Do You Recognize Me? Dec 11 2019

Swords, when we were young.
Every unconscious stab
Every conscious thrust
They've all left their scars.

In that you had expectations, and I was a tablet of soft clay
I received all your inscriptions
I carried the weight of your accounting
As my own flesh.

You had your script
But I was something else
All your own painful life and troubled sleep
Threw you a soul to confound!

The harder I tried to be recognized
The more you looked away
Until you didn't recognize me at all.

All these pins and thorns, like swords.
They make it so hard to move.

"Release it!  Let it go!"
Bad advice.
Those rapiers must be withdrawn.
Some I can reach, many I cannot.
It hurts to move.

Eventually I face my crucifixion.
You don't release that.
You must be taken down, dead.

And forgiveness.
If I follow the pattern,
Before I die, I forgive
Because even if they think they do,
They don't know what they're doing.

Forgiveness is possible
In the great shadow of the cross, only.
It is no light or casual effort to forgive.
And then, passion of the cross.  I thirst.
Dying, thousands of times.

Each death, though, withdraws a pin.
Death, though we fear it so, is mercy
And the end of the sin.

After, washing in consecrated water
A holy drop on each pinhole in the flesh.
Are you dead?  In faith, yes, you know it.
Next, salve of wine and oil,
Herbs, and spice and linen wrapping.
Rest.

Power.

Finally, when you rise
You take the cup of water turned to wine, become blood
And eat the broken bread become body
And you, you recognize yourself

In the one who went before.

Trailing Aug 26 2019

I have walked with You in the wilds
I have tracked You
And You have tracked me.

I have resorted to old, old maps and letters
You have needed no such thing,
For You are aware of me at all times,
And I talk to You knowing this
Even though I resort to translators myself.
You make Yourself known
In code
In Sky and Sun
In verse I've stumbled over
In certainty welling up within me

In a long, long history of fidelity
We walk the fields of the world
Hand in hand.

I am Your feral cat
Your wide ranging setter
Your untethered pony
I am Your bare-headed girl
Who cannot stay inside the lines
And prefers the company of Trees
To the rich sanctuaries
Of whatever religions have become.

You are my Tree.  

I am safe within Thee

Feral Child October 2016

I am a feral child
Who grew up secretly in the wild
Wandering the woods and rails
And shunning the wide highways
That surrounded my ground.

Broken, broken from the past
Unattached to the past
Unrelated to the ancestors
Except by barest twisted threads

All our potent symbols and songs
Locked up in copy right prongs
Forbidden in public and fined as well
Frowned upon by Powers

So I am free in silence
I may walk among trees' guidance
And give tongue to song
Among the Alders and Poplars
To what can you assign me?

Yet, They come, They rise and flow
The songs, the tunes, they show
The ancient ones
The ancient ways
Are marked with rays
And subtle glow.

Trauma Overcome Aug 28 2018

Growing out of Trauma.
 Laying it gently on the ground.

 
Watching this year's flowers grow up through it.
Discovering that it doesn't define you anymore. 

Recognizing that it gives you a great and deep compassion
for every person who has experienced anything similar. 

Being grateful that your eyes are open and your ears are up
And you sniff the air now like a wolf;

And your beauty and your love are yours to share, or not, as you choose.

The Nature of Pattern Feb 5th 2019

Ritual is necessary

Also Litany

They are the skeleton that gives a frame

And the blueprint.

Here is a foundation.

We build up from the ground

So eventually we have a home to live in.

But the inhabitants themselves are also portals.

For these fundamentals to be timeless

They must also serve timely purposes

And be adaptable 

Just as we are.

The core around which I live

May be said to lead all the way back

Yet it is also now, hatching me every day

I AM is always present in this eternity.

Praying with the Lakota for the Land

Praying with the Lakota For The Land

The colonizing overculture, which produces monoculture with devastating results, which assumes resources without realizing cycles, is a house divided against itself. I too am standing with the land, the stones, the dirt, the bugs, the animals and the fish, the birds; these all depend upon the stewards of the land, which have become us. I am far from understanding the ways of Nature, but I am throwing in my lot with her, because, really, there is no other place under God where we stand, eh? I am not called to politics, or war, or merchandising. I am called to abundant life, and as I nurture my little pea patch, I can see the wealth that is a living heritage.

Mystic or Mage? May 29th 2019

Mystic or Mage?  

Sooner than later is the realization that you are dealing 

With A Very Big Responsibility..
Too much, really, for one temporary life.

Brave Mage, your tools and your arm, 
Your will and your action need to be married in this life.

Devoted Mystic, the sublime ecstasy will only be a memory, 

And still today you must do your sadhana.

If you admit to God

Then there is a hope of Grace straddling the Abyss

Or if you see God as Wrathful

The reading is Judgement and Blood,

For blood always appeases an angry god.

Martha was distraught.

And Mary could not tear away from gazing at the Light before her

He loves them both of course

But He’s reminding Martha that it’s too much for her

And perhaps she should mend to Him.

The bigger the God 

The more precious the blood

And how can we step up to that?

Before we admit to God,  it’s the ritual we must get right

Or it all goes up in smoke and the blowback is a bitch.

