Just Down and In?


'Down and In'
is the nucleus,
and progenitor
of Everything.

Leave planning, 
pruning, and 
training cordons
to another, 
invisible hand. 

Life is its own 
intelligence, 
and guidance 
system.

Dropping
into the underworld, 
to the bottom 
of your own tap root, 
tending the subsoil, 
is enormous.

At once
an act 
of profound trust,
audacious,
unfathomable;
and an agonising,
annihilating 
surrender.

A movement
exquisite and
in keeping with
the immense cycles 
of the entire 
Universe. 

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Becoming River

Body responds as unspeakable longing,
a wretched ‘almost’ pulls
on my organs, belly and breasts

in an urge to merge ache for a
Death throe surrender 
to the heart of the River -
visceral and holy communion 
with a vast, formless, 
Godless stream of souls. 
Abysmal thirst
or sheer force of will

could never serve,
and a lifetime too brief 
to drink deeply enough
to Live as or die to
this River.

Currents,
seen and unseen, 

invisible realms of psychic River, 
relentless; 
eroding my imagined self.
Shame, turgid habits,
the relationship I have to
the things of this world;
all relinquished
with past and future
to a deluge of 
present moment; 
running 
not past but through me, 
not beyond but in me,
a truth pledge, 
a promise 
of peace.
 

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The Long-Drop


Piety shits on holy things:

Fuels rage and pronounces judgement on what is not yet understood,
Snatches greedily at the beautiful and mysterious 
With an avid hunger for status and control. 

Pay attention to those moments when you’re 'in the right'
Because this means someone, something, somewhere else, must be 'wrong'.
And you risk becoming a missionary attempting to convert the indigenous.

(Peoples who are bonded to the landscape in ways we cannot fathom,
Whose languages don't recognise 'I' or ‘you or me' or 'mine or yours';
Beings inhabiting LifeDeath/LightShade/BothAnd in every instant;
Vast entities of deep relationship beyond separation, 
Polar opposites and irreconcilable truths)

Pillars of society, appointed intermediaries of God, 
Political and educational figures, righteous activists, 
Humanitarian do-gooders and campaigners for equality:
Beware of occupying that same tower you're trying to topple: 

It's a long drop.

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~ Ouroboros ~


       Ouroboros
in cosmic union                      holes and 
another dimension                                      protuberances at
or teleportation to                                                       the top and bottom
communication                                                                         of the organism
are a device for                                                                                male and female
of a magnet                                                                                   connectors
negative poles                                                                    at both ends
 and positive                                                       can be docked
like one’s phone                                either way
           
charged : plugged in    

                             

Ourobourous by Linda Hill

                                                                               OMNIA UNUS EST The Ouroboros “all is one” by Linda Hill
                                                                                          (https://theredseeds.wordpress.com/alchemy/)
              
                                                               

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One Moment, Young Lover


In case you're assuming I'm especially qualified
In matters of the heart,
And workings of the flesh,
Or somehow more deft to lead the dance
Between intimacy and passion,
Longing and consummation,
Pleasure, pain,
And Heaven and hell
You may be right, all that could be true…

But should you for a moment imagine,
I could possibly know anything
About the intricately spun and beguiling insides of you,
How life desires to play through you,
Through this distinct and matchless union that is I and you,
And the fresh new paradigm waiting to dawn
In this numinous, wild, and beloved present moment
Then set that dim thought aside...

Let us both become artless,
Bold in our vulnerability,
And simply let innocence enlighten us.

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This Is My Body

I refute the cultural determinant that tells me
how I should Look to be attractive.
How on Earth can I be in my body
if I'm Looking at me from over there,
and through somebody else's eyes?

Not Looking from the outside in,
comfortable in my skin,
is how I Feel.

Comfortable and relaxed and soft and delicious.
I'm attractive to myself.
I attract My own attention.
A powerful magnet that increases its momentum.

My awareness brought inside,
I am present,
To how it Feels,
To be in relationship,
With the world 
From this side of the lens,
From inside the vessel,
From this side of the bars.

But I'm not trapped
This is the Freedom side!


I Feel from the inside:
Folds of flesh,

Creases and scars
Of a life lived close-up,
Honest in its imperfection.

A distorted tree,
Hyper-real with living wisdom,
It supports an entire forest of diversity.
Creatures thrive upon it. 

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‘Touched’


(For Abi, who's longing for contact and pining for a pet with hairs on) 

But what about Woodlice? 
I'll bet there's some waiting for you
in the musty hollow of that rotten log just outside the back door.

And Worms? 
They're tactile. And immediately 
beneath the surface of the soft sweet muck in your garden.

What about that Spider,
quivering in the cobweb you’ve been gazing at
above the bed, wondering if you’ll ever get to the cleaning? 

And those dust mites, 
imperceptibly munching your dead flesh as you lie there, 
hungry and homesick, removed from this sensational world?

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Cocoon


Diving for cover 
beneath my deepest doubts
as the absolute and final certainty,
this dreadful cloister a sole retreat 
from the crushing responsibility of being;
and gripping onto old life for grim death 
in hopeless bargaining for eternal safety,
airless meagre and unessential;
I am suspended impossibly 
between the suffocating sanctuary of prayer
and a terrible rebirth into something greater.

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Women's Hearth ~ Spinning Sisters

Spinning Image                                                                                                            The Call by Charlotte Santall
                                                                                            (https://www.instagram.com/charlottewhierds/)

 

The Women gather, and draw close around the fire,
With rapt attention, they talk and they listen. 
They have a language all their own; a unique dialect of sighs and signs 
rarely spoken in these times, or heard by the ears of others, or in the light of the day.

