Outside-in Sights

To turn inside out is a violent act, but to turn outside in is only natural. It is not to turn at all, but to face the world and meet yourself in it. This is not narcissism or solipsism. This is animism, anarchism, the primacy of perception. You are just anOther in a world that is alive. The surface of your body is the depths of your mind. The universe and you are inextricably intertwined; you are crossed-over co-projections, just as light enters the eye. The end is insight, and so is the beginning. There is nothing to put right but the stories we are spinning. Life is suffering? Only because we Love! We are all archetypal avatars and every animal god! And they are us! Consciousness is an infallible mystery. All truth requires poetry: without it science is invisible and religion is silent. These are outside-in sights: inclusive yet transcendent.

CONTENTS

• King Stag and His Little Helpers
• GroUp (A Vision of The World Tree)
• From All Saints to John
• Quack
• PsycHome (Paintings & Memories)
• The Long Dance

(A Palpable Character)

Whispering blessings
Under the old squat oak
Into the palm of tobacco
Little brown rivers
Falling into the wind
Settling like snow
That the secret knows
Knotted in the dirt
Tangled grass

Exude a yearning
Sound from the soft bellows
Of my chest, unfurling
In the air the umbrella
Of my opening head:
An earth
Facing flower

*

(Purr Pull Hey Zzz)

Little brother
Psilocybe
Fun-guide
Me to you

Drop your spores
And give yoursElf to me
I will give mysElf to you
We can share this mystery

Psilocybe
Little guys
Please show me where you hide
You are such a joy to find

Liberty caps
Elf hats
Nipple-heads
Little brothers
Fun-guide me to you

Please show me where you hide
Where you laugh
In jungle grass
Let me grasp
Your bell-shaped hearts
And crown mice-elf
A-gain

*

(Other brOthers)

Hello, bless, but
No – not you -
I’m looking for the
Other brOthers.

*

(aFamilyaFair)

I plead
But they stay away
Wrack my brains
Worry that I’ve misbehaved

My greed
Prompting me to pluck ’em too young
Before the mushroom cloud had sprung
In times gone…
(What a pinhead!)
I promise
To leave the children
Who are yet to fulfil
Their function
Growing in the grass

*

(Starring Earth)

Little brother
Psilocybe
Fun-guide
Me

(Let me show you
Where you hide me…)

Unlock the gateway
of my mind,
Hide in visible
Plain sight
Un-why’nd

Wheel dance
On the other side
Spiralling unspoken
Many colours merged
One soul become diverse
A moving ghost
In the singing light
Of our flesh prism.

*

(Another Dimension)

Ferns fizzing green
And rusting brown
Sunlit: one high frequency
Dimensionless like angel-spit
Smoothed around
The space of shade:
A breath into the void
Filled with kindly grades.
The canopy’s shadow
Dappled dimples like dips -
Am I the ship on this ocean?

*

(Wood 'n Sun)

Scan the landscape
To feel for a pull
Watch the flight of a crow
And ask for a clue:
First up & away from me
then turning into my direction,
Bidding on.

King Stag and His Little Helpers; Pen, Ink & Acrylic Paint on Paper; 40 x 60cm. (2009)

Caught like a lightning strike
In my scanning gaze
Leading landscape to a plane
A breathing tapestry:
Lit up for one eternal moment
In the warp & weft of distant trees
And fractal heath -
The tall shining skeleton
The bone-lit King Stag
Moon-flesh tied like wishing rags
To the windless cage of his proud ribs,
Antlers like World-Tree-veins
Pumping ancient days
Through the thin skin of night -
Time is a cyclic flicker
And memory is alive.

Immediate, unmediated
Memory – a meaningful picture
Like a flaw in the crystallised eternity
Of life. Like a crack in the mirror.

