FREEING THE CAGED HEART:
POETRY TO LIFT YOUR SPIRITS
I have recently participated in an on-line poetry appreciation course,
facilitated by Roger Housden and Spirituality and Practice.
Every evening I received a poem, a reflection and a task in my inbox.
I wanted to participate fully in this course,
so I decided to create an intuitive doll each day
to create a movement from my head to my heart and my soul.
I started with a template, an old white cotton sheet and my sewing machine.
I wanted to reduce the decision making and allow my intuition to be the driving force.
I would limit time spent on each doll to the 24 hours after I received a poem.
facilitated by Roger Housden and Spirituality and Practice.
Every evening I received a poem, a reflection and a task in my inbox.
I wanted to participate fully in this course,
so I decided to create an intuitive doll each day
to create a movement from my head to my heart and my soul.
I started with a template, an old white cotton sheet and my sewing machine.
I wanted to reduce the decision making and allow my intuition to be the driving force.
I would limit time spent on each doll to the 24 hours after I received a poem.
Participants were invited to share an intention for this 31 day course.
My intention was to "free my caged heart".
The bars surrounding my heart represent
depression, grief, inertia,
expectations, fear, self-criticism,
poverty of spirit, lack of self-confidence.
I wanted to engage with each of the 'bars',
dialogue with it, and transform it in my life.
invisible bars
exercise
a vice like grip
on my heart
and hopes
I want to hear
a key
rattle in the lock
calling
my true name
inviting me
to live
My intention was to "free my caged heart".
The bars surrounding my heart represent
depression, grief, inertia,
expectations, fear, self-criticism,
poverty of spirit, lack of self-confidence.
I wanted to engage with each of the 'bars',
dialogue with it, and transform it in my life.
invisible bars
exercise
a vice like grip
on my heart
and hopes
I want to hear
a key
rattle in the lock
calling
my true name
inviting me
to live
DAY 1: TO LIVE IN MY TRUE INHERITANCE
"WHAT TO REMEMBER WHEN WAKING"
by DAVID WHYTE
Clarissa Pinkoles Estes wrote,
"In my uttermost bones I knew something, as you do.
It is that there can be no despair when you remember
why you came to Earth,
who you serve,
who sent you here."
I reflected on infinite possibility;
on absence and presence;
on courage and vulnerability;
on revelation and inheritance;
on my true self.
David Whyte wrote in this poem,
"To be human is to become visible,
while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others."
I reflected,
Do I live like the English rose
in the same house
in the same street
for more than seventy years?
Stability. Purpose. Joy.
Do I live like the prodigal son
who ran away to be
scarred by the ravages of a war
that was never his to fight,
to live in pain and poverty
and abandoned dreams?
Courage. Intention. Fortitude.
Do I live like the Irish colleen
subservient to a fierce deity and
obedient to celibate men she had never met,
a visible sign of invisible grace?
Sacrament. Witness. Blessing.
Do I live the life I can imagine for myself
with no more and no less than what I need
to be creative, attentive, mindful,
to nurture and to nourish this vulnerable 'I',
to befriend my self-critic
and companion my true self,
and bear to full term the gift within?
Silence. Intention. Miracle.
by DAVID WHYTE
Clarissa Pinkoles Estes wrote,
"In my uttermost bones I knew something, as you do.
It is that there can be no despair when you remember
why you came to Earth,
who you serve,
who sent you here."
I reflected on infinite possibility;
on absence and presence;
on courage and vulnerability;
on revelation and inheritance;
on my true self.
David Whyte wrote in this poem,
"To be human is to become visible,
while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others."
I reflected,
Do I live like the English rose
in the same house
in the same street
for more than seventy years?
Stability. Purpose. Joy.
Do I live like the prodigal son
who ran away to be
scarred by the ravages of a war
that was never his to fight,
to live in pain and poverty
and abandoned dreams?
Courage. Intention. Fortitude.
Do I live like the Irish colleen
subservient to a fierce deity and
obedient to celibate men she had never met,
a visible sign of invisible grace?
Sacrament. Witness. Blessing.
Do I live the life I can imagine for myself
with no more and no less than what I need
to be creative, attentive, mindful,
to nurture and to nourish this vulnerable 'I',
to befriend my self-critic
and companion my true self,
and bear to full term the gift within?
Silence. Intention. Miracle.
DAY 2: THERE IS A CRACK IN EVERYTHING
DON'T EXPECT APPLAUSE
by ELLEN BASS
Leonard Cohen crooned,
"There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets through."
Everywhere there are
cracks, glimmers, hints
of my true and wonderful self.
They are not wounds or mutations.
But windows to the soul.
by ELLEN BASS
Leonard Cohen crooned,
"There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets through."
Everywhere there are
cracks, glimmers, hints
of my true and wonderful self.
They are not wounds or mutations.
But windows to the soul.
DAY 3: A QUIET EYE
JUST NOW
by W.S. MERWIN
W.S. Merwin invites me to immerse myself
in the ordinary minutiae of my world -
natural and man-made.
He asks me to dwell in the quiet unnamed spaces.
The fruit of my attentiveness is that -
now and again -
the veil lifts and
I encounter the Divine.
I spent a lot of time reflecting on Anthony de Mello's Temple Bells.
The temple was built on an island and it held a thousand bells.
Bells big and small, fashioned by the the finest craftsmen in the world.
When the wind blew of a storm raged,
all the bells would peal out in a symphony that would send the heart of the hearer into raptures.
But over the centuries the island sank into the sea and, with it, the temple bells.
An ancient legend said that the bells continued to peal out, ceaselessly,
and could be heard by anyone who would listen.
Inspired by this legend, a young man traveled thousands of miles, determined to hear those bells.
He sat for days on the shore, facing the vanished island, and listened with all his might.
But all he could hear was the sound of the sea.
He made every effort to block it out.
But to no avail; the sound of the sea seemed to flood the world.
