Kundalini Splendor

The Mystery

Some come at it
with weights and measures,
some waving a sieve.
Some sing to it,
ballads and carols,
hoping to coax forth
its hidden center,
unwind the sheath
of who it is.
Some tap on it,
or deal heavy blows
with hammers,
trying to smash
its thick shield,
force it to bow down.
Some seek ways to clamber in,
explore its hidden vaults
and chambers.

Some lie down beside it,
breathe its cool scent,
become its own self.

Dorothy Walters
Nov. 18, 2008

The Summing Up

The invitations
kept coming
and I kept on opening them,
one by one,
finding here
a curious trail
with strange animals peering,
there an improbable
connection.

Who knew it would
lead to where we are today?
Who could have guessed
such indescribable
adventure?

And every pore
kept opening
to something
which was
and was not
who it truly was.

At first it was images floating in,
strange shapes
and numbers
and unlikely geometric
forms piled on one another,
at first one by one,
then by multiples and scores.

Then there were
the dreams.
Who has not traveled to
a strange city,
an unknown landscape,
but who has gone there
not alone
but alongside the other
who is also dreaming you?

The boundaries broke.
Another's thoughts
were yours,
and yours were
always shared.
Speech not necessary.

From the first
it was like this.
Something unknown,
strange,
beckoning.

Unwind the
twisted thread of memory.

One at the beginning said,
look at the rose,
peer into its
hidden parts,
feel its secret
blush on your
cheek.

Something indefinable
but real,
majestic presence,
trees observing,
where were you now??

Little villages of trees.

Color in autumn
as if the sunset
had been wrung dry
into the hills.

Always a progression
into a new level
of awareness.
More than a moment,
a moving revelation,
a continuing reenactment
of the self
in a new key.

Dorothy Walters
December 1, 2008

Shaman

Jane Green

The sounds from a shell
summon the Shaman.

She enters the wind,
the echo of bells,
a low drumbeat,
some curls of smoke,
a fingered wing,
the wet through clouds,
the dry rose print
of sage-colored moss.

She mixes the mud,
applies a poultice,
a few cheek smudges,
a stripe for the brow,
a hollow beneath
the etch of a frame,
a mesa or arch
bordered by bone.

With a crow's black feather
she applies a thin trail
in the crevice of elbows
to open twin palms.

She circles veined wrists
around and around,
then swirls with a stretch
to the ledge of alarm.

She stirs a cracked shell
found molded in sand,
a relief of her profile
sunk between layers,
opened by splinters,
imbedded by arrows
in bundled straw.

She twirls the incense,
the timbers of limbs,
batons of pink ribbons,
fire-edged sparkles,
the horizon's rim.

She prepares a potion
to elicit the drawl,
the cushion of comfort
for the One of All,
then rings the invite,
the trickle of fountains,
the ting, ting, ting
for the quarter of some
unexpected but
approaching hour.

(Image from http://www.angelfire.com/realm/bodhisattva/she-shaman.html)

KUNDALINI SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS

by El Collie

Many individuals whose Kundalini has been unexpectedly unleashed DO NOT KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING, and the prevailing social ignorance about this multidimensional transformative process makes it hard to find medical or alternative health practitioners or spiritual advisors who recognize the symptoms, particularly when they are strongly physical. Many people know that the risen Kundalini flings open gates to all sorts of mystical, paranormal and magical vistas but few realize it can also dramatically impact the body. A large percentage of our old Shared Transformation newsletter subscribers reported long bouts of strange illness as well as radical mental, emotional, interpersonal, psychic, spiritual and lifestyle changes. Over and again we hear stories of frustrating, sometimes desperate visits to doctors, healers, counselors, etc. who neither understood nor were able to help with the myriad pains and problems catalyzed by raging Kundalini.