RE
EN
CHANT
ME

*

(Young Meat & Old Bones)

Little brothers
Fun-guys
Won’t you show me
Where you hide
Where you laugh
In jungle grass
Let me grasp
Your bell-shaped hearts
And crown mice-elf
A-gain

*

(Little Brothers)

It would be just typical
To find the first of you here
Growing next to the lake
Beside the busiest of paths
- And there you are!
You unmistakable bell of heaven
Ringing in the untold depths
Of our shared being!
The dark gills of your hydraulic spreading -
You rise to release your children into the winds
Of our world: when the seeds are ready
The fruit will make itself known.
Rest in the hammock of my hand
Dear brother, join me in the juices
Of my mouth – transmit the earthly musk
Of your flesh to my flesh: the liveliest of soils
Is lit by the essences of many deaths.

*

(HammocKing)

Liberty cap
Elf hat
Nipple-head
Little brother
Little guy
Psilocybe
Fun-guy
Fun-guide
me to you

*

(ShadowSaurUs)

Sing gracefully
In wordless gratitude
A growing tune
A knowing tune
Sing gracefully

The resonating chamber
Clouds of coherent sound
The mists of awareness descend
Like tiny hands drumming into shape
The unfurling umbrella
Of the mind of never
Like a bubble
Rising from the deeps.

*

(WitCHat)

I think I am
Following my knows
But where am I
Being scent
?

*

(Shooting the Breeze)

On the sunny side
Of a wide & wise old oak
Smoke explores the possibilities of space
In air that is solid with light.
The strength of the sun
Strips form to its blinding essence
And sets it in eternity.
My map is not this territory
But together we write this story
And so the leaf of this tree is a flag.

I see it would
Make sense to meet
In the field known as: “Ham”
For that is the sound coming from
My little blood brother
Lit from all angles
In the warm womb-honey
Of our living memories
As he speaks my name.

Little brother
Psilocybe
Fun-guide
Me to you.

Share my senses
Make a present of my tensions
Free them like a burp
To be gobbled up by birds
And we will be now
Here together.

Make my senses
Share my meaning
Until the dreams of life
Become the winds of my feeling.

Little brother
Psilocybe
Fun-guide
Me to you.

*

(Peekaboo)

And hear they come
The exclamation marks
Of my joyous song!!!
Little winks & laughs
From my brothers in the grass
Punctuating the weave
That permeates my being -
Purring mutant souls of the soil
Flinging themsElves into the path of my vehicle
Drawing my chariot, shuffling my sheep
With an invisible pen – sieving my particles
To find the wHole of
ME
RE
EN
CHAN
TING
The world responding
To some mutual urge
To meat – Two meet
Tweet To Eat & Chatter
Like a skeleton’s jaw
Caw! Cor!
The awe-full core
Cannot be guarded
Caw! Cor!
Nor can it be
Discarded.

It is alive
It is life itself
It is ever present
It is forever representing

I T S E L F

Testing

Seeing

Exploring

Living

Fullness

.

(The Leaning Power of Teaser)

Give us
Oh lOrd Our
Daily breadcrumbs
And lead us not
To the which-is
Confectionary abode
But delight us by living
In the flesh of our fields
AHHHHHHHHHHHH
OMMMMMMMMM

*

(Little Dears)

Thank you
For making me

An unselfconscious
Hunter-gatherer

Once more

I stalk with the purposeful
Nod of the crow

And graze with the graceful
Dip of the deer

They do not fear man
When the mind of never is near

Important things are conducted sideways
As rainbows from the duct of a tear.

*

(Atlas)

Pleased to be
meat, you?

*

(An Opening)

It can be rude
To blow your blessings
Directly in the face of one
So radiant as the sun
(My coat of arms
is a brotherly hug?)
Better to put-put the smoke
Gently around its circular aura
Dabbling a soft spiral of acquaintance
As the breath peters out.

*

(Woven)

Little brother fun-guy
You are such a joy to find
Growing in the glowing grass
All things pass but small things last

You tricksy little monkies
You pretty micro-pigs
Snuffling out the wind
And smuggling in

The ringing
Of your bells
Inside the hallowed spirals
Of our sleeping shells

Humming with
The living memory
Of the first sun
F
A
L
L
E
N
So close to silence
In the calcified womb
Of the earth’s moon

Every faculty
In this universe-city
Swooning
With the deliciousness
Of sense itself

I T S E L F

Thinking

Singing

Eating

Laughing

Freeing

*

(Tree Chi)

This is the field
I have been feeling
This is the field I’ve felt
This is the end of the trail
Of breadcrumbs, this is
The home of the sweet
Little baldheads, this is
The place where the pixies
Are meeting, this is the place
Where the golden-tops gleam.