He kept at his task for weeks. Each time he got disheartened he would listen to the village pundits,
who spoke with unction of the mysterious legend.
Then his heart would be aflame…
only to become discouraged again when weeks of further effort yielded no results.
Finally he decided to give up the attempt.
Perhaps he was not destined to hear the bells.
Perhaps the legend was not true.
It was his final day,
and he went to the short to say goodbye to the sea and the sky and the wind and the coconut trees.
He lay on the sand, and for the first time, listened to the sound of the sea.
Soon he was so lost in the sound that he was barely conscious of himself,
so deep was the silence that the sound produced.
In the depth of that silence, he heard it!
The tinkle of the tiny bell followed by another, and another, and another.. and soon
every one of the thousand temple bells was pealing out in harmony,
and his heart was rapt in joyous ecstasy.
Do you wish to hear the temple bells? Listen to the sound of the sea.
Do you wish to catch a glimpse of God? Look intently at creation.
by W.S. MERWIN
W.S. Merwin invites me to immerse myself
in the ordinary minutiae of my world -
natural and man-made.
He asks me to dwell in the quiet unnamed spaces.
The fruit of my attentiveness is that -
now and again -
the veil lifts and
I encounter the Divine.
I spent a lot of time reflecting on Anthony de Mello's Temple Bells.
The temple was built on an island and it held a thousand bells.
Bells big and small, fashioned by the the finest craftsmen in the world.
When the wind blew of a storm raged,
all the bells would peal out in a symphony that would send the heart of the hearer into raptures.
But over the centuries the island sank into the sea and, with it, the temple bells.
An ancient legend said that the bells continued to peal out, ceaselessly,
and could be heard by anyone who would listen.
Inspired by this legend, a young man traveled thousands of miles, determined to hear those bells.
He sat for days on the shore, facing the vanished island, and listened with all his might.
But all he could hear was the sound of the sea.
He made every effort to block it out.
But to no avail; the sound of the sea seemed to flood the world.
He kept at his task for weeks. Each time he got disheartened he would listen to the village pundits,
who spoke with unction of the mysterious legend.
Then his heart would be aflame…
only to become discouraged again when weeks of further effort yielded no results.
Finally he decided to give up the attempt.
Perhaps he was not destined to hear the bells.
Perhaps the legend was not true.
It was his final day,
and he went to the short to say goodbye to the sea and the sky and the wind and the coconut trees.
He lay on the sand, and for the first time, listened to the sound of the sea.
Soon he was so lost in the sound that he was barely conscious of himself,
so deep was the silence that the sound produced.
In the depth of that silence, he heard it!
The tinkle of the tiny bell followed by another, and another, and another.. and soon
every one of the thousand temple bells was pealing out in harmony,
and his heart was rapt in joyous ecstasy.
Do you wish to hear the temple bells? Listen to the sound of the sea.
Do you wish to catch a glimpse of God? Look intently at creation.
DAY 4:TO LOSE MYSELF IN THIS WORLD
AT BLACKWATER POND
by MARY OLIVER
The merging of myself into the natural world.
The immersing myself in a sensual world.
The grateful acknowledgement of the beauty and wonder of my world.
Mary Oliver offers me a wonderful mantra for daily living ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the piwakawaka (fantail) dips and dives around me as I peg out the washing,
inviting me to join the dance ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the strangers walking their dog across the road wave to me
walking my dog in the opposite direction,
celebrating our shared interest ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
And when my adult son says "Thanks Mum that was delicious"
for a simple meal of sausages and potatoes,
flooding my being with the warmth of his gratitude ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
A mantra which grounds me
and draws me into appreciation of the simple delights of daily life ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
by MARY OLIVER
The merging of myself into the natural world.
The immersing myself in a sensual world.
The grateful acknowledgement of the beauty and wonder of my world.
Mary Oliver offers me a wonderful mantra for daily living ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the piwakawaka (fantail) dips and dives around me as I peg out the washing,
inviting me to join the dance ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the strangers walking their dog across the road wave to me
walking my dog in the opposite direction,
celebrating our shared interest ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
And when my adult son says "Thanks Mum that was delicious"
for a simple meal of sausages and potatoes,
flooding my being with the warmth of his gratitude ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
A mantra which grounds me
and draws me into appreciation of the simple delights of daily life ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
DAY 5: THE RED THREAD
THE WAY IT IS
by WILLIAM STAFFORD
This theme of thread fascinated me,
as it has fascinated many throughout time.
Klotho, the Greek fate, is purported to spin the thread of human life.
Lao Tzu wrote that life and death are one thread,
the same line viewed from different sides.
Jung said,
"when it's time for souls to meet,
there's nothing on earth that can prevent them from meeting,
no matter where each may be located."
A Chinese myth tells of
a red thread which is tied around those
who are destined to meet one another in certain situations
or to help each other in certain ways.
On reflection,
I am sure I have been connected to others by this red thread -
the coincidences and serendipitous events are just too strong.
From the Rig Veda
"There is an endless net of threads throughout the universe.
The Horizontal threads are in space.
The Vertical threads are in time.
At every crossing of the threads,
there is an individual,
and every individual is a crystal bead.
And every crystal bead reflects not only the light
from every other crystal in the net,
But also every other reflection throughout the entire Universe."
by WILLIAM STAFFORD
This theme of thread fascinated me,
as it has fascinated many throughout time.
Klotho, the Greek fate, is purported to spin the thread of human life.
Lao Tzu wrote that life and death are one thread,
the same line viewed from different sides.
Jung said,
"when it's time for souls to meet,
there's nothing on earth that can prevent them from meeting,
no matter where each may be located."
A Chinese myth tells of
a red thread which is tied around those
who are destined to meet one another in certain situations
or to help each other in certain ways.
On reflection,
I am sure I have been connected to others by this red thread -
the coincidences and serendipitous events are just too strong.
