Again And Again...

So once again I lift my eyes to view the scattered morning.
And find it welcoming, but waiting for my constant hand
To sort the piles of tasks and errands into some coherence
And somehow make of this day something worthy of remembering.
There is a feeling as I look around me at the chaos
That all I do will matter, yet not be the final act.

It's up to me, and I can organize the way each act
Of mine fits into the great plan to make a stab, this morning,
At once again subduing, making order out of chaos.
And usually, I do the thing that comes first to my hand,
The ritual of coffee, somehow, every day, remembering
That it's the steaming cup that will persuade me to coherence.

And so, what will I do with it? This morning, my coherence
Will lead me to the laptop, and the satisfying act
Of answering my e-mail. No, I have not ceased remembering
That there are also dishes, since today is Monday morning.
The soap is there, the scrubber, and in just a bit, my hand
Will grasp the stuff of housewifery, and end the sticky chaos.

But there is always, every day, the looming larger chaos
Of dusting, floors and cupboards, and, defying all coherence,
The repetitious threnody of chores which by my hand
Were all done yesterday. It seems no matter how the act
Of energetic organizing zips through every morning,
That it returns next day. I know I did it. I'm remembering

This same pile of newspapers, and I also am remembering
The weeds and dirty laundry, the same overwhelming chaos
That I organized just yesterday. Why is it, every morning,
Just as if no one had made a single effort towards coherence?
It seems a waste of energy, since each and every act
Is just to do again next day. Perhaps I'll stay my hand

And sit back down. The book I am now reading in my hand,
The stretch of tired luxury. I close my eyes, remembering
Just how it feels to sit at ease, to not be pushed to act
At all, but simply BE, and once again explore the chaos
Of my own scattered thoughts, tumbled out of all coherence
By the whirlwind of disorder to which I awoke this morning.

And now I close my hand around the book. Forget the chaos.
It's time I was remembering that any small coherence
Will be my act of willing to enjoy this fresh new morning.

Silence...

SILENCE... ...so different from "quiet"... there is texture in silence, and movement, and feeling... there is tension and release the inside of a large, cool sphere, green water, blue rain, gold light... the whirr of business... busy.....ness.... all the movement echoes.... all the strings are muted..... "hush" is such a pretty word, a crystal word... you can pour light out of your hands like water... ...you touch air... ..you breathe life.... the sun shines through your hand, and the bones slide and the blood dances.... ...conscious of me--- i --- small letter.... a separate creation-- a part of Creation... all moving and real and Alive... and all that is... ....Is.... unafraid of the wasps, as neither of us intrudes.... they breathe their universe, i mine... we share life... we notice, but do not mark, one another.... ...the mechanical world... not intrusion, completion.... an airplane right as a birdsong in time, space, silence to hear them both.... ...one speaks to the world in silence only... words retard communication.... the stillness shimmers, strings of silk... the sound of one heart beating is the pulse of the world..... ******** 1984, Dallas, Texas

Moon Mother

We stood last night, a circle of kindred, and watched Her

Coming out from behind the crag of Mt. Olympus

Not shy, this globe of glowing silver light,

But plangent, full and bursting, assertive, a Presence.

She was THERE....and we....?

We stood, cups in hand, watching the unveiling

Sight seen so often, never taken for granted,

Her bounteous presence once again with us,

And yet new, unexpected, ever vivid and compelling

like the air you breathe every morning,

essential and appreciated,

though often unremarked.

But we had to mark Her, this night, this appearance...

It was like the processional of an ancient Queen,

Panoplied in splendor, golden, coruscating, glinting with awareness...

She would not be unregarded.

And we raised our cups, and honored Her, and bowed....

None of us, we urban-dwelling Pagans,

even for a moment thinking of Science or Technology,

But all of us awed once again, as our race has been from time immemorial,

By the living presence of the Lady,

The Mother of Lights,

In Her silvered radiance.

She is a Mystery, and we watch in awe,

As her face reveals itself to us again and again,

Always for the first time.

We drank deep, mead we had made together, and savored the moment...

Ancient wine, ancient Lady, ancient mystery of craft and kith,

Loving our Presence here in timelessness

within the globe of silver light,

And still so essentially present in our own world,

The hiss of cars on the motorway resonating with the pulse of crashing surf,

Recalled in genetic memory, though never experienced.

And at that moment, we recalled

Or thought for the first time,

Of all the Hidden Children,

over our land and other lands

All of them watching

Seeing Her in radiance,

The same glowing silver face

The same breathless awakening,

The same Awe,

Time and place compelling different circumstances

But all kindred, honoring the Mother of All.

We lifted our glasses again,

Gazing ever upward,

And felt our connection

To those unknown faces,

Perhaps also raising glasses in tribute.

We drank to them

A toast to "the Others"

Her other children,

Those we will never see,

But whom we Know,

More intimately, perhaps, than those

with whom we brush careless shoulders

In offices and stores

Where her face does not shine.

We connected

In moonlight

to all those we may never see,

But whose hearts and minds are kin to us

because of Her shining silver radiance,

And She smiled.

Aisling the Bard, 2005