p e a c e
palpable as the presence of a Presence
yet utterly ineffable
a benediction without diction
beyond the grope of thought
a blessedness without symbol
not experienced as other but
– inescapably so –
immaculate all-adoring silence
Image: Miriam Louisa Simons – detail, Stained Glass Morning
Missa Gaia Series, 1987-88. Painting on silk, stitching.
Private Collection, Auckland New Zealand
blessed are those who know nothing for certain,
whose curiosity keeps them beyond the claws of conclusion,
who seek as an impulse of wonderment rather than for gain,
who question everything the pundits proclaim as truth;
whose questions deliver them, willingly or not,
to the fiery face of the Unnameable, and
who find the courage to keep a “yes” alive in spite of terror;
who come back speechless and trembling with gratitude
blessed are those for whom the encounter enlivens a capacity
and a willingness to hold both hands out to the world
(one to hold grief, the other, gratefulness)
for their heart knows the two as one;
who, without choice, stand naked in knowingness;
whose fulfilment is refreshed with every breath;
who are quietly content (which is not to say inert or passive)
in spite of all that life appears to heave at them
blessed are those who know these contented ones,
who count them among their friends and neighbours,
who seek them out for their simple wisdom, knowing
they have nothing to spin or sell – nothing to bestow
other than their crazy head-shaking heart-healing joy:
innocent – ingenious – immanent
Image: Bill Viola – Firewoman, 2005. Detail from video/sound installation.
The suitors came a-courting –
some to convert; others
They built their bowers
and cast their glittering nets
it was a bet against nothing
and nothing always
See, I was taken at birth by
a groom I could never meet;
wed for life to Its presence
our consummation flowering
in my disappearance –
afresh in every instant.
My groom is the keeper of nothingness:
the nothing that can’t be named
or owned, yet
It is my constant consort.
And so, tonight
I drink my wine and dance
How could I be happier?
Image: iPhone photography by Karen Divine
Karen’s work is featured at my website the awakened eye
a moment arrives
without a need of the past
the full moon rises
a thought bubbles up
a preference is posited
the moon doesn’t mind
the bubble bursts, pop!
awareness has no center
mooning melts the night
Image: Utagawa Hiroshige (Ando), Wind Blown Grass Across the Moon
Collection, Brooklyn Museum, New York
IT is not understood
until IT is forgotten.
When IT is forgotten
IT can express ITself.
When IT expresses ITself
you won’t recognise IT.
If you think you recognise IT
you are mistaken.
Realising you are mistaken
revealing IT to ITself
“IT” in this context = reality, big R.
This post might read like a madwoman’s rant, but those who have free-fallen into Unknowing will simply smile at the play of paradox.
Such is IT’s way.
Image sourced from Facebook, where credit was not given. Please advise if it’s yours and an appropriate link will be added.
The ingenious wizards at WordPress have shifted things around again. They no longer offer a sampling of blogs using the themes they offer – a pity, imho, as it’s always interesting to see the way a variety of bloggers turn a particular theme into a personal platform for their writing.
The changes mean this little blog is no longer featured as a “great blog using the Manifest Theme.” Overnight the stats shrank like unmentionables doused in a shower of icy water.
There’s a sense of relief that the folk who turn up here nowadays are more likely to be interested in the content of this blog rather than its theme and design. Yet this is mingled with gratitude that the exposure generated by the WP link may have delivered a few web-wanderers – who might otherwise have scooted on by – to these pages.
When all is said and done, all that remains is emptiness. And emptiness is not about to be silenced. So if you are a stalwart subscriber to this blog, fear not. She-who-transcribes-the-downloads isn’t about to clock off because she’s been sidelined by WP. She thrives on anonymity, and it’s a constant source of amazement to her that Life makes sure her offerings land exactly where they are able to be received.
Nothing, nothing is required of her but to offer what’s given.
And she wryly observes that the Changeless remains – well – unchanged.
plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose
God came to visit
she snuck in as a ‘flu bug
oh – what an honour!
resting in retreat:
with no idea of ‘body’
can illness be found?
gutted and legless
I’m utterly emptied out
(love loves a vacuum)
Image: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901), Seule 1896.
Oil on cardboard. H. 31; W. 40 cm
© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée d’Orsay)