From the Rig Veda
"There is an endless net of threads throughout the universe.
The Horizontal threads are in space.
The Vertical threads are in time.
At every crossing of the threads,
there is an individual,
and every individual is a crystal bead.
And every crystal bead reflects not only the light
from every other crystal in the net,
But also every other reflection throughout the entire Universe."
DAY 6: DELIGHT
MINDFUL
by MARY OLIVER
Oliver once wrote
"Attention without feeling,
I began to learn,
is only a report.
An openness --
an empathy --
was necessary if the attention was to matter."
Perhaps the ordinary becomes extraordinary when infused with my attention.
There is always something to delight in.
by MARY OLIVER
Oliver once wrote
"Attention without feeling,
I began to learn,
is only a report.
An openness --
an empathy --
was necessary if the attention was to matter."
Perhaps the ordinary becomes extraordinary when infused with my attention.
There is always something to delight in.
DAY 7: THE FRUITS OF MY LIFE
UNTITLED
by DAWNA MARKOVA
This poem left me feeling deflated.
I felt I was being bullied,
and chided for living a quiet life.
I am much more encouraged by Anais Nin's gentle words,
"And the day came
when the risk to remain tight in a bud
became more painful
than the risk it took to blossom."
For me, the same sentiments are expressed
but without the motivational rhetoric.
by DAWNA MARKOVA
This poem left me feeling deflated.
I felt I was being bullied,
and chided for living a quiet life.
I am much more encouraged by Anais Nin's gentle words,
"And the day came
when the risk to remain tight in a bud
became more painful
than the risk it took to blossom."
For me, the same sentiments are expressed
but without the motivational rhetoric.
DAY 8: AN ANGEL TO PASS ON BLESSINGS
EVERYTHING IS WAITING FOR YOU
by DAVID WHYTE
Usually I like to ponder upon the poetry of David Whyte.
But this one wearied me.
I felt the pressure of "Everything is waiting for you."
I just wanted to go for a long long walk
with my senses shut down.
I needed to meditate in silence.
Often I am overwhelmed by the world around me.
Even with the ordinary things that usually escape our attention - like a soap dish.
I become mindful of its origins -
all those who have been involved in its creation -
the artistry of the designers,
the quarry workers who dig the clay,
the truck drivers who deliver the finished product to the store,
the creators of the packaging -
and my heart overflows with a sense of belonging,
with a sense of connected-ness,
with gratitude.
Meditation in silence is a balm for me
when I my senses are over-stimulated or
sense of self is over-whelmed.
by DAVID WHYTE
Usually I like to ponder upon the poetry of David Whyte.
But this one wearied me.
I felt the pressure of "Everything is waiting for you."
I just wanted to go for a long long walk
with my senses shut down.
I needed to meditate in silence.
Often I am overwhelmed by the world around me.
Even with the ordinary things that usually escape our attention - like a soap dish.
I become mindful of its origins -
all those who have been involved in its creation -
the artistry of the designers,
the quarry workers who dig the clay,
the truck drivers who deliver the finished product to the store,
the creators of the packaging -
and my heart overflows with a sense of belonging,
with a sense of connected-ness,
with gratitude.
Meditation in silence is a balm for me
when I my senses are over-stimulated or
sense of self is over-whelmed.
DAY 9: GREY PROMISES
FOR A NEW BEGINNING
by JOHN O'DONOHUE
I am not a person to take risks.
I am reluctant to leave behind what I have outgrown.
I allow setbacks to overwhelm and stall me.
I see the long picture
and forget that my destination is only ever the next step.
Perhaps this caution prevents me
from becoming all that I was created to be.
"This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
It maybe clearing out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."
Rumi
by JOHN O'DONOHUE
I am not a person to take risks.
I am reluctant to leave behind what I have outgrown.
I allow setbacks to overwhelm and stall me.
I see the long picture
and forget that my destination is only ever the next step.
Perhaps this caution prevents me
from becoming all that I was created to be.
"This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
It maybe clearing out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."
Rumi
DAY 10: WHERE THE TWO WORLDS MEET, MY HEART BURSTS
DON'T GO BACK TO SLEEP
by JELALUDDIN RUMI
I realise as I grow older
how easily I blindly accepted ideas,
how slavishly I held to dogmas and doctrines,
how desperate I was to belong.
I didn't ask the questions that mattered.
I didn't challenge the obvious inequality and discrimination.
I didn't fit, and yet I didn't move on.
I was always restless, yearning, seeking.
I wish I had then what Rumi alludes to -
a spirit of wakefulness -
or what Yeats hints at when he wrote -
"the voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new vistas,
but in having new eyes."
I have experienced the two worlds touching -
it is ecstasy.
My heart pounds.
My spirit soars.
Loving kindness envelops me.
by JELALUDDIN RUMI
I realise as I grow older
how easily I blindly accepted ideas,
how slavishly I held to dogmas and doctrines,
how desperate I was to belong.
I didn't ask the questions that mattered.
I didn't challenge the obvious inequality and discrimination.
I didn't fit, and yet I didn't move on.
I was always restless, yearning, seeking.
I wish I had then what Rumi alludes to -
a spirit of wakefulness -
or what Yeats hints at when he wrote -
"the voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new vistas,
but in having new eyes."
I have experienced the two worlds touching -
it is ecstasy.
My heart pounds.
My spirit soars.
Loving kindness envelops me.
DAY 11: HAVE FUN, MY DEAR, HAVE FUN
A SUSPENDED BLUE OCEAN
by HAFIZ, translated by DANIEL LADINSKY
I am not a spontaneous person.
Too much the introvert.
Too much controlled by the self-critic.
Too worried about what others will think
But I do get immense pleasure from enabling others
to have fun:-)
by HAFIZ, translated by DANIEL LADINSKY
I am not a spontaneous person.
Too much the introvert.
Too much controlled by the self-critic.