The following are common manifestations of the risen Kundalini"

Muscle twitches, cramps or spasms.
Energy rushes or immense electricity circulating the body
Itching, vibrating, prickling, tingling, stinging or crawling sensations
Intense heat or cold
Involuntary bodily movements (occur more often during meditation, rest or sleep): jerking, tremors, shaking; feeling an inner force pushing one into postures or moving one's body in unusual ways. (May be misdiagnosed as epilepsy, restless legs syndrome (RLS), or PLMD.))
Alterations in eating and sleeping patterns
Episodes of extreme hyperactivity or, conversely, overwhelming fatigue (some CFS victims are experiencing Kundalini awakening)
Intensified or diminished sexual desires
Headaches, pressures within the skull
Racing heartbeat, pains in the chest
Digestive system problems
Numbness or pain in the limbs (particularly the left foot and leg)
Pains and blockages anywhere; often in the back and neck (Many cases of FMS are Kundalini-related.))
Emotional outbursts; rapid mood shifts; seemingly unprovoked or excessive episodes of grief, fear, rage, depression
Spontaneous vocalizations (including laughing and weeping) -- are as unintentional and uncontrollable as hiccoughs
Hearing an inner sound or sounds, classically described as a flute, drum, waterfall, birds singing, bees buzzing but which may also sound like roaring, whooshing, or thunderous noises or like ringing in the ears.
Mental confusion; difficulty concentrating
Altered states of consciousness: heightened awareness; spontaneous trance states; mystical experiences (if the individual's prior belief system is too threatened by these, they can lead to bouts of psychosis or self-grandiosity)
Heat, strange activity, and/or blissful sensations in the head, particularly in the crown area.
Ecstasy, bliss and intervals of tremendous joy, love, peace and compassion
Psychic experiences: extrasensory perception; out-of-body experiences; pastlife memories; astral travel; direct awareness of auras and chakras; contact with spirit guides through inner voices, dreams or visions; healing powers
Increased creativity: new interests in self-expression and spiritual communication through music, art, poetry, etc.
Intensified understanding and sensitivity: insight into one's own essence; deeper understanding of spiritual truths; exquisite awareness of one's environment (including "vibes" from others)
Enlightenment experiences: direct Knowing of a more expansive reality; transcendent awareness

Some people have told us they find the concept of "Kundalini" foreign and prefer to simply call this their "awakening," which is fine with us. But for most who contact us, the Kundalini explanation provides an important framework with which to accept and work with their experiences. We each have a unique way of interpreting, honoring and describing our spiritual wisdom. I do not believe there is only one right way to know or express the truth. Far more important, I believe, is to have an open heart and to be faithful to our own path, wherever it may lead.

We have also been asked why we do not put more emphasis on union with the Divine and God-realization, which are very much central to spiritual awakening. Since everyone experiences and interprets their mystical experiences differently and very personally, to make sure no one will feel excluded, we just speak of "awakening consciousness" or "transcendent states" on the ST Web pages. In our Shared Transformation newsletter, individuals with variant religious beliefs are welcome to (and DO) tell about their experiences of this sort. Some speak of God, Christ, Goddess, the Holy One, Spirit, or simply a magnificent Whole in which we all partake.

Also, for some people, profound spiritual realizations do not occur until months or years after the other signs and symptoms. Individuals who are having experiences of an obvious spiritual nature are usually more able to integrate and benefit from the process, regardless of how they may label it. But those who experience what seems to be illness or weird psychic phenomena often are very alarmed until they understand that they are not sick or crazy. And even the enlightening and beautiful experiences can be so powerful that people doubt their sanity. This is why the information and validation we offer through Shared Transformation is so valuable.

© El Collie 1995

(Image from source)

Hymn to the Nameless One

It is true, yes,
that still I cannot name you.
Nor can I describe
your face,
never having seen it.
What I know is
that you have come to us
again and again,
often as the thing they call
bliss,
or as landscapes pregnant with joy,
as sound like music
drifting from a shell.

Now as the year swings down,
and the darkness encloses
even the smallest bird,
the largest animal,
and we too enter the hour
when everything is falling
into the twilight
of not knowing,
what we ask is that
you be with us,
not as a pillar of fire
nor a blaze across
the heavens,
but like water
at rest in a pitcher
which catches the morning light
and is filled
with radiance.

Dorothy Walters
December 24, 2008

The Heart in Mourning

Bring your gift to the door.
Even if all you have
is your sorrow,
the pain of the
flower crushed
in the road,
the child shivering
along the wayside.

Know that grief is enough.
Your offering
will be taken,
exalted
into the highest place.
The heart in mourning is
its own blessing.

Dorothy Walters
December 23, 2008

Speak to Your Heart

When we are frightened
the heart closes.
It cannot tell us its need.
It becomes a small fist
carrying its own
secret
which is its pain,
its lost remembrance
of all that soothed it
once
so long ago.

