Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

view from my bedroom window by Kristen Fowles
Please forgive me for not writing in some time, this has been a period of deep reflection, soul searching, and exploration for me.

In his book, “The House of Belonging,” Poet David Whyte wrote the following:

“Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.”

I have been daring the dark and as I’ve travelled further into the deep, into and beyond the confinement of my own aloneness, the dark has truly served me. And out of its depths I have emerged stronger, wiser, and more alive than ever before.

And I am here right now to lovingly and gently reassure that when you find yourself in darkness, don’t be afraid . The dark promises a new beginning — allow it to nurture and to stretch you. Say “yes” to it’s invitation for you to grow beyond the safety of your current boundaries. Say “yes” as you step courageously over the threshold.

Read Full Post »

Art by Steve Hanks, Bookends

Art by Steve Hanks, Bookends

One easy way that you can tell which books in my library have touched or taught me the most would be to notice which are the most marked up.  I came across a book just the other day that is filled with yellow highlights, it’s Dawna Markova’s, “I Will Not Die an Unlived Life.”   Beautiful and wise.  Reminding us of what’s sacred,  asking us what it would look like to live our lives “fully, sensually alive, and passionately, on purpose.”   Encouraging us to live days that are “a sweet and slow ceremony” and nudging us as winter approaches to let go of “what no longer is alive, to get bare enough to find the bones of what is important” to us.

“I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible;
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit. ”

~Dawna Markova~

 

Read Full Post »

Alphonse osbert muse at sunrise

“Write it on your heart
that every day is the best day in the year.
He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day
who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety.

Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in.
Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.

This new day is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on the yesterdays.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Here’s to your wild and precious day…..

Read Full Post »

The sky is grey today.  My boots crunch and my body tenses when I first step out into this frigid January morning.  I move slowly, huddled against  the cold,  still baring the gravity of  grief and the weariness of long nights with too few exits and too many echoes.

Getting out of bed took little effort yesterday,  my mind was alert,  my movements fluid, and the sun was shining.  I breathed a sigh of relief, finally able to recognize the promise of a morning  without my mother in it.  I didn’t have to force myself to leave my house, and I jogged and jumped and danced during my water aerobics class. My body felt light and graceful.  It was going to be a good day.

Someone began to sing, “these boots are made for walking” and I cheerfully joined her in song, hands on my hips and legs lifting high.  And then my eyes met those of a woman who is older than my mother and the pain slammed into my chest without warning.  I was breathless as a memory consumed all of my oxygen. My young and sexy mother is singing that song while I  prance around her in my imaginary boots.  We are pointing at each other, warning that “one of these days these boots are going to walk all over you.”  In that moment, all was perfect.  The depression had not found her, she was cancer free – healthy,  happy, and ALIVE.  I was safe.

My eyes filled with tears and to my horror, it occurred to me that I could start crying in a public pool surrounded by perfectly nice and normal women. I took a deep breath, clenched my jaw, called upon my well practiced will, and pulled myself together.

Rumi wrote that our lives are like guest houses. If my life truly is like a guest house, then grief, an unwelcome guest, has settled in for the time being. I cannot move out, and there will be no eviction. And so, If I’m to avoid structural and collateral damage, then I’ll  need to make accommodations.  Grief, I will make a place at my table for you, but I will not feed you.  Instead, I will infuse my cooking with love and gratitude and nurture my family with them.  And I will stop wasting energy trying to lock you out, instead, I’ll open all of my windows and invite beauty in.

My walk is complete. I return to the home that I now share with grief, close the door, absorb the heat, and resolve to not long for spring, but to listen to winter…

The Winter of Listening

“No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning
red in the palms while
the night wind carries
everything away outside.

All this petty worry
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense
round every living thing.

What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.

What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire,
what disturbs
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.

What we hate
in ourselves
is what we cannot know
in ourselves but
what is true to the pattern
does not need
to be explained.

Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.

Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.

All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.

All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.

All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.

And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.

Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.

So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.”

David Whyte

Read Full Post »

I went to a reading last night held at Bates College by Brian Turner, award winning poet and veteran of the Iraq war. (He’ll be at the Lewiston public library tonight for those of you who live in the Lewiston/Auburn area.) After the reading someone asked him a question about healing and his response was one that I plan on mulling over for some time. He suggested that perhaps the appropriate goal of veterans (trauma victim/survivor?) is not to heal from their wounds but rather to learn to integrate them into the rest of their lives. From a narrative therapy perspective, I wonder if he meant that the wounds of war must be woven into the larger story of the veteran’s life, and while certainly a defining chapter in the overall narrative, must not become THE ENTIRE STORY.

I was moved by his poetry, and when I returned home I couldn’t put his book, “Here, Bullet” down. I read it from beginning to end and didn’t sleep until night had given way to the fledgling hours of morning. I was revisited once again by the jagged and shattering stories shared with me by the veterans with whom I’ve worked over the years, the haunting beckoned this time by the horror and heartbreak of war transformed into poetry.

I found a quote in an old journal entry by veteran, Timothy Kudo, who wrote, “ I thought my war was over, but it followed me. It followed all of us. We returned only to find that it was waiting here the entire time and will always be with us. “ And I acknowledged then that in some ways, the war will never end for me either, for any of those of us who have served as inadequate and yet fully present witnesses. I honor in my heart and in my own tortured memory – the boy, the girl, the wounded warrior and the poet that lives on in each and every one of them….

Read Full Post »