Hallows Eve Eve

Into hallowed quietude on Hallowe’en eve,

Evergreens and angled amber sun on golden leaves,img_0836

Air swollen with silence…

And river sounds…and breeze,

Twitters, caws… wings and thoughts

Animate the scene,

Which ever sinks toward stillness,

solidity and peace.

 

Guadalupe stands in white

And tranquil certainty,

Gazing humbly toward her heart,

A river full and free

of longing and belonging both

dissolved in Agape.

 

There is no gate. I enter freely. The lady in white does not look up to greet me. But buried deep inside is a voice that still dares to insist I am welcome.

I walk  on the grounds, enveloped in silence and in solitude, even as I gaze upon long rows of windows made for many a man to look through. And, ah, there is one man. A bearded one in white habit and hood, pale as his vestments, stands looking down from his second story window. I cannot see his face, but I smile in its direction, offering the whitest thing I wear today; a smile of kinship and mischief, with a hint of pretense painting over where insecurity still lives. A smile that lays claim to the heart we share, shining through the echoes of a false history swathing me in the myth of unwelcome.
As I stand overlooking the wetlands and hills, with birdsong and breeze and sun alive all around me, apple tree still laden with trophies of its purpose served, why does someone in here persistently assume that all here have more purpose and belonging than I?  That is the girdle of separation consciousness; the tattoo of original sin.  It colors the flesh, casts shadow on the soul within, but does not touch the spirit, as our lady’s white habit reminds us. 

I walk toward the apple tree and realize that if someone handed me a ladder and asked me to pick the apples, my tiredness would flee and in would rush the relief and animation, the safety and shakti, of Purpose. img_0840Instantly I would Belong here. I would be fed and flowing with the Life from which a moment before I had felt distinct, an interloper waiting to be found (and cast) out.

Why, I wonder, after all the Love I have seen, do these echoes of past wounds, of lies, still haunt me, when I know there is no one here forbidding my presence, my existence?  

Guadalupe gazes down toward her heart against which she lightly holds a Merkaba star; one ray is broken off, and yet a star it still is, in my mind and in Her Heart.

As a way to move the love around, I walk up to the apple tree and greet and praise it for its perfect work. I confess to it lightly that I wish I could apple (verb) so effortlessly as it does, that my purpose was so clear. I feel my mind dilate and remind me that purpose is not a concept or a doing, but a Being, and Being is a hand held open in water, holding on to no meaning. I gaze then at the Lady in white some distance away and know I belong as Alive Mind, deep blue soul, hollowed out for the river of Being, all the colors floating by upon it before my eyes, ever down stream, changed, in ways I cannot know, by my witness.

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Mother Lode: Smelting Gold from Kryptonite

in-the-backyard-in-columbus-oh

     Sunday, October 16th, would have been my mother’s 82nd birthday. I’ve made reference elsewhere to the halo of stupefaction I have customarily experienced around the birth and death anniversaries of both my parents since they passed in 2011. This year that cloud drifted forward in time, settled over me 24 hours earlier (or so), and had passed by the morning I expected it.   Perhaps it had something to do with that powerful perigee moon, which was affecting emotional weather in many quarters.
     Though it started without emotion, Sunday was not without poignancy. I exercised my commemorative impulse that morning by emailing loving wishes to my friend Lawrence, who shares my mom’s birthday and who became an important figure in my father’s life long after my parents shared little but a last name…and this single daughterly knot in the thread between them.
     In his reply to my birthday greeting, Lawrence said that he had awoke that morning thinking of me…”and your Dad and the last time I saw you both together, with him sooo deeply smiling at you in his bed.”   Emotion gushed forth, briefly, but more real, I noted, than anything I’ve felt for months, maybe years.
     It felt like a validation, a celebration of a reality I feel removed from now, but which lives inside me somewhere. The life my parents gave me, together.
     It somehow felt like both parents were reaching to me through Lawrence’s words. And each of us was being celebrated and blessed by the others in the triad.
Here I celebrate my mother:
     How much pain she endured and yet was such a decent person.
     Her Libran Dharma to look at all sides, and if there was not a cure, at least she could find an explanation.
     Her rationality…
     …and her emotionality, deep torsive rancor buried deep in her joints
            (until it could not be contained there).
She did all she could to provide for me, to be my root chakra.
And now I am detoxing from my root, both her indignant rage and my own,
            through an anal fissure that is stubborn to heal,
                        that finds relief in bellowing chants to the many faces of Kali.
In my mind’s eye now, I can see the physical wound flanked by fang-marks of light–             
white hot Ida and red hot Pingala.
And if I see Ida and Pingala merge,
they smelt and heal the rift between them as my parents in me;
   and I become the One from the two,
       able to root as the One for the first time.