The sunlight on the path,
the room filled
with the scent of roses,
the touch of the lover's hand--
these are lost
like a small boat
unmoored
and taken in the swells of the sea.

Speak to your heart.
Let it whisper
its grief.
Let it know
that you are here,
that you will not leave
ever,
even when your robe
is tattered
and the only sound
is the wind's lost child
crying to come in.

Dorothy Walters
December 23, 2008

Tycho Brahe

Think of it.
He was Danish
and an astronomer
and he had a golden nose.

He went rummaging
about in the heavens
looking
for the truth of things.

One star after another,
his daily bread,
meticulous measurements,
careful notes.

What did it matter
that his nose
had been lost
in a duel,
that he did not have
the proper instruments
for his task,
that he lived in a time
when many scorned
those such as he,
those with their heads
in the clouds
when they should
be out plowing the fields,
tending their young.

He kept on searching,
certain that the secret
was there,
that he would find it,
make it his
with his naked eye.

Dorothy Walters

December 21, 2008

Notes: The astronomer Tycho Brahe ( 1546-1601) had lost part of his nose in a dueling mishap when he was young, so he made himself a false nosepiece out of metal, perhaps bronze covered in gold. Working before the invention of the telescope, he made an exhaustive visual search of the movements of the heavenly bodies, to try to determine whether the earth or the sun was the center of the universe. Although his theories were later superseded by others, he is recognized for his major contribution to early astronomical readings and computations.

Like many other investigators of his time, he explored various realms (astronomy, astrology, alchemy, and herbal medicine).

Alive Together

Speaking of marvels, I am alive
together with you, when I might have been

alive with anyone under the sun,

when I might have been Abelard's woman

or the whore of a Renaissance pope

or a peasant wife with not enough food

and not enough love, with my children

dead of the plague. I might have slept

in an alcove next to the man

with the golden nose, who poked it

into the business of stars,

or sewn a starry flag

for a general with wooden teeth.

I might have been the exemplary Pocahontas

or a woman without a name

weeping in Master's bed

for my husband, exchanged for a mule,

my daughter, lost in a drunken bet.

I might have been stretched on a totem pole

to appease a vindictive god

or left, a useless girl-child,

to die on a cliff. I like to think

I might have been Mary Shelley

in love with a wrong-headed angel,

or Mary's friend.

I might have been you.

This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless,

our chances of being alive together

statistically nonexistent;

still we have made it, alive in a time

when rationalists in square hats

and hatless Jehovah's Witnesses

agree it is almost over,

alive with our lively children

who--but for endless ifs--

might have missed out on being alive

together with marvels and follies

and longings and lies and wishes

and error and humor and mercy

and journeys and voices and faces

and colors and summers and mornings

and knowledge and tears and chance.

by Lisel Mueller

Notes: The astronomer Tycho Brahe ( 1546-1601) had lost part of his nose in a dueling mishap when he was young, so he made himself a false nosepiece out of metal, perhaps bronze covered in gold.

Heloise and Abelard are two of the most famous lovers in history. He was a philosopher and she a gifted scholar in twelfth century France, where he became her teacher in the house of her uncle. They became secret lovers, and she bore him a son. Her family was furious at him for what had happened, and had Abelard castrated. Heloise became a nun and he a monk. The two continued their relationship through letters to one another.

Some of the Renaissance popes did have mistresses outside the law.

The woman who sewed the stars was of course Betsy Ross who sewed the first flag for George Washington, who had false teeth.

Mary Shelley was the wife of the famous poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, considered by some to be an overly impassioned idealist.

If we want to extend the thought of Lisel Mueller's poem, we realize that it is in fact a miracle that any of us are here "alive together" at the same time in history; in fact, statistically it is virutally impossible that any one of us got born at all (as ourselves). And, for those of us touched by Kundalini, it often seems a near impossibility that such events have occurred in our lives. Thus each of us is a living miracle, touched by Mystery in ways we cannot account for, yet "alive together."

Below is "Bone of My Bone and Flesh of My Flesh," a poem by Ellen Bass from her book The Human Line. Ellen says of this poem, "I was working on a poem in which I needed a word for Janet, the woman with whom I have lived, loved, and raised children for twenty-five years. Searching through an old thesaurus--I still use the thesaurus my older brother handed down to me, published in 1962--I came across such a wonderful plethora of words that I thought they deserved a poem of their own."

