Who knew!

I've been noticing that the expression "Who knew!" expressed in a tone of wonder is like the beginning of a psalm, like an invitation to celebrate and be awed by the grace of God. "Who knew!... only you, O Holy One." It reminds me of a poem by W.O. Mitchell, that beloved Canadian writer:

"Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I
But when the trees
Bow down their heads
The wind is passing by"

And so nature teaches us to honour and love the Divine, Source of All Life.

Waking this morning I realize that once again I'd forgotten I'm not in charge of everything. Which had put me into a major state of effort, where I succumbed to an uncomfortable bout of dis-trust. I notice when I'm in that state of dis-trust, I fall prey to second-guessing myself. Every decision is like crossing a mine-field as I strive ceaselessly for the perfect choice, finding no assurance or peace of mind anywhere.

But... when I remember to trust, to be Trust, the path changes. With the return of trust comes connection with my call, the big archetypal power of my purpose, the invitation to step into something bigger than me, where I can be of service to the great flowing river of life. When I step out on that clear ground, released once again from that insidious soul-eating fog (hallelujah!), my choices once again soar, fueled by enthusiastic creativity and passionate love for the planet.

Sounds pretty good, eh? Believe me, it FEELS really good. BE-ing with the rhythms of the earth, moving with the tides, winds, the seasons, is the deepest experience I've had of harmony and joy.

Being available to the muse or ....

By creating poems, I write myself, little by little, into the light, along my path. As long as I remember to get out of the way, to get out of the effort of trying hard to make "a good one", then the poem is free to lead me into a new world of sight.
Sometimes I'll find myself, somewhere in the interior of the poem, critiquing word choices, direction taken, point of view... Then it's ever so important to whisper softly to that inner critic-witness "Not now. This isn't your place or time", then gently, almost absently, turn away from that evaluating, analytical voice. Turn away in order to once more immerse myself in the voice of the poem, calling it out with respect and love, understanding that humility, faithfulness, and obedience are my best chance for receiving potential gifts of insight new vision, awakened understanding.
So many parts of me want to be included - the wordsmith, the prophet, the radical, the healer... Sometimes it can be such a challenge to let go of being in charge! Who's writing this anyway! Something bigger than me, if I can be wise enough and hungry enough to allow that to be so. It's a matter of Trust.

And when I step into that realm of Trust, whether in writing a poem or hearing my dreams, whether coaching one-on-one or leading workshops, then the journey deepens, slows, becomes rich and powerful. I find the waters closing over my head and a smile dusting my face as joy and curiousity claim my heart. Each arrival is a new world beginning.

Falling as a Pear

I decide it is time.
The pears are ripe, my friends
await those sweet white wedges
swimming in their syrup bath.
With tree-climbing shoes laced
and picking bag slung over shoulder
I head out. Pulling myself
up into the first crotch I remember,
(my hands complaining of the rough bark)
- as children we liked the apple better...
the trunk smoother, more friendly,
the branches not so willing to grab
our hair, our clothing. This time
it takes fierceness and physics
to get myself up there.
I liked strength better but then I'm up and oh
the leaves are soft with life,
a bower of green, laced
and ruched against the wide blue arc
of sky, the sun trails warm fingers across my face, my arms, whispering
little love songs in my ears...
Eager, I gather those green weights
into my cupped hands, into the heart of my bag.

One last pear, suspends itself alone
crown jewel at the end of a branch.
Reaching out to its beauty I forget
who I am and find my weight slipping
then dropping slow-fast, aborted flight
and at long last slam
into the ground. Planted thus
in my wholeness
I lie looking up to see laid over me
green beauty, blue blessing.

©  Gyllian Davies  Sept 15, 2009.

Slipping into Fall

Ah - the blessing of these beautiful fall days, the fruit ripening in
luscious abundance on the trees, the sun rolling everything from the
earth into its warmth and generosity, the bears, deer, and coyotes
munching up the fruit-feast that has fallen to the ground. The earth
sings to us on days like this if we will only listen, she is our
friend, our mother, our child, our island home.... Isn't it good to be
alive in a body on days of wine-tinted light, amber and golden,
rich with a summer's worth of heat! Clear with a sky's pouring of
blue arcing joy! Magical with the peace of animals feasting and
filling in these last days before the long dark nights arrive.... what
can we say but - thank you!

Re-membering/re-conceiving adolescence

Back Then

Outside the window, morning sun
glances and glints on the green tears
of the weeping willow. Those long
sinuous branches sway languidly
in the morning breeze that slides
down the valley, cradled
between the mountains. The lime
green of the leaves placed just so
on each golden branch, and
behind, that blue backdrop of
mountainside, dense with pines, cedars, fir...

I remember... I was sixteen, writing a poem on
the green willow and blue mountains,
the ones outside the house I grew up in.
Pierced by the beauty, what else
could I do but seek the clean words and
ancient bones, the release
of exquisite pain, as the terrible joy
of being seized by life
flooded my adolescent systems
beyond repair.

09.03.09 Gyllian Davies

Beginning anew!

After a summer of focusing on hospitality in the truest Benedictine* sense, my bed & breakfast season is winding down, which allows me to resume my morning practices - including writing! What a GREAT RELIEF it is to befriend my journal again. In the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom, the clamour of the day not yet acknowledged, I ramble and explore the back roads of my own being. It's not that I've been living superficially all summer as I cooked, cleaned, shopped, made beds... no, I still pondered on all kinds of questions and observations that arose from encounters with human guests, animals, (both the wild and the friendly kind) and the earth beneath our feet. It's more that without that writing time I didn't have a chance to hold up my thoughts to the Light and see where the shadows distorted my perceptions. I was less likely to notice those times and places where I forgot to be kind to myself. By not writing poems - which is like making myself available as a voice for angels and faeries - I didn't get to learn the secrets of the earth that were unfolding before my nose. And it was harder to remember that I too am a creature of light, a sacred dancer, a singer of heart songs, and a healer of the earth. Yes, it's been a long summer, beautiful, fecund, and mysterious. I celebrate the generous abundance of it and I rejoice out loud that I am now returned to my morning practices, that place of a well-fed soul and spiritual yoga!


* Benedictine hospitality asks us to treat all guests as holy, as messengers from the deep, as precious and as a blessing by their presence.... Joan Chittister describes Benedictine hospitality as “unboundaried hearts.” See http://tinyurl.com/ln6f8u