No Time Nor Place

I move through my mind,

the only place to go

when I need to unwind,

want to take it slow,

I can close my eyes

and see the swaying trees,

I can see the sun rise

over distant seas,

sometimes I'll see you

on the left or on the right,

mingling with gold or blue,

then you're gone from sight.

You're whispering there,

in the trees, in the grass,

your closeness everywhere,

a glimpse as you pass.

Just stay in one place,

give me a chance with you,

just to look in your face

is like a dance with you.

There's no map or chart

to show me where you are,

you're the wish of my heart

I will follow far,

through fields of pleasure,

toward a sea of grace,

where joy has no measure,

love no time nor place.

You're whispering there,

in the trees, in the grass,

your closeness everywhere,

a glimpse as you pass.

Cyber-Connecting

spirit to spirit
we meet on computer screen...
inner senses bloom

Wondering, Wandering

Alice is a wonderer, a wanderer, seeking answers from dream figures who can only reflect her own confusion back to her. Loneliness follows her from place to place, from the Whiter Shade of Pale Rabbit to the heartless Queen of Hearts. "Who am I?" she asks. "What is this world?" Alice is All Us, and we are all mad here, all made here in the dream landscape, shrinking, growing, finally coming to know a little of our true power as we topple the playing-card house of our illusions, taking courage from the grin without a cat as we fly through the flame of a candle after it has gone out.

Two For Infinite Tea

Infinite tea for two

and two for infinite tea

and infinite me for you

and infinite you for me

when infinite skies are gray

and you're feeling infinite blue,

infinite tea makes the infinite sun

come smiling infinitely through.

So have a seat, put up your feet,

and I will pour

more and more and more and more

infinite tea for infinite you and me!

Metaphysics on Memory Lane

I just spent a couple of days visiting an old friend from childhood,who is married, has five daughters, one grandchild and another on the way. During the visit we talked a lot as we walked around our old hometown on a trip down memory lane. Along with reminiscing about our school days, we shared our religious/ spiritual beliefs. I told her about my study of how we create our own reality, and brought up the Bible quote: "It is done unto you as you believe." I asked her what she thought that meant. She hesitated a bit and said, "If you believe you'll go to heaven then you will." I replied: "But that's not what Jesus was saying. He said, IT is done unto you as you believe. 'It' can mean anything, including going to heaven." I told her about Victor Zammit's site: http://www.victorzammit.com/
"This lawyer has accumulated evidence of the afterlife, and he found out through mediumship that there are those who are still convinced there is no life after death even after they've passed on!"
We laughed at that, agreed they would probably come around to understanding their true state at some point, and the conversation moved on to other things. A couple of times later during our visit she brought up the topic of belief and reality creation; I got the feeling she was intrigued.

She wants me to read the Book of Mormon (she and her husband are devout Mormons). I said I would but made it clear I wouldn't convert since I prefer to be non-denominational, that I'd share my honest impressions, and she agreed. I think this could become a productive discussion; it's fun to share differing points of view, when we are open to the differences and not expecting others to see things as we do.

Update, Jan. 11, 2012: I never could bring myself to read more than a bit of The Book of Mormon, but it is true, as I told my friend, that I have trouble reading any book all the way through, these daze.

The Summer of my Grief

I have a photo of myself, Stevie and his little brother Scotty, my three brothers and my sister, taken on the lawn of a local park in the town where my siblings and I grew up. At 12, I was the oldest, and as if in practice for motherhood, I'm cradling Scotty on my lap as he smiles up at me, mirroring my own big grin. Stevie, 9 or 10, brings up the rear, holding a baseball bat; he looks ready for a game. Stevie's parents, Stephi and Alan,  were caring for us at our home at that time while our parents were traveling in Europe, and all was going well. Our shining faces in the photo were a testament to that.

But then all of us kids got sick with a virus. One night I was in the bathroom, bent over the toilet, feeling like I was obliterating part of myself as I expunged the poison of sickness. I wanted only to be alone in this purging, and when Stephie came flying in, the picture of alarm and concern, I yelled, "Go away!" The next day she said, her face still showing her hurt and puzzlement: "I was only trying to help you!" I didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain my discomfort at throwing up in front of someone. If I could go back in time, I'd respond: "I know you were. I'm sorry I was rude."

Stevie was sicker than any of us. I kept vigil with him and his mother, who spooned food in his mouth as he lay unconscious in bed. I asked, "How can he swallow if he's not awake?"

"It's automatic, " she replied. I felt her anxiety, her helplessness, and I was moved by the poignant softness and innocence in Stevie's heavy-lidded closed eyes, his open, unresisting mouth, his obedient swallowing. I was reminded of my own closed eyes and open, receptive mouth as I knelt at the altar, receiving the Holy Communion wafer. I felt the retreat of Stevie's spirit to a holy place, a place we could not go.

The night I learned he had passed, I became acquainted with grief; I threw myself on my bed, and I felt, like Alice in the dark hall of aloneness and confusion, that I was swimming in a pool of tears.

Our parents came home, and we were happy to see them. Stevie's funeral was held shortly after. Neither I nor my siblings attended; I guess it was assumed we had been privy to enough already. Afterward, my mother remarked that she had "never heard a woman cry so" as Stevie's mother had at the sight of her son's lifeless body.

For a long time I felt guilt about Stevie's death, assuming he would not have died if his parents hadn't agreed to come and stay with us, thus exposing him to a virus.  Then my father informed me that he had a congenital heart condition, so perhaps he was never meant to live very long.

I would look at Stephie sadly when our families got together in the ensuing years, my unspoken feelings clamoring for a voice I could not give them. Only now can I write of of how Stevie's face pierced my heart as he hovered in the twilight zone between life and death, and of how, at the same time, I can still see his face beaming bright as the sun, as he ran and played with us in those happy summer days.

Rainmakers

Now at last the rains have come!

We hear and feel the thrum

from our under-sand abode,

and we emerge, horns quivering,

glorying in the sublime wetness,

the pouring down of Love,

the blessing, the manna

from above.

Time to celebrate,

time for a bacchanal!

For we who have so long abstained,

even decomposing plants

are an imposing meal,

and the hundreds of eggs,

born of our transcendent couplings,

must become the geniuses and saints

of our species.

When the clouds clear, we know

our party's end is near.

Nibbling the plants we've learned

will extend our ecstasy,

we rejoice in the revelry,

ascending to the singing stars,

the moon's radiant face.

Come morning, we are back in place,

hunkered down underground

and moving into the long sleep,

cocooned in the womb of darkness,

safe from the relentless sun.

We, the sacred snails,

are the rainmakers

of the desert.

To you, our sleeping life

may seem a living death,

but our dreams of blessed water

go forth into the Field

from which all emerges,

seeding the clouds

with our visions,

birthing into righteous rain

for all flowing, growing things.

Awake or asleep, we live our dreams.

Death? We do not fear it,

we know that we live on in Love,

born again of water and the spirit.