This delightful poem is a good antidote for some of the rhetoric in the air these days.

I can't always refer to the woman I love,
my children’s other mother,
as my darling, my beloved,
sugar in my bowl. No.
I need a common, utilitarian word
that calls no more attention to itself
than nouns like grass, bread, house.
The terms husband and wife are perfect for that.
Hassling with PG&E
or dropping off dry cleaning,
you don't want to say,
The light of my life doesn't like starch.
Don't suggest spouse--a hideous word.
And partner is sterile as a boardroom.
Couldn't we afford a term
for the woman who carried that girl in her arms
when she was still all promise,
that boy curled inside her womb?
And today, when I go to kiss her
and she says, "Not now, I'm reading,"

still she deserves a syllable or two--
I can't express how furious
it makes me--

maybe it's better this way —
no puny pencil stub of a word.
Maybe these are exactly the times
to drag out the whole galaxy
of endearments: Buttercup,
I should say, lambkin, mon petit chou.
Set down War and Peace,
just for a moment, and lift
your ruby lips to mine.
And talking to the dishwasher repairman,
the vacuum cleaner salesclerk, the woman
in the Blue Cross billing department
I could explain that I'd already sent the co-pay
for my soulmate, my duckling,
my chocolate-covered cream puff.
Maybe it would brighten her day, too.
Hello, I might say, you precious,
you jewel, O queen among queens,
darling, honey pie, angel,
my sweet patootie.

Ellen Bass

This is not primarily a political blog, but sometimes an issue is so pressing that one simply cannot remain silent. (Some are calling for "mystical activism," and perhaps this reflection is a form of that.)

Recently, I went to see the movie "Milk," now playing in theaters across the country. Sean Penn in the lead role does a truly stunning job in the role of Harvey Milk, the San Francisco gay activist who was the first openly gay male to be elected to the Board of Supervisors of the city, an man who fought relentlessly for the civil rights of gays and lesbians, and who was ultimately assassinated (along with Mayor Moscone) by a disgruntled former Board Member. Among other things, the movie showed clips of Anita Bryant, the infamous Florida orange juice queen, who at the time went across the country attacking gays and their right to be treated as equals in terms of employment and housing. Today we see Anita as a near comic figure, peddling her own strange form of "religion." But in those days, she was taken quite seriously, and she was a major player in the efforts of the religious right to prevent gays and lesbians from winning equal status before the law.

Things have now changed in many respects, as times have moved forward and attitudes have progressed. But when we hear the arguments against gay marriage, they sound disturbingly familiar. Here is an e-mail I received today:

Friday, December 19, 2008 11:30 AM
From:
"Rick Jacobs, Courage Campaign" info@couragecampaign.org

"I'm opposed to redefinition of a 5,000 year definition of marriage. I'm opposed to having a brother and sister being together and calling that marriage. I'm opposed to an older guy marrying a child and calling that marriage. I'm opposed to one guy having multiple wives and calling that marriage." Rick Warren, Pastor of Saddleback Church, December 15, 2008

