There is a spell or a poem

A spell to Commit Pronoia, Jennifer Welwood

Willing to experience aloneness,

I discover connection everywhere;

Turning to face my fear,

I meet the warrior who lives within;

Opening to my loss,

I am given unimaginable gifts;

Surrendering into the emptiness,

I find fullness without end.

Each condition I flee from pursues me.

Each condition I welcome transforms me

And becomes itself transformed

Into its radiant jewel-like essence.

I bow to the one who had made it so,

Who has crafted this Master Game;

To play it is pure delight,

To honor it is true devotion.

This spell or poem spoke to me this morning while doing my practice of reading mediations. A reading mediation is one in which the language of the scripture, if you wish to use that “religious” word. A reading mediation can be a selections of passages from your favorite books or quotes that you may have accumulated in a journal or dairy. Words and language that your feel as you read them, I like to say them out loud, it gives me a sense of life, gives the words and lanuage energy, lets them loose on or into the Universe. As ritual passages they become more magical, reciting the words consciously allows for them to form, give meaning, allows you to feel and sense what they mean, how structure and or tone informs your spirit, breathe, take a moment between the sentences, hold the last one until it lets go.

Letting go informs your conscious you are ready to receive the next line, the next assistance, the next illumination, the next loving caress or uplifting phrase that will carry you on to the next.

Listen to your voice, the sound of it, are you quiet, is it tough or tender, are you commanding the words forth with projection, or are you meekly rendering them across the air into your space? Are those words intimate, are they strong and powerful, like a lover encouraging you on? Sudders my come, you may feel sweaty or faint, or nothing. If nothing, stop, breathe, re-set your intention, your purpose.

Read the previous sentence, or passage, feel it now, understand your pace, how does it feel now?

There are days that it becomes routine and you rush through the practice just to get on with your day, it is okay for now yet remember to embrace the practice next time. That energy and consciousness is what you take with you into your day. A word or a phrase may come to you when driving to work, or doing your chores, a conversation with a friend or even a stranger can sometimes remind you of who you are, and who you are seeking to become. In a flash or later in a thoughtful moment your warrior has come upon its weekness or its strenght, here is where the creative tools are brought forth to craft your being.

It is not perfection we seek even when it feels like that is so. It is the authentic self we seek and begin to know. In our aloneness we are not alone, in our fear we are fearless, in our pursuits we discover we can be transformed.

Delight in the journey, find laughter in the imperfection, and joy in the challenges. Embrace the gifts each moment offers.

There is that poem or passage, or even a spell that leads you…

 

For I will always find you…

Finding You in Beauty

Penetrating Light

The rays of light filtered through
The sentinels of trees this morning.
I sat in the garden and contemplated.
The serenity and beauty
Of my feelings and surroundings
Completely captivated me.

I thought of you

I thought of you.

I discovered you tucked away
In the shadows of the trees.
Then, rediscovered you
In the smiles of the flowers

tucked away

As the sun penetrated their petals
In the rhythm of the leaves
Falling in the garden
In the freedom of the birds
As they fly searching as you do.

ending beauty

I’m very happy to have found you,
Now you will never leave me
For I will always find you in the beauty of life.
–Walter Rinder

The leaf !

Before another moment passes, and I am distracted by all the distraction of life. I am here, to write, well to offer you a view. This blog is about art, about photography, the process and the facts.

So Fridays will become Photo Fridays where Photographs will rule the page.

For years I have been fascinated by leaves, all seasons, all weather, and I have photographed them from buds, to blooms, to full fledge green flags flipping in the wind! To what I present today, fallen leaves, carpets of leaves.

Recently I have been photographing fallen leaves, a bit from above, shooting down at them, more fascinating is laying on the ground with me, ant level.

So the new series is being presented. With a poem “Dead Leaves” by MdAsadullah

embrace

Never think that dead leaves cannot speak.
Words can be uttered without mouth or beak.
Come in heard to hear and they’ll remain mum.
To hear them in solitude you need to come.

are they lonely

are you listening

Loneliness and silence are their best friend.
You can listen only if truth you seek and intend.
If you’ve mind and heart to listen, men of clay!
Words more worthy than living they can say.

Heart is strong

They will whisper..

If your heart is strong and if you have no fear.
Then in storms they are very loud, very clear.
And if your heart is weak in breeze come near.
Truth of this life they will whisper in your ear.

patterns

did they speak

 

I am grateful to have you walk this path with me today. I am honored to share these wondrous creations, the leaf with whoever wanders down a path. Please “see” .

All Photographs can be found here

Queen Anne’s Lace

Queen-Anne’s Lace

By William Carlos Williams

 

Her body is not so white as

anemony petals nor so smooth—nor

so remote a thing.

It is a field

of the wild carrot taking

the field by force;  the grass

does not raise above it.

Here is no question of whiteness,

white as can be, with a purple mole

at the center of each flower.

Each flower is a hand’s span

of her whiteness. Wherever

his hand has lain there is

a tiny purple blemish.

 

Each part

is a blossom under his touch

to which the fibres of her being

stem one by one, each to its end,

until the whole field is a

white desire, empty,

a single stem,

a cluster, flower by flower,

a pious wish to whiteness gone over—

or nothing.

The poetry of Fog

The fog is an illusion—
A master of disguise,
Which hides the tangible
Before our very eyes.

But when the fog has lifted
Everything’s still there,
And the tangible
Only seemed to’ve disappeared.

In the early morning
Or late at night,
The fog descends
Upon various sites.

It gives an air of mystery
That has long prevailed.
Dangerously intriguing
Is the fog’s foggy veil.

© W.S.2009

Walterrean Salley

The Dense Fog

I see not what others see
The fog is used to blind me
That fog of routine that is of life
Unable to see what is near
It is near impossible to hear
Only the little light makes it through
That light is what I see
The possibility of unhindered vision
But that is only for a moment
For tomorrow the fog will roll back
And that is how all life is
For my generation and yours
This fog is here to stay

Stephen Mueller