After we admit, plainly,

There is not enough blood in the world to appease an angry God.

Yes? All the blood in the world cannot even appease 
The Kings of Men!

Give up the call and response which will bleed you to death.

—Only the biggest God can deal with wrath—

And let your soul lie quiet in the womb of Grace

There will be time for the work, 

Great as it is;
The Host knows to feed you.

Do what you can, Mage, because you can, and you will—but first,

Come here and gaze into the mystic, gentle, humble face of God.

And dear Mystic, Mary of God, 
May your gaze never leave the Light of the Face

Even while you are reciting the words, even while you are lighting the candle

Pouring water, making the meal, and learning to wield the tools of your trade

For the two must become one 

And your faith must be steady

Walking through the darkest Valley of Shadows

Your hand firm in the hand of Grace

Letter to Susan 1.30.2019

Dear Susan,

It was sure nice to hear your voice after all this time!  I promise I won't wait so long next time..
I was going to hand write you a letter, but apparently this letter is going to be longish and I type a lot faster than I print!

Enclosed are the statements I have from this year; there are two accounts, one with TDAmeritrade, a basic stock account, and one with Vanguard which is an IRA.  It shouldn't be hard or complicated- ---mostly emotional.  I imagine you'll need a copy of the death certificate and the will; your lawyer will certainly know what to do if you come up to a snag, and Art is your steady support.

You asked about poetry, so, at the risk of inundation, I'm sending you a folder of poems, and a small self-published book done in 2016, when my dad and I took a college course from Professor Marina Shipova (the wife of my music partner Noel) on self-publishing, and we each published a book.  The inundation:  more recent poems, loose in the back of the folder..  Dad has continued to publish, and has now 4 books to his name.  All short stories, sort of O'Henry-ish and a little more thought-ful as he goes along.

I sort of gave up on publishing for the time being and am rather trying to just keep up with my life in general..eh?   But lately have been working on hand-written copies into bound journals.  This is laborious as you may well imagine, but it gives me time to think about What Are You Really Trying To Say, and reminds me that my self is consistent over the years.  It's a journal, no question, and I journal best when I'm struggling over something, so, SORRY!!  Some of it is a pure slog.  I've realized writing is my meditation, more or less, and writing really is a surprise.  The things I come up with, the things I realize, the things I see.  Also, much cheaper than therapy, and I have something to show for it.  Hahahaha!  Seriously! 

And in the meantime, I'm doing massage, taking continuing ed according to what interests me and is useful, going for walks with my neighbor when it's not too friggin cold (we're geraniums out here and perish at 25 degrees) and am still playing music with Noel. 

In 2013, my mom died in April.  A month later, NOEL's mom died, and before he knew about it that day, HE fell off a roof doing an electrical job in downtown Sequim.  He landed on pavement and smashed his left wrist to bits, and cracked his hip in 3 places.  Somehow, he did not break his skull.  Anyway, he was in a cast for months and months, and had to start over with everything the left hand does, especially the guitar.  (His chord hand, you know, and the wrist was all remade with cadaver bone and plastic bits, screws, etc.)  So, we have not played professionally since.  We get together every week and play.  Sometimes we sit and watch a movie.  We're getting old.  Seriously.  I am not kidding.  He HAS been writing a lot of songs, and over the first few rough years of recovery, he regained about 99.9 % of his fluidity on the guitar, which is just stupifying.  He still complains about his "deficiency", and I still remind him that He Lived, and nobody else can tell that he doesn't play Just Like He Used To, even Me.  So we're still learning music.  Just too old and cranky to play out.

My Dad helped me to buy out your half, as you may have realized, and then he totally blew me away by paying off my mortgage.  This was a forward, and would come out of my inheritance.  When my brother found out, he went ballistic.  He'd been getting more aggressive toward Dad and was making things uncomfortable for Diedra, and in the end, Dad and the lawyer came up with an exit strategy for my brother, involving giving him some money up front, and the rest after he was out of the house.  He had two weeks to leave.  Money is a strong motivator.  He was out, lock stock and barrel, and we have not heard from him since.  Apparently he lives in Port Angeles, because I have seen him occasionally near the library.  Long story short, we are all relieved and he appears to be in better health (lost weight because, no car by choice, and walks everywhere) and doing well enough.

Doug has lately finished a building project in the back yard, hidden in the trees.  Roughly 400 square feet with a small "Meditation Loft" complete with staircase, lots of windows, and a beautiful door.  It's his Man Cabin, and he has his futon there, along with stereo, records, a small desk and a couple of low coffee tables.  He can get away from the Cats and The Woman back there and read until 2:30 am if he wants.  It's very cool.  You can not see it either from the road or from the sky.  He's working on music all the time and just gets better and better.  He wants me to sing the blues, but I'm too English Lady-ish and must stick to my melodic ballads.

And, yada yada. 

Put me in your email contacts list, will you?  sidneyspath@ gmail.com, and email me with your email address?  And if you venture into Facebook, please let me know.  If you only befriend me, you will be richly entertained with lovely pictures and pithy comments, and you don't have to have any other people in your face. book. 

Probably much more to say but the clock is tapping me on the shoulder.

Love,  Sidney