The emerging palm frond grows hard, spike-like to its full length – rigid, straight, unyielding and quite lethal – then, its destination reached, it begins to open. Its stiff fronds gradually appear, then begin to spread out, and as the opening proceeds, the stem frond relaxes, relaxes into receiving of sun and wind and rain, relaxes into the movement of the dance, relaxes into bowing grace and elegance; relaxes into pure palming play.
it’s windy today
– dancing bougainvillea blossoms caressing brick wall
– sweeping rainbows from spinning crystal
– shifting shadows through lattice trellis
– flapping bamboo blind air-sailing
– frangipani fragrance kissing face
– tossing eucalypt branches against pearl
one loosed leaf spirals to the earth
does it intuit that letting-go is love?
that love is grace
and grace is
I pick up the loosed leaf, knowing that
in my palm rests the only teaching
I will ever need
it’s windy today
More musings on Grace: The ‘something’ that happens to return me to now, to Life, is usually something I want least. I mean, who would welcome pain and immobility? Who would sign up for surrender of career, colleagues and culture?
We love to welcome Grace in its function as provider of pleasant surprises and serendipities. But Grace can also bring unpleasant surprises.
Grace is function and fire.
Grace is Life’s creative dynamism.
Grace is Life on the return loop of Its journey.
Grace is what undoes ‘me.’
Sitting later today. The sun is hotter, the shadows shorter; traffic noise is louder, but drowned out by a raucous conversation being held outside my window.
Four flying rainbows called lorikeets are in a dispute with one huge kookaburra: What a drama! What a racket! You’d think a flock of fifty birds was out there, but no, only five. First class Australian citizens . . . (only joking!)
What I notice when amnesia sneaks in and I begin again to claim doer-ship and control over tomorrow, doggedly pushing on, blindly following the ruts of conditioning and posing as supreme controller, is this:
Something happens to bring me back,
and, probably because I’m a gritty goer,
it happens to my body.
(Arm gets rms: can’t scribble or type,
back goes out: can’t stand at easel,
knee explodes: can’t move.)
Something makes me stop, sit, shut-up
and free-fall yet again
into the what-is of this life I call mine.
That ‘something’ is what I know as Grace.
It’s usually fierce. Definitely not fluffy.
I’ve learned to love it as my most treasured Beloved,
for it returns me to ITself.
Looking for clarity?
Try turning off the thought machine.
Clarity comes effortlessly when mind
stops its default dot-connecting.
It’s like a rio abajo rio –
a field of intelligence that flows
beneath the river of intellect
and the streams of space and time.
Stop thinking; it bubbles up.
Trouble is, ‘you’ can’t stop thinking
for ‘you’ are the thinking process!
What to do?
Nothing, there’s no way out.
The discovery of this stops thought in its tracks.
Like Grace, all that’s needed for clarity
“Thy will be done.”
I’ve been thinking about this little cluster of words lately. Taken in the Biblical sense it no longer makes much sense, for “Thy” presumes the presence of a God-power (modeled on human attributes, naturally) who has designs on the life of the supplicant. Like all other godly notions, “Thy” is just a projection of mental fantasy. And “… will be done” presumes the existence of a temporal future. But all dimensions of time – including space, are also projections. That’s what intellect tells me. But then there’s the problem of Grace.
Maybe the magical movement I conceptualize as Grace is what the ancient Biblical scribes called God. Maybe the God notion was anthropomorphized over time and set in stone as an object that wielded Grace.
When the echoes murmur about “giving Grace space” perhaps the essence is not so different from the surrender implied in “Thy will be done.” But if I say “Thy will be done” I don’t refer to an object of any kind. Neither ‘Thy’ nor ‘will’ are objects but dynamics. Perhaps we could say “Will is happening” but this still implies the existence of some kind of pre-planned divine choreography. Which is all very well, but pretty pointless because there’s no way the immensity of IT would ever be accessible to our small minds.
It’s all good grist for the mind-mill. Breathing in and breathing out, the mill grinds to a halt. Aaahhhhh…
IT graces the spacious silence. Everything sensed, conceived, imagined, is inescapably IT.
“IT, happening!” sums up the existence story pretty nicely for me these days.
the utterly unexpected and uninvited,
the unintentional and unwilled
these are the hallmarks of life on the
who doesn’t want the Gracious life?
who doesn’t hunger for the magical and synchronous?
(if you say “Not me”
I don’t believe you)
slipping between mind’s tectonic plates
resting as empty-fullness
it’s such a blessed relief to find
that the Gracetrack is exactly
unadorned, uninterrupted, story-free
N O W