Dear Dorothy,

Incest. Pedophilia. Polygamy.
When Pastor Rick Warren was asked to clarify this statement --if he actually equates same-sex marriage with incest, pedophilia and polygamy --his answer was direct and unequivocal: "Oh, I do."
That didn't stop President-elect Barack Obama from choosing Pastor Warren to give the invocation at his inauguration --an appalling mistake that will forever tarnish our country's celebration of Obama's historic ascendance to the White House.
While President-elect Obama has chosen to ignore the troubling beliefs of the man who will spiritually usher in his presidency, Californians can not ignore Rick Warren and his Saddleback Church followers, based in Orange County.
We can not ignore Rick Warren's fervent support for Proposition 8 or his mobilization of thousands of evangelical Christians to enshrine discrimination into our state constitution.
Harvey Milk did not ignore John Briggs in 1978, when Briggs sought to pass Proposition 6 -- the infamous "Briggs Initiative" that attempted to ban gay and lesbian teachers, and anyone who supported them, from our California's public schools. Milk challenged Briggs to debates across the state.
And we're not going to ignore Rick Warren. That's why we're asking you to give Pastor Warren a new invitation -- a Courage Campaign invitation to a public debate on same-sex marriage with Reverend Eric Lee, President of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) of Greater Los Angeles.
It's time to challenge Rick Warren to an open, honest debate about same-sex marriage. Click here now to join us, by signing your name to our invitation to Rev. Warren to debate Rev. Eric Lee. On December 24, the Courage Campaign will deliver your signatures to Pastor Warren at the Saddleback Church in Orange County:
http://www.couragecampaign.org/page/m2/4b660bc3/1bafab21/8c7162b/40ba307a/1941745879/VEsC/
You may not know Rev. Eric Lee. But you should.
Rev. Eric Lee is a courageous leader on marriage equality in the faith community and in the African American community. Representing the SCLC, founded by the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., Rev. Lee expressed his strong opposition to Prop 8 in October by taking a stand with the Courage Campaign against the Mormon Church's heavy involvement in the Prop 8 campaign.
Now, Rev. Lee is taking a stand again, challenging Pastor Warren to a debate about Prop 8 and same-sex marriage.
Rev. Eric Lee needs your support to challenge Rev. Rick Warren to debate Prop 8 and explain Warren's comparison of same-=ex marriage to incest, pedophilia and polygamy. Please sign here -- and ask your friends to gather as many signatures as possible --before December 24:
http"//www.couragecampaign.org/RickWarrenDebate
Thank you for everything you are doing to restore marriage equality and push for progressive change in California.
Rick JacobsChair
P.S. To repeal Prop 8, and change California forever, we need to change the conversation.
You can change the conversation by signing this invitation to Rick Warren and forwarding this message to your friends today. The more signatures we gather, the more likely Rick Warren's views on same-sex marriage will be challenged, this time by another man of faith. DEADLINE: DECEMBER 24:
http://www.couragecampaign.org/RickWarrenDebate
..............
Courage Campaign Issues is part of the Courage Campaign's online organizing network that empowers over 300,000 grassroots and netroots activists to push for progressive change in California.
To power our campaign to repeal Prop 8, please contribute today:

This email was sent to:dorothywalters2@sbcglobal.net

(Now from Dorothy):

Needless to say, I was profoundly disappointed by this choice. Once again, gays have been shoved to the bottom of the agenda (the scapegoat? the sacrifice?) For me, this is not hope and change, but more of the same which we have experienced for so very long.

When I was young, I heard similar arguments from the fundamentalist preachers against inter-racial marriage--denounced as a sin, an abomination, against Biblical teachings, etc. We finally got past that stage of history and managed to elect a man of mixed blood to the highest office. Some do not seem to remember the recent past when they focus on today's struggles.

Recently, I sent an e-mail to someone on the internet to explain some of my feelings about this issue. I signed it "Eighty and still waiting." To quote a famous saying, "How long, Oh, Lord, How long?"

(Well, as they say, "Now I feel better.")

(Image from Hubble site)

I was dead, then Alive

I was dead, then alive.

Weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,

and I became fierce like a lion,

then tender like the evening star.
He said, "You’re not mad enough.

You don’t belong in this house."
I went wild and had to be tied up.

He said, "Still not wild enoughto stay with us!"
I broke through another layer

into joyfulness.
He said, "Its not enough."

I died.
He said, "You are a clever little man,

full of fantasy and doubting."
I plucked out my feathers and became a fool.

He said, "Now you are the candlefor this assembly."
But I'm no candle. Look!

I'm scattered smoke
He said, "You are the Sheikh, the guide."

But I'm not a teacher. I have no power.
He said, "You already have wings.

I cannot give you wings."
But I wanted his wings.

I felt like some flightless chicken.
Then new events said to me,"Don’t move.

A sublime generosity is

coming towards you."
And old love said, "Stay with me."
I said, "I will."
You are the fountain of the sun's light.

I am a willow shadow on the ground.

You make my raggedness silky.
The soul at dawn is like darkened water

that slowly begins to say Thank you, thank you.
Then at sunset, again, Venus gradually

Changes into the moon and then the whole nightsky.
This comes of smiling back

at your smile.
The chess master says nothing,

other than moving the silent chess piece.
That I am part of the ploys

of this game makes me

amazingly happy.

Rumi (tr. Coleman Barks)

(Image from Wikipedia)

This morning I listened to a few bars of this wondrous piece which is on youtube (I could not discern how to put up the actual link, so you will need to go to youtube and type in this phrase on the "search" link:

Caught in this Spell

Caught in this spell
of you
I cannot move.