*

"GroUp" Ink & Coloured Pencil on Paper, 40 x 60cm (2009)

We’re rolling out our sleeping bags, staking our places on the floor.
“It’s a psychedelic sleepover.”
(laughter)
“It’s like psychedelic scouts!”

The talking stick sounds like shifting sands as it passes through my hands:
“So often she goes through me like a train. I want to find the strength to sit up straight
and really pay attention. I want to become a better, stronger, person. More fully myself.
Not just for me but for everyone.”

One by one we go kneel outside the garden door;
Cyril stands behind us spitting florida water,
he puffs smoke into our auras and fumigates
the seats & crowns of our spines. Cleans off the street.

We link hands, one up one down, a clockwise circuit, and chant Oms.

One by one we drink down the honey. “Bless your journey.”

We visualise floating upwards – above the house, above the clouds,
above the earth, above the solar system, above the stars – to the infinite
white light outside the black electric bubble of our universe. We exhale
our souls into the light and then pull it back inside us. We hold on tight
to the light, take it down through the swirling stars to our solar system.
Back to earth. Back to our bodies. Connected.

I’m nervous. Alert. A burp.
Sat up straight.
Waiting.

Soft music is playing. Stringed bings weaving a playful tumble.
A small stream, attention settles like a leaf.
A tapestry in which all is centre.

Inner-light is outside.
A space without dimension.
Difference is measured in degrees of intertwining.

My stomach writhes
like a wounded slug
on a bed of snakes.

In my outside I
two triangles touch
tip to tip. Tentative.

I am a queasy paradox:
apprehensively welcoming.

I try to give myself permission
to act in my absence.

A stretch unfolds.

I think of all the dark and fearsome things,
feel them shifting behind the curtain -
worry I’m bringing them in. But not for long -
all is subdued by a trust warm and deep,
an abdication that does not negate responsibility:
what will be, already is.

I convolutedly compute the ramifications of following through
on an urge to empty my bladder. My self-image kicks the bucket
so I don’t have to. I am quiet and shuffling like a monk
taking infinite care in the shutting of the door.
Candlelight animates the dancing dakini
as the water leaves me like a song.

I pass back into the room renewed.
Bend my knees and sit on my feet
to court a delicate reverie. Be Silent.

The dog is my brother. I am thankful for this
sturdy, muscular little bundle, simple & humble.
A shiny kNight with islands of white like squashed stars
pattering nails across the wooden floor, grumbling sweetly
into the corners and sniffing at the door. A house jaguar.

Ayahuasca
sings with whispers
in the chambers of my heart.

Ayahuasca. Ayahuasca.

My stomach turns
into a yawn, an offering
to be taken up by those
with rainbows for eyebrows
and full cheeks of dawn.

I give my hands to the sky
they arc back to massage my shoulders.
Aching mole-beetles urged out of their cocoons
roll away like fleshy tears to be absorbed
in the forgiving earth.

Cyril joins his voice to the Icaro
and the bottom falls out of the boat
tracers echo the chorus of ancestors
in which we now float. An audible rainbow.

His voice rings true, raw with the sincerity of effort,
I remember him saying: “Once you start it can be hard to stop.”
I can feel the truth in that, the momentum of it.

When we truly listen,
our bodies sing.

Pensively in tensity I sit
on a stomach that squirmily requests
a little womb. Am I warm enough?
I fight the temptation to go foetal;
I feel weak in the face of an angel,
withering in a whirlpool of strong songs.
I give a little, slide down inside my sleeping bag
allow my soul to spread like a garden… Soon enough
the glittering rust of my ribs is all that remains
of the barrow that wheeled me in.