They speak of life and death; of what has been lost, forsaken and dispossessed:
Kinships; ancestors; wildness and belonging to the land.
They share visions, augur destinies and dreamings and the forgotten mysteries of the Moon.

And as they share, time distorts and the earth spins more slowly on its axis,
As they sit and they talk; and they talk and they sit; seeing inward…
suspended in timeless space; held by a spiral existence...

And the potency of their sharing, the absoluteness of their passion and pain,
dignity and disgrace; their ecstasy, emptiness, sorrow and rage
are distilled between silence and laughter and longing and tender heartfelt care.

They howl and sing and bleed and weep in the truth of their being and becoming.
With fearless presence and devotion, they sift through the sea-drift of their hearts.

Armours dissolve, masks melt; knots loosen and unravel, 
As they spin a golden lace-work reality as beautiful as the lines on their faces.
It is a strange and wondrous alchemy of body wisdom and soul song...

The Women weave their sparkling rainbow essence 
into a new paradigm of archetypes and deities; ethereal and manifest...
And what was once thought to be dead is brought to life,
What lay sleeping is awoken, in themselves and in the world…

Grandmother by Charlottte Santall                                                                                                          Grandmother by Charlotte Santall
                                                                                            (https://www.instagram.com/charlottewhierds/)

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Medicine Walk Home

Lessons come in turning leaves,
ripening Rowan berries,
a gathering wind,
and the unquestioning motion of water.

Small way-side flowers fading,
delicate grasses gone to seed;
clouds, birds and all the creatures and songs of nature
emerge in time and tide.
No forcing, or holding back, 
n
or striving to be any other
than what they already are, 

grounded and complete in their being.

Everything around me,
whatever my senses can experience,
is present in full moment and magnitude;
and perfect counter-balance.
Pausing to absorb the Sun
through a kindly gap in the trees,
I am allowed to lose the edges of myself
to an unbounded moment,
where the Earth's insistent becoming

is silent and surrendered in its sovereignty.
Here, where home always was.

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Heart Meditation

Ghosts & shadows
of my heart
live
like angry families
in crowded tenements,
and
lonely people
in high rise flats
who can only gaze
at the marvellous view
but have no space inside to play.

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Earth ~ a fragment

And a change comes over Earth as the stones begin to find their long-lost sound.
As more of us are still enough, for long enough to listen,
their resonance converges into a distinct and palpable rhythm,
a long low rumble, slow as lichen growing;
the stone ancestors entrust to us their ancient song of magic.
As it coils and shudders like dragons underground.
Stirring to the memory in our bones
we
 become echo sounders,
bells that thrum to the knell of mysterious rites and traditions;
deep and silent secrets that lie buried and forgotten
in the landscape of our flesh.

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The Scullery Maid (soul retrieval)


She lived in a dark, damp cupboard under the stairs, with the brooms and shovels and other items of drudgery.

She slept, and sometimes crawled in there to hide from the dread of her existence, for undoubtedly, there was no escape. Invisible and of no consequence; without possessions or meagre means to take care of herself, she had nowhere to go and nothing with which to get anywhere.

She never knew what it was to own a thing, least of all herself, nor had she any sense of belonging to a place or persons meaningful to her. Sovereignty, agency: those constructs were alien. Besides, it would be terrifying to own or care for anything, because then it would surely be taken away. She didn't know 'choice', had never experienced making a decision; she was owned and enslaved from the moment of birth to the end of her short, miserable life. Her pale skin was black with dirt and blue from the cold, and black and blue and red with bruises and sores from scrubbing rough floors and relentless beatings. Her eyes had grown dead with the brutality. 

I found her, crouched in that cupboard in her thin dress, legs exposed, feet bare, half-starved, half-frozen, and so weary she could barely comprehend the presence of a kindly stranger. We sat together and I listened as she communicated silently through her pain and withdrawal. All that soul needed was a witness, and to know she wasn't alone. We sat together, simply and for a long time, with nothing more to be done. In time, I gave her a warm blanket, which happened to be royal blue, thick and heavy, and made of modern-day fleece material, incongruous in that spectacle of Victorian squalor. 

As she began to relax and could bear contact, I washed her broken feet, brushed her lank hair and laid her, in a clean nightdress, on a soft feather bed with cotton sheets. She lay curled up, her lifeless eyes turned away from connection, closed down through unendurable human suffering, even to kindness.

Eventually, I climbed into the bed next to her, moving slowly closer so she could feel me there, but could barely touch, so sensitised and raw was she; though she could perceive my presence, was aware of the warmth from my body and somehow able to absorb tenderness obliquely through the field between us. It was the only way possible to begin to approach the hurt. I asked her, silently, if she was ready to leave, to go to the light; but I already knew, in her eye the faintest glimmer, she needed to stay for a while, if only to receive a moment of humanity. 

Now, she is healing as I am healing, we are healing each other, and in her way, she is teaching me how to love. 

                                 ***

This is a description of an experience of soul retrieval. It happened spontaneously; unplanned, but undeniable. My reason for sharing here isn't to evoke sentimentality or an attempt to glorify the everlasting nature of the spirit, but to express in some way, what happens as a result of unendurable human suffering; how the absence of humanity results in damage that has consequences to our entire chain of existence, past, present, future. 

This experience showed me that it is possible to heal from the trauma of unendurable pain and suffering, no matter how far we drift, however unreachable we become. That we can learn how to love, how to receive, and how to heal. That the most powerful healing tool is kindness, a gentle laser that can melt the toughest emotional scar tissue. How we deny subtle levels of existence because they're seemingly invisible and defy consensus reality.

How life functions in space/time and has cognisance of everywhere and everywhen; each moment that ever is and was, unceasing, coexisting, and accessible through the eye of now. 

That soul retrieval, psychic healing and integration of past life trauma can occur, in a nano-second. 

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