Sit. Feast On Your Life.

Inspired by Derek Walcott's poem "Love After Love".

i reek of love

poem by the brilliant Nayyirah Waheed

Choose The Life That Is. Yours.

do not choose the lesser life.
do you hear me.
do you hear me.
choose the life that is. yours.
the life that is seducing your lungs.
that is dripping down your chin.

- nayyirah waheed

Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.

"Let yourself

be silently drawn

by the strange pull

of what you really love.

It will not lead you astray."

- Rumi

My kinda Saint.

Any true ecstasy
is a sign 
you are moving in the right direction.
Don't let any prude tell you otherwise.
- St. Teresa de Ávila

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

Thank you, Allen Ginsberg. 

(From Footnote To Howl.)

Wild geese inspire late night rambling thoughts.

We do share this planet. Sometimes - too often - it is easy to forget this. We do share the earth. We do share the sky. We do share the oceans and rivers. We do share the air that we breathe.

Today - for a moment - it was easier for me to remember. Wild geese and humans, each desiring a safe return home. A moment. A flow-flow on the air current. A slight turn. A flap-flap of wings. A miraculous landing. Safe returns for some.

Tonight the homeless children I work with delighted in sharing. Feathers. Stickers. Paintbrushes. It didn't really matter what. They had the experience of feeling good while relating in this new way. It was a game. They felt connected. Seen. Wanting to share is unusual for them. Their lives are rich in scarcity.

I think of the Middle East. Africa. I know I sound ridiculously naive, but my aching heart begs can't we just share?

*

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

*

You Knew What You Had To Do

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

*

The Prayer of Jesus in Aramaic

When translated from the original language of Jesus, "The Lord's Prayer" is beautiful, and very different from what I had to say in school every morning as a child! I especially appreciate the idea of god as both verb and feminine and masculine.

The Prayer of Jesus in Aramaic

O Birthing! Fathering-Mothering of the Cosmos!

You create all that moves in light.

Focus your light within us - make it useful: as the rays of a beacon show the way.

Create your reign of unity now - through our firey hearts and willing hands.

Your one desire then acts with ours, as in all light, so in all forms.

Grant what we need each day in bread and insight:

subsistence for the call of growing life.

Loose the cords of mistakes binding us,

as we release the strands we hold of others' guilt.

Don't let us enter forgetfulness

But free us from unripeness

From you is born all ruling will, the power and the life to do,

the song that beautifies all, from age to age it renews.

Truly--power to these statements--

may they be the source from which all my actions grow.

Sealed in trust & faith. Amen.

Transliteration and original translation by Dr. Neil Douglas-Klotz from

the Peshitta (Syriac-Aramaic) version of Matthew 6:9-13 & Luke 11:2-4

A fascinating radio show interview with Dr. Neil Douglas-Klotz and my hero, Caroline Casey:
http://kpfa.org/archives/index.php?arch=24231
and for more info on him:
http://abwoon.com/

And while I'm here... yesterday's Caroline Casey radio show was beautiful, also talking about language and religion:
http://kpfa.org/archives/index.php?arch=25385
This Thursday is the Vernal Equinox, Persian and Afghani New Year, Maundy Thursday, the Eve of Purim, the 5th anniversary of the brutal invasion of Iraq, and.. the Full Moon! a week rife with symbolic and metaphoric guidance. So, more than perfectly, Caroline welcomes back long-time ally, religious scholar and political consultant Pat Ewing, that we may bring informed reverence for life to bear on our personal, collective spiritual and political lives, and cultivate
liberating leadership.

Valentine for Ernest Mann

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he reinvented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of the skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we reinvent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

- Naomi Shihab Nye

Illustration Friday: Tales & Legends

In at the last minute, and badly scanned, my "Tales and Legends" theme for Illustration Friday this week. Inspired by a James Tate poem:

It Happens Like This

I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.
- James Tate

More poems by James Tate at:
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/jamestate/