I am a plot in the allotment of the universe
a plant in a box tended by a shaman of sound
who makes presents from the ground with absent hands
and stands tall man. Ipulating. Undulating over me.
Making MudrasSshaking The Walls.
Mad Skills. Twelve feet tall man. Ipulating.
Undulating liquid puzzle of structural integrity
sorting itself out with orchestral inner-logic
turning organic cogs in my own puzzle box -
I am part of this puzzle man. Ipulating. I am
a candle approaching a bank of cloud. A
small animal sniffing at the feet of a human-shaped bush.
Take that back like a nervous cat. Shrink like a rewind man.
Ipulating. A few steps forward. Undulating. A few steps back.
Where we were is no longer here. The puzzle clicks
and releases a tear, a tiny purge,
nectar for the humming birds
of the One Great Heart.

But this work is hard!
To be fully conscious of my body
as a network of factories
using time as a fuel
to manufacture eternity ( in the flesh, )
and to do so gratefully ( in a flash, )
as a matter of good taste – ( lightwork. )
Said another way:
so I taste good,
and know my place
in the mystery
of the dance
that is everywhere
and for everyone’s sake
and to know that
me that makes
no different to anyone,
intertwining.

I sit up again. Rest my bum on my feet and my hands
on my knees, bow my head, quite naturally.
The gaze of holy beings falls
warm like sunlight
onto my crown.

This spiral of hair, this bubble of baldness,
a mark of respect. An unseeing eye that acknowledges
deference. A love that walks the bridge of difference
on kind feet that gently sculpt a loop, a globe,
a unity.

I feel cold
struggle in the inexplicable folds
of my heavy orange poncho.

Lost in the inexplicable folds
of The Great I-Don’t-Know.

Propping the huge sagging tent
of a dark sun, searching blindly
for a head hole. Giving up
and pulling it round my face
like a sad Mary.

Cyril and John are drinking another glass.
They ask if I want one but the question is like a bubble
riding on a river and I don’t notice when it pops.

The house jaguar comes to climb on my arms
and madly lick my face. I see one dark gleaming eye
looking into mine, dark gums and spittle-shining teeth
flashing beneath. I ask him to go away, I’m tired but
I think eternity still wants to play.

My queasy belly has turned around and gone the other way,
winding like a snake towards the opening of a cave
a long, long, way away.
Awe-way.
Awe-why.
Awe-aya-who-ask
King Ayahuasca.

I get back on my back and get back to work
making gifts in cellular-cottage-industries
churning my cheese with the juice of an invisible sun
whose light is everywhere and whose warmth is everyone.
Inhaling is exhausting. Expressions are experiences exercising.
I am burning up. My breath steams from my face
and tears stream from my eyes.
Songs propel themselves relentlessly
like thoughts in an open mind.
Like wild horses in a tame field.
Like smoke in a concrete sky.
I am thirsty. I am dying
from too much
exposure to eternity.

Cyril and John are sat near my feet
crooning like werejaguars
over the bucket.

John-jaguar is purring support
to Cyril-jaguar whose barking-body wracks
with the force of a thousand stampeding gibbering-gaps
slimy green phlegmatic snake-snaps chattering out
a gurgling torrent, a clattering centipede
of accidental splatter. A good boo burp.
A glurbur burglar. A nurgle further phew.

The house jaguar is slurping up water
with his flapping tongue
making a music of wetness
to highlight my thirstiness.

A laugh speaks for all of us,
we seek it out and drink it down.
Eternity comes back for another round,
this time I hold my ground.

Cyril moves in geometric gestures
like a shape-shifting peg fitting through
a series of self-generating holes.
He stands and the candle casts
a mystery play on the walls
as old as time.
The silent mime of a fire-cast shadow,
archaic, thick with the flesh of living memory,
telling a wordless story, an entity in its own right.
As old as time.

Moonchild.

