Seasons of the Soul

My Friend, Alix

 

My dear friend, Alix Taylor Robertson, passed over this year on my birthday. We had been very close, and her passing was a great loss. She was not only a true mystic, but an incredible human being.

Alix has left a legacy of work behind that would make anyone proud. Yet, I’m sure she felt to the end that she hadn’t done all she could do. She thought of herself as a difficult case, and we laughed often about our mutual rebellious attitudes to what we felt we were “supposed” to do.

Alix wrote several books, including her beautiful autobiography, A Door Ajar,  and in her last few years turned to poetry. I’d like to share some of them with you here as a way of honoring the lady I hold very dear to my heart.w= 

Rumi

“There’s a field,” Rumi said.     

“I’ll meet you there.”                    

I waited and waited.                     

I watched the corn blowing        

in the next field making its dry   Rustling sound,                        

And watched the geese              

Walking away from the distant pond.                                          

I even thought I saw a leaf         

turn yellow on the little oak tree.                                          

Rumi never came.                     

And no poetry sprouted from the ground                                      

Or blew in with the breeze.

 

The Light

Where are you going? He asked.      

Into the light, I said.                       

Where is the light? He asked.        

It’s around you, around me, ahead of us.                                             

I don’t see it, he said.                      

 Keep walking, I said.                     

 Can you see the light? He asked.      

Yes, I said. I can see its edge        

And I’m heading for its center.         

How will I ever see the light? He asked.                                            

 Close your eyes, I said.

 

 I Heard A Voice

I heard a voice.                                 

It said “Bee”?                                

It said, “Be.” You know                 

 Bees can do things I cannot do.     

They take something from inside themselves                                    

And something from outside—         

The pollen from the flower —        

And make something totally new, 

Totally different, something          

That was not there before.             

I cannot do this. But the voice said, “Be”.                                  

 And I threw the doors of my heart open                                              

And light flowed in,                      

And something I did not know was inside                                    

 Flowed out like honey.

 

 God speed, dear friend!

From Seasons of the Soul print edition, Summer 2005

The Lizard

When it was very hot                                  

The lizard used to crawl up the rock beside me.

He would not move for long stretches of time.   

I would stare at the huge mountains before us,

Then feel very small.

I would place my hand on  the lizard                                                      

And he would move a little, then go still again.

And I, too, would go still again.                  

Such little things we were, the two of us,        

Enfolded in all that incandescent grandeur.

~Alix Taylor

Poem from The Kabir Book

Don’t go outside your house to see flowers.

My friend, don’t bother with that excursion.

Inside your body there are flowers.

One flower has a thousand petals. 

That will do for a place to sit.

Sitting there you will have a glimpse of beauty

inside the body and out of it,

before gardens and after gardens.

~The Kabir Book

Robert Bly version

The Swan

This laboring through what is still undone, as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way, is like the awkward walking of the swan. And dying—to let go, no longer feel the solid ground we stand on every day– is like his anxious letting himself fall Into the water, which receives him gently and which, as though with reverence and joy, draws back past him in streams on either side; while infinitely silent and aware, in his full majesty and ever more indifferent, he condescends to glide.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

The Little Bird

The little bird whose wings were clipped

did not know how to fly

Each time the wings grew

they were clipped again

til the bird would not even try.

 

It struggled alone on top of the ground

where it was able to survive

But it saw the other birds free in the sky

where they’d soar and glide and dive.

 

The bird felt cheated, afraid and alone

It wanted a second chance

So through care and support

from the creatures around

The little bird learned how to dance.

 

It seemed a small thing for the bird to do

but it planted a seed of hope

for the little bird knew that with each small step

it was growing and leaning to cope.

 

After a time, warm and secure

it wasn’t afraid to try

And through the amazing

         power of Love

The little bird learned how to fly

 

~KJ

What Immeasurable Love and Grace You Are

 

In All Time

In All Your Being

In All that IS YOU

Sun Shines Upon You with

    Warmth

    Nourishment

    Light

    Blessings

Absorb All the Light bestowed upon You with

    Grace

    Delight

    Joy

See New Ways of Thankfulness

Blessing upon Blessing upon Blessing

Know to the Depth

out to the Breadth

and Your Height

and within All the Dimensions

of Your Personhood

and Your Humanity

and Your Divinity

what Immeasurable LOVE and GRACE YOU ARE

~Rev. Jill Honodel

Thoughts Atop A Mountain

 

Majestic, strong, and powerful these mountains stand,

Undaunted by countless yesterdays,

Disdainful of numberless tomorrows.

The storms of time

Have battered deep crevasses into their sides,

yet they remain erect.

Proudly lifting head and shoulders heavenward.

 

Each new onslaught is met with fortitude,

never do they relinquish their place in life's battle.

Yielding to the elements,

Yet never vanquished;

Giving their splendor to the world,

But removed from the world's infamy.

 

Alone with these mountains I stand,

And my senses list to their wisdom.

Here is no dream...no unreality;

The spellbinding beauty of this vast empire

Is life in its purest form

 

I hold my body against the jagged cliffs,

And my being greedily envelops

The far-reaching summits...the precipitous depths.

I feel a stirring in my breast;

The cold fingers of despair slowly release

Their stifling grip from my wounded spirit.

Upward, upward,

To the pinnacles it soars with rediscovered courage,

And my soul is free!

~Gudrun Silva

Peace Begins With Me

I AM the serenity of a cool, calm lake.
I AM the strength of an old oak tree.
I AM the sweet music of a songbird.
I AM the fountain that sings with delight.
I AM the candle that burns brightly in the darkness.
I AM the nurturing embrace of a loving mother.
I AM the teardrop of joy.
I AM the ripple of laughter from an innocent child.
I AM the hand that reaches out to hold another in compassion.
I AM the heart that believes with faith.
I AM the flame of eternal Love.
I AM the pillar of Truth.
I AM the inner knowing of Oneness.
I AM the Love of the Creator.
I AM you, who is me.
I AM THAT I AM.
I AM LOVE.

I AM PEACE.

~Author unknown

Miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses towards the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the ledge of the water Or stand under the trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring, These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same, To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there? ~Walt Whitman

Transformation

Oh, wondrous splendor!
Leaves as pages of our lives
falling into space of void,
fodder for renewal.

Needing nothing but the flask
for filling up the empty cider.
Stinging nettles, prickly pears...
Life’s rose amidst the thorns.

“Ah”...he cries, though vanquished by a distant foe.
Now...the herald angels sing
 Hosanna...Oh, on High!
And so they hover...
Golden wingspan crossing wisdom’s gate.
   
“Is it too late?” the young man cries beside the road.
Never too late...Never too late.

The doors of heaven fling wide open
Bidding Welcome...

The Myth of Separation gone.

~Kathleen Jacoby