Good ~ Good to be alive ~ Good to fall on the ice ? Well . . . that was a jolt, all the way from sit-bone to shoulder, but I am glad for all of it. The music playing, the bird seed from Hannaford's, the maine mussels with wine and basil, garlic & tamari, tomato & lemon, a dash of seaweed flakes . . . I can't teach LIFE, LIFE teaches me ~ when I pay attention.
And so, this morning I would like to invite you into 3 poems ~
For the Sleepwalkers
by Edward Hirsch
For the Sleepwalkers
Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible
arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.
I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,
palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.
And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.
Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music
of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests.
We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds
and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.
~ Edward Hirsch
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Old Interior Angel
by David Whyte
Young, male and immortal as I was,
I stopped at the first
sight
of that broken bridge.
The taut cables snapped
and the bridge planks
concertina-
ed
into a crazy jumble
over the drop,
four hundred feet
to
the craggy
stream.
I sat and watched
the wind shiver
on the broken planks,
as if by looking hard
and long enough
the life-line
might
spontaneously
repair itself
–but watched in vain.
An hour I sat
in the clear silence,
checking each
involuntary movement
of the body toward
that trembling
bridge
with a fearful mind,
and an emphatic
shake of the
head.
Finally, facing defeat
and about to go back
the way I came
to meet the others.
Three days round
by another pass.
Enter the old mountain woman
with her stooped gait,
her
dark clothes
and her dung basket
clasped to her back.
Small feet shuffling
for the precious
gold-brown
fuel for
cooking food.
Intent on the ground
she glimpsed my feet
and looking up
Said "Namaste"
"I greet the God in you"
the last syllable
held like a song.
I inclined my head
and clasped my hands
to reply, but
before I could look up
she turned her lined face
and went
straight across
that shivering chaos
of wood
and broken
steel
in one movement.
One day the hero
sits down,
afraid to take
another step,
and the old interior angel
limps slowly in
with her no-
nonsense
compassion
and her old secret
and goes ahead.
"Namaste"
you say
and follow.
*from "Fire in the Earth" by David Whyte
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some words from Martha Graham:
There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening
That is translated through you into action--
And because there is only one of you in all time,
This expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist
Through any other medium
And it will be lost.
The world will not have it.
It is not your business
To determine how good it is
Nor how valuable
Nor how it compares with other expressions.
It is your business
To keep it yours clearly and directly,
To keep the channel OPEN.
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