The very fabric of my being unwinds
the spreading threads of my soul shine
a light that is known only as reflection.
Knots that never were untie themselves endlessly,
they are the roots of this tree. A fertile death encases them,
a writhing transmutation of tired old flesh, heavy with experience,
happy to be sadly sunken to the bottom of the pile. A grimacing smile.
My face is contorted in a beautiful agony. It is a mask of light
milked by shadowy fingers. I understand Gargoyles.
I am wrathful Hindu-deities of fire frozen as sculpture.
I am an electric spider with needle-fine feet teasing apart
the Celtic knot of my deoxyribonucleic heart. I am rapt
in the rainbow roots of the sacred tree,
staring upwards with damp eyes,
solemnly. Perceiving the great trunk that turns
in magnificent melancholy, revolving slowly -
the perfect pace of a body in space.
This graceful column of great strength,
this twilight length. This holy night,
naked before the billion eyes of the stars in its sky.
Stars which are light penetrating the dark density
of its fractal canopy – spaces in space.

The Whirling-World-Tree-Wheel
we all huddle under. Its tips
loop back to its roots. We are
all on the floor of the same roof.
We are angelic clouds of exploding stars
spiralling black-hole tears through
supple veins in the puzzle-solving muscles
of the same giant face, each wrinkle a river
of infinite expressions in the time of space
it takes to see
a vision of
The World Tree
…

I am revived.
I go outside, gingerly stepping around
the silhouettes of psychedelic scouts
in sleeping bags. I feel the welcome chill
of a clear autumn night. Smell the spider-guarded
Rosemary near the ghostly white roses glowing
in the ambient light. Look into the fullness of the spaces
between the shifting leaves of a young sycamore tree,
playing peek-a-boo with the belt of Orion,
pissing gratefully onto its roots.

Cyril comes out for a smoke, his eyes aglow
and his voice a burbling spring of kind excitement,
this is an animated conversation, alive with sound,
expressive strings of syllables bypass the usual channels
to fill the space between known words with
the resonance of similar instruments.
He is glinting cosmic happiness, a gem
from a far off continent of astounding variation,
a glinting jungle-Buddha, a flowering snake-man
weaving a picture of myself as a tall bearded druid
recharging atop a grassy pyramid
up which a spiral of water flows.

He is showing me something – his arms embrace the universe
and slowly work it into a smaller and smaller ball until
it sits in his palm. He peers at this tiny thing,
takes it between finger and thumb, tilts back his head
and drops it through the door of his third eye. It expands again
inside his mind, only to be coaxed back to a point, stretched between
two hands and snapped free, shooting each of us in turn with blessings.
The final arrow is sent straight up and gracefully arcs back
smacking into the floor and filling the world with light.

A buzzing machine enters the sky and increases in volume towards us,
a helicopter trying to get under our heavenly skin, an evil droning thing.
I frame the twinkle of its false star in a column of smoke, hoping
to blow it away. Cyril laughs and says we should remember
there are people inside and have compassion, think with love:
May they get home safe with a lesson, and let their folly rust
back into the earth from which it came.

We listen to the silence. Cyril says he can hear
the insects talking – I can’t dissect the embodied quiet:
the near nothingness of an ocean of blood roaring through
my veins, the feint words of a still night’s wind caressing the trees,
the slight subsonic creaks of meditating buildings shifting positions.
I can feel the insects talking, on the edge of an awareness I have lost
or am yet to possess, the calm surface of
my audio-imagination is agitated by them.

Cyril tells me of a certain Brazilian cicada,
sings the praises of its high intelligence and beautiful design,
it has pink, blue and green armour around its third eye -
I tell him the ones I’ve seen are like massive ugly flies,
but he says this one is different – my vivid imagination
is inclined to agree. Cyril says that when it sings
it is emanating, like a resonating chamber that contains
the sound of the shape of its environment;
its song is its sight.

As soon as we decide to enjoy the quiet for a time
the garden door opens and John comes grinning out,
“Man I felt like I was dying. Phew. I was turning inside out!”
He goes to piss on the tree, laughs a joyous relief,
takes a deep breath, and becomes as honest as
an interested child under the stars. Their light
and his face are one and the same. The fire
in his eyes is the music of his laugh.

