You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.
Do not say, ‘It is morning,’ and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. See it for the first time as a newborn child that has no name.
When our hearts are small, our understanding and compassion are limited, and we suffer. We can’t accept or tolerate others and their shortcomings, and we demand that they change. But when our hearts expand, these same things don’t make us suffer any more. We have a lot of understanding and compassion and can embrace others. We accept others as they are, and then they have a chance to transform.
(Thich Nhat Hanh)
Einstein sleeps in his hammock, in the Between, hanging from the Grand Willow Tree’s branches which collect liquid starlight from the Cosmos. The willow branches arc, to form an umbrella… drip… dripping… on to Einstein in his hammock which gently rocks in the breezes of Love’s breath…
Einstein is not alone. The souls of poets… hang from the Willow Tree in their hammocks… surrounding him… And rainbow rivers of light flow from the hammocks… into humanity living on earth in the year 2019… as the dreaming poets whisper, speak, shout, or sing their own rhythmic beauty… to celebrate — the newborn ‘suns’ of a mythical prophecy… who have come to participate in a new world… becoming…
Pablo Neruda stirs in his hammock and speaks his story into the flowing rainbow light:
And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street. I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Rabindranath Tagore follows Neruda with his whispers melting into the rivers of light:
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of
Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.
(He pauses then continues)
Reach high, for stars lie hidden in you. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.
David Whyte’s soul drops a tear as he adds his story to the poetry in concert:
Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
on an open sky.
has to be
so you can find
the one line
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
in the ashes of your life.
You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving.
William Wordsworth then bursts out to sing of his daffodils:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Rivers of rainbows begin to flow wildly free…… as the poets continue to tell their stories in the Willow Tree.
Lucille Clifton floats as a wandering cloud slipping through a horizon between the rainbow light to say:
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
(Blessing the Boats)
Mary Oliver follows Lucille with the earth of her love:
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
(Sleeping in the Forest)
Then out of the blue, Oriah Mountain Dreamer roars into the fancy-free rainbow river:
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting
Your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
For love, for your dream,
For the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
If you have been opened by life’s betrayals,
Or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain,
Mine or your own,
To hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy,
Mine or your own,
If you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic,
or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself,
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty
Even when it is not pretty every day,
And if you can source your life
From its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure,
Yours and mine,
And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
Weary and bruised to the bone,
And do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
In the center of the fire with me
And not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
From the inside
When all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
And if you truly like the company you keep
In the empty moments.
There is a hush… as Langston Hughes softly chants his story in the now muddy rich of the fertile rainbow rivers’ flow…
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
(The Negro Speaks of Rivers)
And there are a few on earth, in the year 2019, who sense that which cannot be named… as they allow their tears to weep for beauty… their souls to be found by the luminous flux of their soul’s mate – spirit… And the new dance begins… in the birth of new life… as those first nascent cries of silent and unfathomable tone… change the nature of life… forever…
copyright © 2019, Lyn Marsh, Ph.D. all rights reserved. You may not reproduce written materials without permission from Lyn Marsh, Ph.D.