
Lungs gasp, groan,
sighs release,
inhale once more
sweet ocean air
breath of the ancestors.
Hearts reassemble,
vital organs
beat in unison
feel the labour,
Life rebirthing.
Wooden carcass
our wreckage decomposed
greed, power, blindness,
floats the surface
walks the pavement.
only having learned the backstroke…
“we are swimming in clues.”
westcoastwoman 2020
Shedding
Love after Love by Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give Bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
– Derek Walcott
Shedding
…..As I put the key into the lock and opened the door to ‘the loft’ on this distant island that feels so very far from home, this poem came to mind. It is a piece that has haunted me for a few years perhaps because I don’t want the message to be true.
There is no ‘magical other’ waiting to save us from ourselves or from the circling storm of uncertainty that surrounds us.
There is a welcome shedding of expectation that comes from the words, a sigh of relief that the only goal is to “give back your heart to itself” and “peel your own image from the mirror.”
Those things in themselves appear to be insurmountable right now but when compared with continuing this exhausting upstream swim, the image of simply floating with the current back to my “own door” is indeed a feeling of “elation.”
The latch is well worn, many have opened it and returned …..
Sit. Eat. Feast on your life.
westcoastwoman 2020
The Empty Handed Offering
“You are being called, we are all being called. We stumbled upon the Hero’s Journey and now there is no turning back. We know too much, overcame too many trials and received initiation into the Great Mystery, the river will not release us without a struggle.
We asked to be conscious, we cannot become unconscious…it is too late for that.
We are reluctant heroes.Linda Jonke
The Empty Handed Offering
What does an Empty Handed Offering consist of?
I am not sure, but my gut tells me it looks something like the walking forward of this photograph. No idea what it actually is, or if it even exists.
I hope to attempt an answer over the next eight months. A series of synchronicities has allowed me access to a small loft over the winter that is located on a remote island a few ferry rides away.
I have taken to calling it “A Room of One’s Own”. Full disclosure, I have not read in its entirety “A Room of One’s Own” by Virginia Woolf but now have a copy in hand and will finish it before the first departure of my solo journey. Books, art supplies, camera and hopes for inspiration will travel with me as I move back and forth every few weeks from ‘home’ to ‘room’ with the question of the “Empty Handed Offering”.
I was born on the Winter Solstice, each year there is comfort in knowing that the days become longer, the light returns slowly from that day forward. This year I enter another decade of life, more decades are now behind than in front.
This opportunity is the perfect gift, a room of one’s own and a question that can only be answered walking forward with hands and heart open… into the ‘Great Mystery’
A Day in a Life 2020
” In a world where everything is ridiculous nothing can be ridiculed. You cannot unmask a mask.”
G.K. Chesterton
A DAY IN A LIFE
And then there is this……travelling back from town my eye caught the blur of a motorcycle coming up on the left. I asked my passenger to attempt to catch the image as it passed, here is the result. Clown? Skeleton?
He was social distancing and wearing a mask, following all the guidelines. Nothing to see here. The reaction of the three occupants of the car ranged from laughter to horror and affected us individually as a piece of impromptu performance art.
Later, walking in the wind and rain on a deserted beach my thoughts strayed to the masks we all wear. Recently I attended what was billed as a Public Information Meeting for a controversial development project. It was hardly ‘public’, tickets obtained online, twelve people to a sitting, masks mandatory and cut off for tickets five days before the ‘event’. Covid used as a mask to prevent an actual public event. The ‘public’ attendees were masked the presenters were not, but we were all masked in one way or another.
Speaking during the question period, my words muffled through the mask, I felt a strange comfort with only my eyes revealed and facial expressions hidden. The anonymity and calmness that it provided was in stark contrast to the verbal attacks that came my way. I realized that even if we had not been physically masked our daily mask(s) would have been our armor.
“You cannot unmask a mask“
We live in strange, tragic and interesting times, clowns on motorcycles, clowns in power…….
where the majority of us put on our physical masks and wait for the opportunity to be able to remove them and breathe deeply again. Finding it harder to ‘breathe’ to find our personal authenticity to find that place where we can see ourselves and others naked, maskless and all vulnerably human clinging to the illusion of Control.
westcoastwoman 2020
The Sweeper. Banksy
If you want to say something and have people listen you have to wear a mask. If you want to be honest you have to live a lie.
Banksy
Welcome
photo of painting westcoastwoman. artist unknown
“Ring the bell that still can ring
forget your perfect offering
there is a crack in everything
that how the light gets in.”
Leonard Cohen
Welcome
Broken open, breaking light
stripped of illusion
naked, alone
Strength arrives
dressed not in resistance
but surrender
give in, not up.
Welcome.
Open wide,
this dying to be born
burning to be forged
watch with new eyes
the Light
move towards the
“crack in everything”.
©westcoastwoman
Without Despair
photo credit westcoastwoman “Rock formations Newcastle Island”
“Write a little everyday, without hope, without despair“* Isak Dinesen
Without Despair
Rough, yet ever so gently
Water on Stone
washes in, out
softening edges of
Body, Breath
Slow inhale
Surrender
Audible sigh
Release
Water on Stone
Stone to Surrender
Surrender to Release,
Sweet longing, caressing
our lives carved open as
“without hope, without despair”*
we float, we whirl,
a single leaf riding
a wandering stream.
©westcoastwoman 2019
unknown photographer
Sculpture “Break through from your Mold” Zenos Frudakis
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
YOUR CHANGES CAN STILL BE SAVED
credit Lordess Foudre
“All Compost Rots, but not all Rot is Compost”
Lower to the ground.
Kneel and assume, ‘the position’
Reverence: earth, seed, soil
Spring’s sacred cathedral.
Born of winter’s promise
composed, decomposed, Composted
last year fades, surrenders, spirals
More becomes Less
Less formed in darkness,
turned and (re)turned to soil,
Seeds break open to
gamble on new life.
Will I submit to this process
Circle back around
gather lost and shattered bits,
the organic matter of my life
Compost intimate details
brokenness, unshed tears,
turn towards the fragility
not beyond, take the gamble
roots of estrangement
embraced with compassion
Circle back around again
nothing left behind, unattended
no longer in pieces I assume
‘the position’ (re)forming
this new life, this light
born in darkness.
Hand to Heart (Street Photography 1)
(while working on another piece this morning I found this in my drafts, I meant to go in to delete, but in the end my hand and heart pushed Publish)
I am going to try a short series of poetry inspired by (my second love) street photography, a series I took last year at the Easter Sunday Parade in the French Quarter, New Orleans.
photo credit westcoastwoman
Each step you take, from here to there
each hand you hold, they’ll sometimes care
some filled with light some fighting dark
you’ll find what’s right, you’ll make your mark
your heart will break, can’t help you there
you’ll find one hand that let’s you care
but in the end, your hand to heart
is what will lead you home.
Wildly and Dangerously Free 