“How’s Lee doing?”
“He’s good man, think he just had a little purge.”
“Really? Cool! He’s really impressed me, I gave him a big cup for
his first time, he said he had some stuff to deal with
and he’s just laid back and gotten on with it.”
“I haven’t purged actually. Feel like I’m making
a big smelly-belly present for mama in the morning.”
“You didn’t have a second cup?”
“Couldn’t even comprehend the question!
got everything I needed from that first cup anyway,
really powerful stuff!”
“Yeah, he knows what he’s doing -
puts all sorts of influences into his tea,
I’m hoping one day he’ll teach me. But c’mon guys,
we were doing so well with our silence tonight!”
“You can talk!”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember last session you were trying
to get everyone to shut up? And then twenty seconds
later you were like: Wow guys, check this out!”
“Ha! I don’t think so. I think it was you that kept talking -
anyway let’s be quiet now.”
(laughter)
“I’m serious! Listen!”
(sniggering)
“Alright you asked for it!”

John good-naturedly protests as Cyril clambers onto his back,
locks his head in the vice of his arms and silences him with his hands.
He clamps on hard and John resists but soon they both relax,
silence snuffs out their friction like a match starved of oxygen.
Silence speaks without saying a word,
we understand without forming thoughts…
In focusing on what is barely there,
our deep selves become more distinct.

We return to the welcoming warmth
of our faithful cocoons. Lee gets up
and does a circuit of the room, his face
beaming as he thanks us each in turn.

John brings up the idea of one last cup -
it amazes me he can take so much.
Cyril warns him it could leave him feeling drained
but you can see he’s going to drink it all the same,
Lee wants another cup too, and so I end up
having a drop just to keep them company:
“Bless your journeys.”

While they ready their ships for inner-spaceflight
Cyril and I twirl prisms of different configurations
before our eyes, making the candlelight stretch
into six, eight and twelve-pointed stars. Zooming
in and out, angling this way and that, overlapping lenses
to animate kaleidoscopes of light. We ponder this beautiful
recurrent fracturing of sight, like trying on for size
the eyes of a giant fly. Then the music carries us away,
we wrap ourselves in thoughts like digestive juices that,
fizzing slowly, reveal the bones of our experiences…

When a problem is answered
in the continuation of the same thought
the content can be forgotten, because
the change has already occurred.

Perfectly comfortable, satisfied
to the centre of my soul,
I close my eyes -
the events of the night
begin to codify, becoming
symbolic elements
in a visual design;
changes in my body
wrought by changes
in my mind – and all thanks
to the mediating influence
of a magical vine!

Cyril tings the Tibetan cymbals
and whispers his gratitude
to all that make this possible.

As night turns to dawn
a contented yawn echoes
the ceremony’s close.

All Saints Church, Piddletrenthide. (Copyright Mike Searle, Creative Commons Licence.)

I love to see Yew
in the graveyard
and this Church
is one peace
of the puzzle

Open doors
and not a soul
insight

Looking East
thru stained glass
The Sun illuminates
His Halo

All faces are glowing
and turned towards
The Light

I love to see the pews
covered in cushions
to kneel on,
sown in scenes of
local life & symbols
of inner life

Choose Celtic
cross & circle,
return to childhood
on innocent knees
and talk to God,
as Life, with ease

Adoration
Confession
Thanksgiving
Supplication

ACTS in me

*

Climbing cross-section
cut to the bone
Chalk & Flint
in the green
grass of home

Walk
Stone Age veins
and fall into
timeless dreams

Cross stile
into vast expanse
of churned crystal earth
and wonder how many
accidents are ancient tools

Follow vague
15 year old directions
“To the far end of the field,
To the right of a prominent Ash.”

Sit and eat an apple
in the Sunshine
Praise Ra! while
A Jealous God
with guilt grabs
atension

Imagination expands
Beyond Our Star
to the bearded
Wizard Puppeteer
Beyond Space + Time

Dismiss
The Theatre of Thoughts
and walk over Horizons
Humpback

?

