Posts in Category: Poems

Creativity

Creativity is vital to our wellbeing – from my perspective, it is our essence. It is allowing whatever it is that we believe in – the Mystery, the Cosmos, the Divine, God- to flow through us, being present to what comes. In my practice, I offer both writing and photography groups that are focused on building mindfulness into our everyday lives. I offer these because creativity – especially writing and photography for me – have helped me find the way forward. This is a poem I wrote in November 2014 while sitting with both grief and gratitude with a photograph of the supermoon from July on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Check my website for upcoming offerings to start in the new year.

Straightening Towards the Light

Deeply dashed expectations have the potential to lead to profound suffering. Through radical acceptance, we can experience true freedom and be open to the magnificent opportunities life provides. A deep, immeasurable beauty flows from the recognition that regardless of the winds of change, our true form grows around the hatched knots, perpetually straightening toward the light.

On this day, I share a poem that simply and honestly speaks to this resilience:

The Hawthorn
by David Whyte

The crossed knot
in the hawthorn bark
and the stump
of the sawn off branch
hemmed by the roughened
trunk. In that
omniscient black eye
of witness
I see the dark no-growth
of what has passed
grown round by
what has come to pass,
looking at me
as if I could speak.

So much that was
good in her,
so much in me,
cut off now
from the future
in which we grew together.

Now,
through the window
of my new house
that hawthorn’s
crooked faithful
trunk round
an old and broken
growth,
my mouth dumb

and
Dante’s voice
instead of mine
from the open book

Brother, our love
has laid our wills to rest.
Making us long
only for what is ours
and by no other thirst
possessed.

Our life not lived
together
must still
live on apart,
longing only
for what is ours
alone,
each grow
round the missed branch
as best we can,
claim what is ours
separately,

though not forget
loved memories,
nor that life
still loved by memory,
nor the hurts
through which we
hesitantly
tried to learn
affection.

Our pilgrim journey
apart or together,
like
the thirst
of everything
to find its true form,
the grain of the wood
round the hatched knot
still
straightening
toward the light.