Too worried about what others will think
But I do get immense pleasure from enabling others
to have fun:-)
DAY 12: THE HEARTFELT WORK OF THE SOUL
THE WILD GEESE
by WENDELL BERRY
Abandon to the process
I am a textile artist,
exploring my life through figurative sculpture (which I call doll making).
When I am surrounded by textiles and tools,
immersed in patterns and ideas,
I lose all sense of my individuality and accept their invitation to create intuitively.
I seek the promise they hold.
I abandon myself to the process.
For me, this is the 'abandoning' akin to love and sleep.
Each figure reflects a part of me
and becomes a part of my story as I become a part of theirs.
I submit wholeheartedly to this process;
trust its outcomes and revelations;
encounter wisdom and LOVE.
These are not fine works of art.
They are the heartfelt work of a soul.
My soul.
by WENDELL BERRY
Abandon to the process
I am a textile artist,
exploring my life through figurative sculpture (which I call doll making).
When I am surrounded by textiles and tools,
immersed in patterns and ideas,
I lose all sense of my individuality and accept their invitation to create intuitively.
I seek the promise they hold.
I abandon myself to the process.
For me, this is the 'abandoning' akin to love and sleep.
Each figure reflects a part of me
and becomes a part of my story as I become a part of theirs.
I submit wholeheartedly to this process;
trust its outcomes and revelations;
encounter wisdom and LOVE.
These are not fine works of art.
They are the heartfelt work of a soul.
My soul.
DAY 13: CARRY YOUR LIFE HIGH
WAKE UP, DAY CALLS YOU
by PEDRO SALINAS
I will carry my life high
I have been reflecting on what it means to "carry your life high".
When do I raise someone or something high?
I considered:
raising a trophy or elevating a team member when there has been success
we carry our life high when we celebrate
raising someone up so they can climb a tree
or putting someone on our shoulders so they can see better
we carry our life high when we enable others
lifting my arms to peg out the washing
or lifting a pack above my head while fording a river
we carry our life high when we are good stewards
supporting others in a team building exercise
or crowd surfing in a mosh pit
we carry our life high when we trust and are trustworthy
highlighting a cause or an issue through protest
or petition or dedication to change
we carry our life high when we are selfless
when we raise a flag or a banner or an icon
we carry our life high when
we invite participation and engender a sense of belonging.
So how will I "carry my life high" today?
I will be a steward of my one and precious life.
I will celebrate the people and places around me.
I will trust others who enable me, and I will continue to enable and empower others.
I will try to live authentically.
by PEDRO SALINAS
I will carry my life high
I have been reflecting on what it means to "carry your life high".
When do I raise someone or something high?
I considered:
raising a trophy or elevating a team member when there has been success
we carry our life high when we celebrate
raising someone up so they can climb a tree
or putting someone on our shoulders so they can see better
we carry our life high when we enable others
lifting my arms to peg out the washing
or lifting a pack above my head while fording a river
we carry our life high when we are good stewards
supporting others in a team building exercise
or crowd surfing in a mosh pit
we carry our life high when we trust and are trustworthy
highlighting a cause or an issue through protest
or petition or dedication to change
we carry our life high when we are selfless
when we raise a flag or a banner or an icon
we carry our life high when
we invite participation and engender a sense of belonging.
So how will I "carry my life high" today?
I will be a steward of my one and precious life.
I will celebrate the people and places around me.
I will trust others who enable me, and I will continue to enable and empower others.
I will try to live authentically.
DAY 14: AT CROSSROADS BUMP INTO WONDER
NOT DAWDLING
by JAMES BROUGHTON
Another way to bump into wonder
I only ever dawdle or amble or linger or pause.
And in this counter-cultural slowness,
I bump into wonder:
the pansy growing in a crack in the footpath;
the old man walking his dog who simply wants a chat.
I am rarely sure or certain.
I dwell in the grey.
And in my doubt,
I bump into wonder:
the compassion that comes from putting myself in another's shoes;
the awe I feel when I look through different eyes.
I am not intrepid or brave or courageous.
And in my timidity,
I bump into wonder:
when the siren sounds and men and women set aside their lives to aid another,
a deep gratitude envelops me;
when a dying friend empowers and strengthens those around her.
I do not have discriminating wisdom as I am too attached to all that I have and know.
But in that attachment
I bump into wonder:
that I have just the right book for the right person when they most need it;
that I can share my collection of teapots and cups at a friend's birthday picnic.
I have stood at many crossroads
- I stand at one now -
and in my dawdling and doubt and timidity and clutter,
holding the truths that I know for sure (that I am known and I am loved),
I am prepared to bump into wonder.
And I do.
by JAMES BROUGHTON
Another way to bump into wonder
I only ever dawdle or amble or linger or pause.
And in this counter-cultural slowness,
I bump into wonder:
the pansy growing in a crack in the footpath;
the old man walking his dog who simply wants a chat.
I am rarely sure or certain.
I dwell in the grey.
And in my doubt,
I bump into wonder:
the compassion that comes from putting myself in another's shoes;
the awe I feel when I look through different eyes.
I am not intrepid or brave or courageous.
And in my timidity,
I bump into wonder:
when the siren sounds and men and women set aside their lives to aid another,
a deep gratitude envelops me;
when a dying friend empowers and strengthens those around her.
I do not have discriminating wisdom as I am too attached to all that I have and know.
But in that attachment
I bump into wonder:
that I have just the right book for the right person when they most need it;
that I can share my collection of teapots and cups at a friend's birthday picnic.
I have stood at many crossroads
- I stand at one now -
and in my dawdling and doubt and timidity and clutter,
holding the truths that I know for sure (that I am known and I am loved),
I am prepared to bump into wonder.
And I do.
DAY 15: SLUDGE BROWN
INSTRUCTIONS FOR PAINTERS AND POETS (excerpts)
by LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
The carrier of my true colours
There is a colour that is created when young children mix all the acrylic paints available.