Your sounds
flow like
a river of light through
my veins.

Your words tear open
my heart.

Who are you
that you summon me
in this way?

How can I answer
your call?

Dorothy Walters
December 17, 2008

Try To Love the World

Do not try

To change the world.

You will fail.

Try to love the world.

Lo, the world is changed,

Changed forever.

Sri Chinmoy

(Image from space.alglobus.net/Basics/why.html)

Here is an amazing youtube video on playing for change around the world. Enjoy!

(Image of painting by Johannes Vermeer (1672), found on Wikipedia)

The Poet Seer

I asked for language
and was given
this necklace of words.

Then a robe of syllables,
clinging like sound
to my body.
Then my flesh
became emblazoned
with letters,
sacred markings,
each throbbing
to be heard.

Then my throat opened

and I spoke these utterances.

Now I do not remember
who I was
before I entered
this cloud of saying,
this realm of speaking god.

Dorothy Walters
December 14, 2008

Heart Poems

I don’t think anyone positioned
in high places will buy this.
All this talk
of love, devotion.
Even “heart” slipping in
now and again.

And, as for the others,
the ones who
do not write poetry,
but who resonate
like tiny bells
when they hear
what they like,
the ones who unashamedly
paste Rumi
to their bathrooms walls,
or scribble Mary Oliver
across
the living room floor,
they really won’t care
what the cognoscenti
have to say,
what prizes are dispensed
among the
favored ones,
writers whose rhetoric is sublime,
whose outlook
lives in the shadow
against the wall.

Dorothy Walters
December 10, 2008

(Image from www.freewebs.com)

Great Lovers

Great lovers
do not hold back.
They give themselves
freely
the way an apple orchard
releases its fragrance
to anyone passing near
its scented blooms,
or a sunset
spreads its
scarlet radiance
over the water
for all to see.

But great lovers
do not accumulate
by numbers.
They do not measure their joy
by how many conquests,
count up the tally.

They return rather
to the same bed,
the familiar patterns.
A subtle touching of hands
or lips
is often enough.
They understand Dante
and how it was
he devoted a lifetime
of devotion
to a woman he never knew.
Or Rumi with Shams,
talking about the
Mystery of all things,
alone together.

Because great lovers
give themselves away,
they are often
shattered when their
only beloved disappears,
leaving them to
face their grief
alone on the moonless nights
when they search the heavens
in vain for a sign of comfort.
They are like gamblers
who risk all
at the tables,
winners for a while,
then losing everything
in one sudden turn.

There is but one
Beloved
who never leaves,
never turns away.
Only when you embrace
the Beloved Within
will you find constant love.

Dorothy Walters
December 12, 2008

(Image from Wikipedia)

It is said that when Dante, the great poet of medieval Italy, laid eyes on Beatrice from a distance, he immediately fell in love with her, and though he never actually met her, she became the ideal image of his imagination and his poetry. He even placed her in heaven in the third section of The Divine Comedy (Paradiso).

And it is also said that when Rumi (1207-1273), a respected scholar and teacher in what is now Turkey , first beheld Shams, a wild desert mystic, he was so astonished he fell off the donkey he was riding. He soon took all his books and threw them into a well, and then he and Shams disappeared together for 40 days. No one knows exactly what happened during that time together, but for Rumi, Shams became the emblem of divine wisdom and love, which he celebrated again and again in his poetry. When Shams vanished under mysterious circumstances, Rumi was devastated. He danced (as a dervish) for many days thereafter.

Persephone Again

Everyone wants to talk
about Persephone.
Especially the poets.
How she was grabbed
and carried off,
how she was kept in darkness
so many months,
while her mother searched everywhere,
waited for her darling
to come home.

Some say
the daughter
liked what had happened
(you know the story,
how women really want it
even when they say no),
others claim it is in fact
the mother who is at fault,
that it is she
who drove her daughter
away, forced her to
leave home and
flee into that hidden world,
because of her own impossible
demands.

And then of course
there are those
who read it as a simple
nature myth--nine months
of fertility and sun,
three of winter and death
over the land.

What do I think?
I think she is the soul
of each of us,
going down to obscurity,
resurrecting like a flower
over and over
as the seasons return.

