Taking Us to Sea

Steam from my tea mirrors the wood smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney. These lofty moments; these messengers of heaven. After a day of handling and shelving library books, even the weight of tea causes aching in my wrists and hands. Thank God poetry calls today. I cancel everything to answer. My muse is a dialogue of light, seen and unseen, known and yet, still a bit uncharted. These words say the same thing a million different ways and I have no idea why anyone would read them. Enter me and tell me why.

Lately my ability to both defer and suspend the literal puts me dead center of a quickly rushing river. No longer do I feel like I am world building. I am tearing it all down and letting it all go as I keep my chin above water.

I wake beneath pine, oak and maple, all adorned in the countless glistening crystals of winter. In this place I consider how my spiritual practice arises from and is bound to a particular place. I wonder about the Desert Fathers and Mothers – their mystic, monastic practice taking shape and being informed by their place. They wove inner and outer worlds together into a wholeness espousing the ability to heal, cure, and nourish.

It is an act of love to see deeply into things: steam and smoke rising, the heft of borrowed books, rushing rivers taking us to sea. I think this contemplative call reminds one of the shared heartbeat of man and place. I think it is my call.