Sludge brown.
That is the colour I paint myself.
Mongrel it appears with it's specks and streaks and revelation at the edges.
But it is a colour steeped with history and memory and promise.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
firebrand red
challenging injustice
evergreen
rebirth, regrowth, regeneration
infinity blue
the realm of dreams and visions and possibility
a hint of white
a reflection of all that is divine
There is a colour I paint myself.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
by LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
The carrier of my true colours
There is a colour that is created when young children mix all the acrylic paints available.
Sludge brown.
That is the colour I paint myself.
Mongrel it appears with it's specks and streaks and revelation at the edges.
But it is a colour steeped with history and memory and promise.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
firebrand red
challenging injustice
evergreen
rebirth, regrowth, regeneration
infinity blue
the realm of dreams and visions and possibility
a hint of white
a reflection of all that is divine
There is a colour I paint myself.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
DAY 16: WHAT IS MY SONG?
LINES FOR WINTER
by MARK STRAND
An immediate response to this poem was to ask,
"What is my song?"
I have a children's book by Denis and Sheila Linn titled "What is my song?"
and it relates an African fable ...
“There is a tribe in east Africa in which the art of true intimacy is fostered even before birth.
In this tribe, the birth date of a child is not counted from the day of its physical birth nor even the day of conception as in other village cultures.
For this tribe the birth date comes the first time the child is a thought in its mother’s mind.
Aware of her intention to conceive a child with a particular father,
the mother then goes off to sit alone under a tree.
There she sits and listens until she can hear the song of the child that she hopes to conceive.
Once she has heard it, she returns to her village and teaches it to the father so that they can sing it together as they make love, inviting the child to join them.
After the child is conceived, she sings it to the baby in her womb.
Then she teaches it to the old women and midwives of the village,
so that throughout the labor and at the miraculous moment of birth itself,
the child is greeted with its song.
After the birth all the villagers learn the song of their new member
and sing it to the child when it falls or hurts itself.
It is sung in times of triumph, or in rituals and initiations.
This song becomes a part of the marriage ceremony when the child is grown, and at the end of life,
his or her loved ones will gather around the deathbed and sing this song for the last time.”
A Path with Heart (Bantam Books, 1993), p. 334. Jack Kornfield
I often ask myself, "What is my song?"
What remains constant in me throughout all life's changes?
DAY 17: THE HEALING FOUNTAIN
THE FOUNTAIN
by DENISE LEVERTOV
What is the fountain I turn to in times of dryness?
Where do I go when that fountain is dry?
Who do I choose to guide me to my healing fountain?
Are there any signposts to show me the way?
by DENISE LEVERTOV
What is the fountain I turn to in times of dryness?
Where do I go when that fountain is dry?
Who do I choose to guide me to my healing fountain?
Are there any signposts to show me the way?
DAY 18: THE CHATTER OF SONGS THAT ARE TO COME
MANIFESTO: THE MAD FARMER LIBERATION FRONT (second half)
by WENDELL BERRY
Several lines of Wendell Berry's poem spoke to me -
"Ask the questions that have no answers"
"Go with your love to the fields"
and
"... hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come."
They spoke of mystery and attentiveness;
patience and promise;
life, death and rebirth;
and an invitation to live my one and precious life fully.
by WENDELL BERRY
Several lines of Wendell Berry's poem spoke to me -
"Ask the questions that have no answers"
"Go with your love to the fields"
and
"... hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come."
They spoke of mystery and attentiveness;
patience and promise;
life, death and rebirth;
and an invitation to live my one and precious life fully.
DAY 19: THE QUIET MYSTERY
PRIMARY WONDER
by DENISE LEVERTOV
What are the 'courtiers', the distractions,
that deflect me from 'the quiet mystery'?
This question doesn't just nudge and probe -it hurts.
I have avoided it -
perhaps for most of my life.
The roller-coaster ride of every day life.
Cataclysmic global events.
The search for a place of belonging.
My attachment to things,
and the things of others.
The peregrinations of my heart.
The shattering of illusion and hope.
The volatility of hormones and emotions.
The search for my true calling.
I find - now and then -
that by naming the problems,
dialoguing with them,
offering them companionship,
sharing their yoke,
placing them on the altar of my heart,
that they become less a distraction
and more another door through which I enter into 'the quiet mystery'.
by DENISE LEVERTOV
What are the 'courtiers', the distractions,
that deflect me from 'the quiet mystery'?
This question doesn't just nudge and probe -it hurts.
I have avoided it -
perhaps for most of my life.
The roller-coaster ride of every day life.
Cataclysmic global events.
The search for a place of belonging.
My attachment to things,
and the things of others.
The peregrinations of my heart.
The shattering of illusion and hope.
The volatility of hormones and emotions.
The search for my true calling.
I find - now and then -
that by naming the problems,
dialoguing with them,
offering them companionship,
sharing their yoke,
placing them on the altar of my heart,
that they become less a distraction
and more another door through which I enter into 'the quiet mystery'.
DAY 20: THE DEEP INNERNESS OF THINGS
LOVE POEMS TO GOD II, 22
by
RAINER MARIA RILKE
You are the future,
the red sky before sunrise
over the fields of time.
You are the cock's crow when night is done,
you are the dew and the bells of matins,
maiden, stranger, mother, death.
You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
that rise from the stuff of our days --
unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
like a forest we never knew.
You are the deep innerness of all things,
the last word that can never be spoken.
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.
Rainer Maria Rilke from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God,
translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy
Well, I broke the rules (if there were any to break!!)
"To each of us you reveal yourself differently".
A different doll using a template for a modular doll.
"You create yourself in ever-changing shapes"
Black
"You are the deep innerness of things"
Hair is knotted black lycra
with a bell -
a call to worship, to prayer, to pause,
an invitation to presence, to attentiveness, to gratitude.