Dorothy Walters

December 10, 2008

(Image from http://www.paleothea.com/sortasingles/persephone.html)

Persephone's story appears in Greek myth in various versions. Essentially, it is told as the experience of a young girl (daughter of Demeter) who was abducted by Hades, King of the Underworld, as she was out picking flowers. Ultimately she was allowed to return to the world above, but, since she had eaten a pomegranate seed while she was captive, she was forced to return to Hades for three months each year (winter) and then allowed to ascend back to earth and her mother for nine months (spring and summer). Thus she represents fertility and renewal. In the Eleusinian Mysteries, her story became the central myth of the death and rebirth of the spirit. These Mystery celebrations can be seen as a forerunner of the Christian and other celebrations of the death and renewal of the psyche.

In a strange way, these themes can also be connected to what happens with kundalini and other profound spiritual transformations. The "old self" disappears and a "new self" is born. Thus one is in fact "born again" in a particularly meaningful way.

Tukaram

Words are the only Jewels I possess

Words are the only Clothes that I wear

Words are the only food

That sustains my life

Words are the only wealth

I distribute among people

Says Tuka,

Witness the Word

He is God

I worship Him

With my words

Tukaram was born in 1608 in India. One of the outstanding "poet/saints" of the era, his work was popular with a wide audience. Obviously, he was in love with language, and felt that it was itself a repository of divine energy. He was initiated without an intermediary (that is, he experienced an internal initiation, without benefit of guru or priest.) Today we might look on such an event

as "spontaneous kundalini awakening."

(Image from http://www.poetseers.org/spiritual_and_devotional_poets)

Arms Full

Gratitude means showing up on life’s doorstep,
love’s threshold, dressed in a clown suit,
rubber-nosed, gunboat shoes flapping.
Gratitude shows up with arms full of wildflowers,
reciting McKuen or the worst of Neruda.

To talk of gratitude is to be

the fool in a cynic’s world.
Gratitude is pride’s nightmare,
the admission of humility before something
given without expectation or attachment.

Gratitude tears open the shirt
of self importance, scatters buttons

across the polished floors of feigned indifference,
ignores the obvious and laughs out loud.

Even more, gratitude bares her breasts, rips open

her ribs to show the naked heart,
the holy heart. What if that sacred heart is not, after all, about

sacrifice?
Imagine it is about joy, barefoot and foolhardy,
something unasked for,
something unearned.

What if the beat we hear, when we are finally quiet
is simply this:

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Rebecca del Rio

(originally published in "The Loop 5," from Press 62)

And here is Rebecca's own translation of "Arms Full" into Spanish:

Agradecimiento es el aparecer en la puerta de la vida,

el umbral de amor, vestido como payaso,

el nariz de goma, zapatos gigantescos zarandeando.

Agradecimiento aparece con los brazos llenos de flores silvestres, recitando McKuen o lo peor de Neruda.

Hablar de gratitud es ser

tontoen el mundo del cínico.

La gratitud es la pesadilla del orgullo,

la admisión de humildad ante algoregalado

sin expectativa ni esperanza.

Agradecimiento arranca la camisa

de auto-importancia,

esparce los botonespos

los pisos lustrados de la indiferencia fingida,

ignore el obvio y se ríe fuerte.

Aun mas, la gratitud se desnuda sus senos, separa

sus costillas y se muestra el corazón desnudo,

divino. Que sea si el corazón sagrado no tiene que ver con

el sacrificio.

Imaginase que es la alegría, descalza y temeraria,

algo no solicitado,

algo no merecido.

Supone que el ritmo que escuchamos cuando por fin nos callamoses simplemente esto:

Gracias. Gracias. Gracias.

Finding Intelligent Design

"You don't have to look
anything further than the sinuses
to refute Intelligent Design," my doctor says.
Yet it's plain as my nose that
Divinity has seated itself, like a satisfied old woman
on the park bench of her psyche.

So what of it?
The design we seek in the material
hides like a defiant child.

Trapped as we are
in three dimensions,
with our intelligence,
looking for Intelligence
is like seeking a galaxy
with a microscope.

Rebecca del Rio

(Image from the Naked Heart Foundation)

Know-it-all Turtles
(for Michael McClure)

Some nights we stay up until dawn
as the moon sometimes does
waiting for the plodding sun

We trek down to the docks
and wander the waterfront
in pursuit of the earth's soul

Is the soul solid and squat like
the columns of a Buddhist temple?
Is it dark, cramped and steep
like the path to my heart?
Who has it and who doesn't?
Can the soles of our feet touch the soul of the world?

