Emergence: sound and light. Thank-offerings in the journeying of David Whyte.
Sometimes, oftentimes perhaps, it is our close friends who help us give voice to what we most need to say in a day – or in a lifetime. And other times when, even if they feel they can not quite, a friend might tell us: ‘but I know someone who can’ …
Thank you, dear Lori, for all the times when you absolutely know: thank you for sharing David Whyte’s articulating the prayer of The Burren – that great and Ancient windswept bedrock in the soul of all of us. Yes, thank you, Sound. And thanks to you, too, Light.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket Never let it fade away Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket Save it for a rainy day
Paul Vance and Lee Pockriss
I’ve been pondering the limitations by which my worldview is sometimes blinkered – and I try a movement test to see if I’m stiff-necked.
Joy of joys I rediscover a high degree of mobility. I can turn to look to left and right, in front, behind, look down and further down, and up into clouds, and an infinity of literally extra-ordinary starlight. I can catch a falling star. What an intricate wonder I am, and you are.
I can choose to be blinkered today. Or – up, down, forwards, backwards, side to side – I can celebrate my place in Universe, bright-shining among the seen and the unseen. Infinite.
Once in a while I find myself re-reading something I’ve written that resparks the imagination that brought it about – something maybe worth having another look – or several looks at.
‘Before you move on to the next thing,’ I read in an Instagram post this morning, ‘pause. Sit with what is. Just for a moment. Open your hands and let go of what you’re holding tight …’
They said ‘You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are.’ The man replied, ‘Things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar.’
Wallace Stevens The Man With The Blue Guitar
I’m slightly coy (I don’t know why) about admitting that since yesterday’s post – ‘The bud stands for all things’ – I’ve continued hour upon hour to be entranced by the idea of the imaginable – of design, of Galway Kinnell’s ‘everything flowers from within.’
I mean, imagine repeating that to young children, from as early as possible: that what comes forth from people’s imaginations – their own ‘designs for life’ included – are, often and literally, among the great wonders of the world.
And then imagine that being repeated in adult lives, over and over again, a repetition that would forever stretch their own imaginations: that you continue to have endless possibilities for creativity, in every second of your life, if you will hear the sometimes quiet voice of your imagination.
And then imagine really believing this yourself / myself. The thought sets heart and mind and soul alight: indeed our very bodies react to it. We know that our capacity for imagination is without limits – and we want to get on with the creative business of imagining some more.
The messages I’m receiving today are ‘calm’ and ‘reflection.’ I’m interested by the instincts I have to run around ‘as normal,’ alongside the chief effect of Covid-19 which, having drained me of energy, insists on ‘rest.’
So I’ve been thinking a lot about the harbours I’ve known in my life – the quiet backwaters where little vessels take time out from riding oceans and are protected and sometimes maintained, re-painted, sea-proofed, even loved there. And – gratefully – I ask myself ‘where would I be without them?’
Awake or asleep? One of the chief combined effects of Covid-19 and a UK heatwave seems to be that I’m dropping off to sleep a lot – which is probably a good and health-giving thing. But it plays havoc with reading and with the typing of messages with family and friends. Half a paragraph and I’m away to the land of nod again! I’m grateful for the garden and the shade of my Japanese Acer today. Falling asleep in a garden chair outside somehow feels healthier than other options!
Sad though I am to be missing our second bothy weekend, I have to admit that temporary grounding in house and garden by Covid-19 is not without its joys.
Gardens, and nature generally, inspire my soul and enhance my perspective. I’m drawn to remember, and to reflect upon, the extraordinary diversity and variety in all things living – near and far, tiny and gigantic, colour, complexity, scent, size, shape, textures, life span and so on.
Peaceful today, and moved only a little by a mild breeze, beautiful life-forms in my garden appear simply to revel in their being-ness. As do the galaxies shown in glorious, mysterious technicolour by the world’s latest most advanced James Webb Space Telescope. I’m moved to be still for a while – to look at my own being-ness – in wonder.
It has been a staggeringly beautiful summer day here in Lakeland – one of those ‘really glad to be alive’ days, the temporary trials of (I think comparatively mild) Covid-19 notwithstanding. And I’m not entirely sure whether last weekend’s joys are responsible, or the forecast good weather, or a getting more adventurous as the years roll on – or a combination of all three. But, anyway, I’ve been delighted by the arrival of my splendid new Reactive Outdoor pop-up tent … and had my afternoon siesta in it!
A visit from Covid-19 confines me to books and fireside today – and turning to one major book recommendation from our bothy weekend will keep me cheerfully occupied, even if I fall asleep over it every once in a while – probably dreaming of the joys of the said weekend …
Overarching blue sky, dotted about with the whitest of cotton wool clouds, have combined to highlight bright summer colours in all else. And in this quiet Lakeland garden the early evening cooing of turtle doves accompanies my reading …
Clean and fresh air, book recommendations, chores shared seamlessly, contemplation, conversation, dance, deep listening, eating (fabulously), gratefulness, healing, hugs, international community, laughing until tears flowed, letting go, love, meditation, reflection, silence – save for the curlews and the fast-running burn, singing, sleeping, surprise, swimming and squealing (freezing), soft mellowness … Stanhope
Home for the weekend. A Scottish bothy set in acres of silence – save for curlews, a fast flowing burn and wind in the trees. No mains electricity, no plumbed water, no flushing loo, no phone or wi-fi – but very quickly to become a home filled with deep connection, wonderful conversation, fabulous food, firelight, love, laughter and song …