"You are the dew and the bells of matins,"
With a beaded spiral -
generative, creative, fecund.
and a Use By tag on the back
to recall the finite nature of our days.
by
RAINER MARIA RILKE
You are the future,
the red sky before sunrise
over the fields of time.
You are the cock's crow when night is done,
you are the dew and the bells of matins,
maiden, stranger, mother, death.
You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
that rise from the stuff of our days --
unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
like a forest we never knew.
You are the deep innerness of all things,
the last word that can never be spoken.
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.
Rainer Maria Rilke from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God,
translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy
Well, I broke the rules (if there were any to break!!)
"To each of us you reveal yourself differently".
A different doll using a template for a modular doll.
"You create yourself in ever-changing shapes"
Black
"You are the deep innerness of things"
Hair is knotted black lycra
with a bell -
a call to worship, to prayer, to pause,
an invitation to presence, to attentiveness, to gratitude.
"You are the dew and the bells of matins,"
With a beaded spiral -
generative, creative, fecund.
and a Use By tag on the back
to recall the finite nature of our days.
DAY 21: STEPPING STONES THROUGH A POETRY PUDDLE
HAVING COME THIS FAR
by JAMES BROUGHTON
I want to "plash in a poetry puddle"!!!
A line that is joyous and playful
and delights the tongue!
The stepping stones were the idea that spoke to me.
Stepping stones may or may not be steadfast and secure
but they offer an invitation and a hope.
Stepping stones may or may not have a firm foundation
but they bridge a gap.
Stepping stones may or may not be what they appear
bu they encourage and enable a crossing to the other side.
Stepping stones may have a variety of shapes and sizes
which change with perspective and age.
Stepping stones may have a variety of surfaces -
slippery, coarse, slimy, pitted, worn, cracked -
but they may support my footfall for a moment.
Stepping stones may be the 'road less traveled'
but are a signpost for the heart.
I asked myself ...
Have I used people or philosophies or religions and institutions as stepping stones -
consciously or deliberately or unawares?
Have I avoided stepping stones
and trodden a safe path?
Have I looked longingly at stepping stones
but never dared?
Have I enabled others to use stepping stones by providing a hand hold
but never accepted it for myself?
There is always another way -
not better or worse -
just different, unique.
by JAMES BROUGHTON
I want to "plash in a poetry puddle"!!!
A line that is joyous and playful
and delights the tongue!
The stepping stones were the idea that spoke to me.
Stepping stones may or may not be steadfast and secure
but they offer an invitation and a hope.
Stepping stones may or may not have a firm foundation
but they bridge a gap.
Stepping stones may or may not be what they appear
bu they encourage and enable a crossing to the other side.
Stepping stones may have a variety of shapes and sizes
which change with perspective and age.
Stepping stones may have a variety of surfaces -
slippery, coarse, slimy, pitted, worn, cracked -
but they may support my footfall for a moment.
Stepping stones may be the 'road less traveled'
but are a signpost for the heart.
I asked myself ...
Have I used people or philosophies or religions and institutions as stepping stones -
consciously or deliberately or unawares?
Have I avoided stepping stones
and trodden a safe path?
Have I looked longingly at stepping stones
but never dared?
Have I enabled others to use stepping stones by providing a hand hold
but never accepted it for myself?
There is always another way -
not better or worse -
just different, unique.
DAY 22: PERHAPS THAT SOMEONE IS ME
BROTHERHOOD
by OCTAVIO PAZ
I found the concept of 'someone spelling me out' intriguing.
Someone narrating my life.
Someone re-writing my story.
Someone creating my memories.
I thought of the quote from Cornelia Funke
"Stories never really end ...
even if books like to pretend they do.
Stories always go on.
they don't end on the last page
any more than they begin on the first page."
My life existed before my human form
and will exist in some way after this form dies.
"I too am written" says Paz
but by whom?
someone spells me out
the word is embodied in me
writing my life
narrating my story
an invocation before I was born
an incantation after I die
someone spells me out
perhaps that someone is me
by OCTAVIO PAZ
I found the concept of 'someone spelling me out' intriguing.
Someone narrating my life.
Someone re-writing my story.
Someone creating my memories.
I thought of the quote from Cornelia Funke
"Stories never really end ...
even if books like to pretend they do.
Stories always go on.
they don't end on the last page
any more than they begin on the first page."
My life existed before my human form
and will exist in some way after this form dies.
"I too am written" says Paz
but by whom?
someone spells me out
the word is embodied in me
writing my life
narrating my story
an invocation before I was born
an incantation after I die
someone spells me out
perhaps that someone is me
DAY 23: THE ART OF BLESSING
THE ART OF BLESSING THE DAY
by MARGE PIERCY
The most powerful tool.
I found the word "curse" was incongruous in this invitation to "bless whatever you can".
The word 'curse' brings to my mind
venom and vitriol; violence and vendetta; hatred and hurt.
If I "pick up a tool",
I want it to be an attentive heart, a grateful heart,
a humble heart, a courageous heart,
a listening ear, a clear mind,
that quells the indignation and wrath;
the fear and frustration,
and allows me to witness to LOVE.
When I am "ready to make it new",
I hope to be armed with a generosity of spirit;
forbearance and perseverance;
and a desire to engage in mutual charity.
The art of blessing is creative, not accursed.
It is nurturing and enabling and miraculous.
"Bless whatever you can"
including that we want to change.
For me, that is the most powerful tool.
by MARGE PIERCY
The most powerful tool.
I found the word "curse" was incongruous in this invitation to "bless whatever you can".
The word 'curse' brings to my mind
venom and vitriol; violence and vendetta; hatred and hurt.
If I "pick up a tool",
I want it to be an attentive heart, a grateful heart,
a humble heart, a courageous heart,
a listening ear, a clear mind,
that quells the indignation and wrath;
the fear and frustration,
and allows me to witness to LOVE.
