Posted in Markers, Poetry

Holy Week Meditations

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Good Friday.

The world is crying. With rain.
Time shrunk into single themes.
Shame time. Guilt time. Loss time. Hate.
Folded onto itself, like the press of an accordion.
Each fear, for instance, experienced at once.
Each ache.
All the ways we are wrong.
No room for breath.
Breath.
Expanding the folds of time.
Releasing me.
Into we.
With the rain.

On Crucifixion Day, I think of therapists–all those who make sacred the pain of others. Of social workers–who advocate for those who suffer. Of activists–who champion the cause. Of teachers–who point the way through. Of artists–who awaken the soul of hope. Of politicians–who define the course of a nation.

By Easter Eve, I found my mind, petal soft–the gift of a day of meditation with Tara Brach. By Easter morning, there is a personality Resurrection. Petals crushed by grasping.

I missed Easter once before–in 2007–during a training. I wasn’t nearly as sad this time (my kids are older now), but I did mourn the absence of ritual until I realized that I had been delivered an even better Easter Basket:

Deep presence… my rich chocolate bunny;
Beginning again (and again)–my egg hunt;
Tara’s jokes–color-full jelly beans;
Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health–the basket;
300 students–the grass of consciousness;
Tara Brach‘s Loving Presence weekend–received.

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Posted in Poetry, Quotes

Our Mother’s Hands

Photo 357

BLESSED BE OUR HANDS
by Diann Neu

Blessed be the work of our hands.

Blessed be these hands that touch life.

Blessed be these hands that nurture creativity.

Blessed be these hands that hold pain.

Blessed be these hands that embrace with passion.

Blessed be these hands that tend gardens.

Blessed be these hands that close in anger.

Blessed be these hands that plant new seeds.

Blessed be these hands that harvest ripe fields.

Blessed be these hands that clean, wash, mop, scrub.

Blessed be these hands that become knotty with age.

Blessed be these hands that wrinkle and scar from doing justice.

Blessed are these hands that reach out and are received.

Blessed are these hands that hold the promise of the future.

Blessed be the works of our hands and hearts.

~Diann Neu

 

Posted in Poetry, Voices

The Gift of Grief (David Whyte)

One of the radical edges of experience is grief…

The prospect of facing up to the sharper edges of grief can prevent us from having the fullest experience of whatever frontier we are on… (because ) it’s always a great temptation to retreat away from that frontier…
to just “deal with it”…

This narrows the understanding of what you are actually confronting…

 The essence of the ability to feel the fiercer edges of experience is to fully incarnate our life at any one time;
the edges are our existence ripening, and the experience of them allows us to taste the ripe fruit of our experience, thereby celebrating and understanding the particular season that we are experiencing…

 Attempt to feel your aloneness in as startling and clear a way as possible…

The Well of Grief

Those who will not slip

Beneath the still surface on

The well of grief

Turning down through its

Black water to the place

We cannot breathe

will never know

The source from which

We drink

The secret water

cold and clear

Nor find

In the darkness

Glimmering

The small round coins

Thrown

By those who

Asked

for something else

There is a cycle of experience which human beings are heir to which is part of their inheritance…
If you do feel grief and loss fully, it’s suddenly placed in some kind of enormous context that makes sense, that gives you an essential understanding of the beauty and magnificence of the world which we occupy.

(David Whyte)

Posted in Lanscape of Loss, My Bonnie, Poetry

Mrs. B

bright eyes

beautiful smile

beach-lit hair

sun-kissed cheeks

warm heart

heavy burden

empty spot

Rest in peace Betty

you have loved and been loved

No doubt

a heavenly birthday

awaits you!

Kelly Salasin, October 2011

(Note: Betty first welcomed me into her home as a highschool friend of her son’s, and later became the beloved grandmother of my youngest siblings–when our mother Bonnie fell in love with her son.)

Posted in Lanscape of Loss, Markers, My Bonnie, Poetry

Love’s Hiding Place

In tippy-toed embraces

and

arched-neck kisses

I learned

about Love

from

my

Mommy

& Daddy


But

Love was Lost

when they Divorced

Turning Numb

and Cold

and Hiding its Face

among the stars


I never thought to

see Love again

Never wanted to


Yet to my unabashed

Surprise

It reappeared

Many years later

when I myself

was a Mommy

tippy-toe kissing a Dad


I found it

 

in the strangest place…

Hiding

in the

Spoon-Cuddling nap

of my Father

& stepMother


Who would have thought

that it’d be there

just waiting

for me

to notice…


As I grew older

Love was less shy

about showing itself to me:


Once

it was

so Bold

& Brazen

it made me cry,


As I watched my “stepFather”

hold my mother’s hand

while she died

Kelly Salasin

Posted in Poetry

Unseasonable

From the depth of winter, a deluge of rain uncovers the ghosts of our garden beds, rising up from the fog…

Unearthed, a single leaf catches a ride on a frigid wind, nestling itself into a crevice of snow.

Later, it reappears–a ghost of itself–ashen white, rooted in a bank, flapping in the winter sun.

K. Salasin

Posted in Poetry

Heaven’s Daughters

 

 

i imagine our “children,”

the fruit of our love–and strife,

Dancing

Dancing in the sky

Among the stars–

Heaven’s daughters

Created of pure love,

Too pure for earthly confinement

Dancing above us nonetheless,

Skirts moving with the breeze,

Laughing,

Laughing,

those children of mine in the sky

Looking down at me

Running here and there in

Merriment

Forever immersed

in love

Where they belong


Kelly Salasin, 2002

(to read the story behind the poem, The Loss of Love and Innocence, click here)