"If there is a soul," the poet says
"it is built with simple eyes."

Everything out there is inside of us
what is inside of us is out there.
Is our soil rich, well cultivated
teeming with healthy crops
or choked with weeds?

One night we find
lotuses spread in concentric circles
a loggerhead sea turtle
whose contribution to philosophy
has been silence

What is out there ...
the great sea stirs in me
sets me adrift

Turtles ride churning oceans
turning tides
Tuned by a wisdom
more ancient than thought
they dedicate their lives
to studying the stars
and can teach us
the uselessness of feet
By night and by light
sea turtles glide always

Earth and sun are kind to turtles
The Old Turtle
on which the earth rests
cares for turtle eggs
as the other mothers waddle off
to ride the curve of the deep
by light and by night

That night my soul swam away
with the know-it-all turtle



Nancy Wakeman

(image from www.frontier.ac.uk/_library/images/PROUruguay)

Heavenly Messengers

For eons we have watched them,
circling or still,
lit or swathed in their
elusive veils.

Some saw in them
figures of ancient myth,
others portents of things to come,
or else omens
of when to plant,
when to beget the child.
Their streaming rays
plunged some into dream trance,
drove others into
poetry or song.

We measured their height
and distances,
recorded their erratic rounds,
even sent emissaries
to discover what they
were made of,
what they had once been.

But they never responded,
gave us no signal
or sign
that they knew we were there.

We have yet to unravel
the enduring puzzle,

enigmatic scheme,
continuing witnesses
to the mystery
which never speaks back.

Dorothy Walters

November 17, 2008

(Image from Hubblesite.org-- by D. Gouliermis, Max Planck Institute for Astronomy, Heidelberg)

Even if You Have Trudged

It is never too late.
Even if you have trudged
through snow and ice
for a thousand miles
and still have not arrived.
Even if the map is lost
and the compass broken.
When the eagle who is
supposed to guide you
goes off on a tangent
of its own
and you know you are,
once again, deserted
do not fall into
the pit of despair.
It will return,
brighter than ever.
There will be feather tokens
falling down.

Nothing is irredeemable.
Nothing is lost forever.
Be guided by the stars.
Let the moonlight
direct your steps.

There will be a path
which will open
in the forest.
The treasure which is yours
is waiting.
Claim it.

Dorothy Walters

December 4, 2008

(image from source)

Who Were You Then?

How many rose gardens,
how many prayers,
moons which swelled
just for you
as you walked below.

That moment
on the cliffs,
the surf hurling itself
against the rocks,
you watched together
as the sea
swallowed the sun,
its brilliant saffron and plum
spreading into
a ladder of light.

Yet at times
the waves
echoed
your own sobs,
the trees moaned
in unison.
Who were you then?

And now,
can you say,
is it all knit together,
griefs and expectations
finally compounded,
creature
at last complete?

Dorothy Walters
December 3, 2008

Crestwaves of Joy

Even though she chose
ecstasy
over despair,
it was still there,
tagging her
like an insistent shadow,
a dark face
springing up
from behind a tree.

She thought that when
she had been swallowed
by joy,
swept into the high sea
of passionate delight,
everything would be settled,
there would be no more
questioning of meanings,
of god.

And for a while,
that was the way things went,
from crestwave of joy
to swells of rapture,
thrills too difficult
to sustain.

But then the shadows returned,
not threatening,
but thrusting forth
a question,
are you certain?
Where is the rest
of the puzzle?
What is light
that does not carry
its own dark image within?

Dorothy Walters

Nov.20, 2008

(Photo by Patricia Lay-Dorsey)

The Dream Child

It seems I lack it--
the ability
to stay within the tangible.
The way things look, taste,
occupy volume
in the reality of space.

Like a child
who cannot paint
inside the lines,
a fisherman
who always pulls his
baited hook in
a moment too soon.

Where was I
when the
instruction
was given out,
the way to bite the coin
to see if it is real,
or kiss the grape
and swallow down
its heady juice.

I was elsewhere,
it seems,
off among
the cloud chambers
of thought,
dreaming of glowing arbors,
fingering
imaginary coins,
listening for angels
passing overhead.

Dorothy Walters

November 20, 2008

(Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/artezoe/2558260408/)