When I am "ready to make it new",
I hope to be armed with a generosity of spirit;
forbearance and perseverance;
and a desire to engage in mutual charity.
The art of blessing is creative, not accursed.
It is nurturing and enabling and miraculous.
"Bless whatever you can"
including that we want to change.
For me, that is the most powerful tool.
DAY 24: LIZZIE'S POU
THE LAYERS
by STANLEY KUNITZ
The layers of my life
build upon each other:
some are thin - short-lived;
some are over-shadowed;
some are messy, complicated.
Always I was loved
but did I love myself?
Do I love myself?
The third age approaches -
what possibilities?
What will be revealed?
What will I reveal?
How will I be transformed?
Parker J Palmer wrote of the layers,
"Yes, all of this is me,
and all of this has helped make me who I am."
I will honour all that has helped make me who I am.
by STANLEY KUNITZ
The layers of my life
build upon each other:
some are thin - short-lived;
some are over-shadowed;
some are messy, complicated.
Always I was loved
but did I love myself?
Do I love myself?
The third age approaches -
what possibilities?
What will be revealed?
What will I reveal?
How will I be transformed?
Parker J Palmer wrote of the layers,
"Yes, all of this is me,
and all of this has helped make me who I am."
I will honour all that has helped make me who I am.
DAY 25: THE NIGHT GARDENER
|
WINTER SOLSTICE
by ELLEN BASS A night gardener I used to resent the night: the struggle and strain to get to sleep, the struggle and strain to stay asleep so I could struggle and strain through another day. I would turn over and over like a rotisserie hen, bemoan the slightest noise or crinkle in the sheet. But now I am a night gardener. I tend the night nursery. Blessing seeds are fertilised and mulched. Thoughts and worries sink into the rich dark beds of the subconscious. Spindly and unhealthy growth is pruned and culled. I keep a written record of the labours and fruits of my nightly cultivation before they flee into my forgettery. Then, I let the dog out to chase the neighbourhood cats, gaze at the night sky, listen for the haunting call of the morepork, feel the night air fill my lungs and chill my toes, take a sip of spring water, and snuggle beneath the sheet ready to be transformed once more in my night garden. I am a night gardener and the fruit of this nightly toil is the paradox of a restful, creative, blessing-filled day. |
DAY 26: MS. DISCOMBOBULUS
THINGS TO THINK
by ROBERT BLY
For the past 25 days,
I have been invited to be attentive, mindful, aware;
to bless the ordinary events and people and places of my life;
to grow in appreciation and gratitude.
This was balm for a caged heart.
Now, I am being exhorted to be open to possibility,
which has got me out of sorts.
Robert Bly in 'Things I Think'
demands that I engage with the world,
asks me to shatter glass perceptions,
encourages me to unveil the potential in myself,
suggests that I entertain the notion that nothing is ordinary,
and invites me to hold my burdens and expectations lightly.
But perhaps this is the red thread:
the one that connects through time and place.
The possibility of changing the world through blessing.
The possibility of changing my world through imagination.
The possibility of honouring the human being, not the human doing.
The possibility of creating a heart room, not a war room.
For 25 days I have been tended and nurtured and equipped.
I am grateful.
It has prepared me to walk hand-in-hand with possibility
as an intimate soul-companion.
by ROBERT BLY
For the past 25 days,
I have been invited to be attentive, mindful, aware;
to bless the ordinary events and people and places of my life;
to grow in appreciation and gratitude.
This was balm for a caged heart.
Now, I am being exhorted to be open to possibility,
which has got me out of sorts.
Robert Bly in 'Things I Think'
demands that I engage with the world,
asks me to shatter glass perceptions,
encourages me to unveil the potential in myself,
suggests that I entertain the notion that nothing is ordinary,
and invites me to hold my burdens and expectations lightly.
But perhaps this is the red thread:
the one that connects through time and place.
The possibility of changing the world through blessing.
The possibility of changing my world through imagination.
The possibility of honouring the human being, not the human doing.
The possibility of creating a heart room, not a war room.
For 25 days I have been tended and nurtured and equipped.
I am grateful.
It has prepared me to walk hand-in-hand with possibility
as an intimate soul-companion.
DAY 27: DANCE AND LAUGHTER
THE DANCING
by GERALD STERN
Ecstatic moments and experiences
are rare occurrences.
They are not necessarily extra-ordinary -
simply memorable, relevant, personal.
But they can be pivotal in our lives.
When poverty or abuse or violence or depression
subvert or overwhelm us,
memories of the ecstatic moments lift us up,
hold us, companion us, give us hope.
When you have nothing but people
and memory of traditions, culture, story and shared experiences,
then we use those to transform
the ordinary into the extra-ordinary.
Like dance,
when you rock and roll and whirl in a frenzy
and become one with the movement
and with all those who have danced before
and will never dance again.
And laughter,
when tears roll down your cheeks
and your belly hurts
and you can't speak without bursting into laughter again.
And none of it makes sense to any one else.
But it transforms and transports us
in time and space and soul.
by GERALD STERN
Ecstatic moments and experiences
are rare occurrences.
They are not necessarily extra-ordinary -
simply memorable, relevant, personal.
But they can be pivotal in our lives.
When poverty or abuse or violence or depression
subvert or overwhelm us,
memories of the ecstatic moments lift us up,
hold us, companion us, give us hope.
When you have nothing but people
and memory of traditions, culture, story and shared experiences,
then we use those to transform
the ordinary into the extra-ordinary.
Like dance,
when you rock and roll and whirl in a frenzy
and become one with the movement
and with all those who have danced before
and will never dance again.
And laughter,
when tears roll down your cheeks
and your belly hurts
and you can't speak without bursting into laughter again.
And none of it makes sense to any one else.
But it transforms and transports us
in time and space and soul.
DAY 28: A SMILE SO BIG
SHOVELING SNOW WITH BUDDHA
by BILLY COLLINS
My kind of friend
The Buddha shovels the snow with perfect attention -
and teaches me eloquently about my life's journey.
He demonstrates that the process is the destination -
that with patience and serenity and perseverance
I will overcome any obstacles in my path,
I will reveal what lies within.
He shows me that I must use the right tools -
a 'thin blade' for shoveling snow,
a wise counselor to give comfort in my emotional winter.
He gently encourages me to fully immerse myself in the present -
to get out into world, no matter how unwelcoming,
to participate even when 'the season is wrong'.
He gives me permission to reward myself -
with 'cards' and 'hot chocolate' after shoveling snow,
with thoughts of spring and sun and cherry blossoms,
poetry and art to soothe the grey spirit.
He says that silence is okay -
that within the cacophony there are 'pockets of silence'
which renew and refresh and invigorate.
He reminds me that it is alright to be different -
"me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence',
that it is our difference which fulfills and completes us,
enables and empowers us to become who we are called to be.
I might shovel snow with Buddha again -
he is my kind of friend.
by BILLY COLLINS
My kind of friend
The Buddha shovels the snow with perfect attention -
and teaches me eloquently about my life's journey.
He demonstrates that the process is the destination -
that with patience and serenity and perseverance
I will overcome any obstacles in my path,
I will reveal what lies within.
He shows me that I must use the right tools -
a 'thin blade' for shoveling snow,
a wise counselor to give comfort in my emotional winter.
He gently encourages me to fully immerse myself in the present -
to get out into world, no matter how unwelcoming,
to participate even when 'the season is wrong'.
He gives me permission to reward myself -
with 'cards' and 'hot chocolate' after shoveling snow,
with thoughts of spring and sun and cherry blossoms,
poetry and art to soothe the grey spirit.
He says that silence is okay -
that within the cacophony there are 'pockets of silence'
which renew and refresh and invigorate.
He reminds me that it is alright to be different -
"me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence',
that it is our difference which fulfills and completes us,
enables and empowers us to become who we are called to be.
I might shovel snow with Buddha again -
he is my kind of friend.
DAY 29: IN THE DEEP CORE OF MY HEART
|
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS I cried. It is as if Yeats put a probe into the core of my heart and wrote these words for what he found there: a heartfelt desire to "live alone" and "have some peace there". I cried and cried and cried. In my deep heart's core, I know I have been heard. |
|
DAY 30: I TOUCH AND I FEEL
I COME HOME WANTING TO TOUCH EVERYONE
by STEPHEN DUNN
I love to touch and to feel
I love to touch my breakfast mug
and feel the warmth of the liquid enliven my spirit.
I love to touch my freshly laundered pillowslip
and feel the night invite me to sleep.
I love to touch the wooden floorboards with my toes
and feel them support me in my home.
I love to touch a fallen rose petal
and feel its silken softness caress my soul.
I love to touch the title page of a new book
and feel the anticipation build up.
I love to touch the worn heirloom pounamu (greenstone)
and feel the love of my mother embrace me.
I love to touch a fine cotton thread
and feel it slide between my fingers on its way to stitch.
I love to touch the sand at Maketu Beach
and feel it drag at my feet as the tide rushes out.
I love to touch the spring pegs in my peg bag
and feel the tension come and go as I hang out the washing.
I love to touch a dandelion seed head
and feel a part of its dispersal.
I love to touch the soft face of a kuia (old woman)
and feel the wisdom of a life lived well.
I love to touch my daughter's head
and feel her eyelashes give me a 'butterfly kiss' on my cheek.
I love to touch and to feel.
by STEPHEN DUNN
I love to touch and to feel
I love to touch my breakfast mug
and feel the warmth of the liquid enliven my spirit.
I love to touch my freshly laundered pillowslip
and feel the night invite me to sleep.
I love to touch the wooden floorboards with my toes
and feel them support me in my home.
I love to touch a fallen rose petal
and feel its silken softness caress my soul.
I love to touch the title page of a new book
and feel the anticipation build up.
I love to touch the worn heirloom pounamu (greenstone)
and feel the love of my mother embrace me.
I love to touch a fine cotton thread
and feel it slide between my fingers on its way to stitch.
I love to touch the sand at Maketu Beach
and feel it drag at my feet as the tide rushes out.
I love to touch the spring pegs in my peg bag
and feel the tension come and go as I hang out the washing.
I love to touch a dandelion seed head
and feel a part of its dispersal.
I love to touch the soft face of a kuia (old woman)
and feel the wisdom of a life lived well.
I love to touch my daughter's head
and feel her eyelashes give me a 'butterfly kiss' on my cheek.
I love to touch and to feel.
DAY 31: THE EXPLORER ARRIVES AT THE PLACE WHERE SHE STARTED
EXCERPT FROM LITTLE GIDDING
by T.S.ELIOT
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
by T.S.ELIOT
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
By now, I had run out of reasonably sized pieces of sheeting.
So I gathered together several bits and strips, and
sewed them together to create fabric large enough to lay out the pattern pieces -
"And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well"
After stitching, I decided not to turn the body.
Instead I washed it vigorously to encourage soft frayed edges,
like a care-worn traveller.
I kept these seams exposed -
a raggedy, bitsy assemblage.
I sewed on a spare hand over the abdomen with a running stitch,
and then created a spiral over this with a red running stitch -
"And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started"
So I gathered together several bits and strips, and
sewed them together to create fabric large enough to lay out the pattern pieces -
"And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well"
After stitching, I decided not to turn the body.
Instead I washed it vigorously to encourage soft frayed edges,
like a care-worn traveller.
I kept these seams exposed -
a raggedy, bitsy assemblage.
I sewed on a spare hand over the abdomen with a running stitch,
and then created a spiral over this with a red running stitch -
"And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started"
WANT TO EXPLORE MORE?
For more detail about how each doll in this series or piece of textile art was created,
visit here
For more detail about how each doll in this series or piece of textile art was created,
visit here