Blackthorn Hedges
Sharply silhouetted
A Crown of Thorns
Against the Sun

The Ash lays down its arms
The Giant Boughs
we are swept away…

Over Horizons hump
Snake-back shaggy
Caterpillar wiggles
cradling Plush
in plush surrounds

Over Horizons hump
The Wizard Puppeteer
hungers for lunch

Delves a dessert spoon
into the luscious earth
and leaves
a hidden valley

Church Hill littered
with Trees sprung
from Gracious gobblings
dribble

We walk the rim
just outside
the living memory
of heavenly
snackings

Stopped dead
in our tracks
NOW suddenly snaps
as a Roe Deer
Barks & Bounds
An eruption!
that snuck in
when we weren’t looking

The aftermath
quieter than silence
The striped pheasant feather
an apparition at my feet

ahead of us
…entrancing…
The Wood

*

Apprehension
amplified by absense
in the presence of
an open gate
with electric-wire
at our ankles

Conflicting
messages…

Moving on
is only ever
a short step away

A step we take
and soon the still woods
are alive with darting motion
but only for a moment
blurred shadows of beasts
and birds, a memory
almost before
they occurred

We have never seen
such life in a wood
now so still
every branch we crack
and crunchy leaf we crumble
is shrill!

Unknown persons
occasionally dissapearing
in the corners of our eyes

Nature is so alive
it feels unnatural
to be present at all
but we can’t turn away
from the moment

This wood
may belong to life
but it is claimed
by a round of
woven-wire-hexagons
and the only way out
is the way we came in

*

Carry on rising
to the Ridge

Lone bare Oaks
Elemental descriptions
as the Earth pours like Water
into the Air

Not so lonely, or bare,
drawn to climb
we look closer

Ecosystems of Moss
and Lichen populated
by shy insects

Small brittle cities
in pastel shades
of ground & sky

A spongy carpet
upon which
it is a joy to lie
to stretch green flesh
on brown bark bones
a welcome home

“I hope we didn’t hurt you
in ways that aren’t a joy
to repair.”

my mind speaks to the tree
as a money spider absails
on his invisible thread
making me quietly proud

I jump down
and on my way out
a branch gives me
a strong yet friendly clout

My reactionary frown
relaxes into a smile
while I ponder
the joy of repair

*

Reach the crest
of the Wessex Ridgeway
and enter once more
the wood

Our footsteps slide in the mud
for life in these parts
must conform
to the slope

Pheasants endlessly
keeping ahead
In this wood
is wheat & water
to keep the food fed

I take a log
resting on a metal drum
and BANG! just once

I am shocked by the swiftness
of a startled pheasant
as she hurtles heftily into the air
the sound of her panicked wings
merging with the beat
of her drawn-out cry

A commotion of chattering tits
in a confusion of twisted brambles
draws us in

A feathered fawn bolt-from-the-blue
rushes in and back out
in a moment of beautiful violence

Shotguns discharge
in the distance

The beater’s yell & batter
shatters our calm

Paranoid fantasies
are fun to breed
but not to believe

We walk as we run
from blood-red promises
steaming in the Sun

*

The Countryside Code
can make leaving a field
an odorous load
as you search for
an exit allowed

The yin of barbed wire
is well received

Darkness is but a turn away
behind the greying cloud
relief is breathed
as map orientates to territory
and route home is mentally ploughed

*

Walking through the quiet streets
of this Plush little village
Yew are standing by the road
Beckoning in tweaked mystique
growing upwards
beyond the gate

Another gate
beyond the first:
Two behemoth stumps
dressed in moss
their circumference
stretching the imagination

Yew are the living dead
transmuting the dusty flesh
of soil, rooted in bone
intimately grasping
our fading memories
ressurected above ground

Growing upwards
Yew are
The Church

*

Church of St John the Baptist, Plush. (Copyright Mike Searle, Creative Commons Licence.)

         Companion comfort
         Can you feel the desperation in this calm hug
                                                                    Goodbye?

         Hello!
         I’ve laid here too long, it doesn’t help—
         Take me out in the sunshine for a walk.

Willow trees line the banks of this sweet little river, they evoke graveyards and drooping grief, yet steady and natural and stroking in the wind: sad but reassuring. We squelch over to them and walk for a while, parting their branches like beaded curtains – imagine a forest of willow.
         Sit on a bench by a pretty pond and take out our packed lunch; fork sun-dried tomatoes onto pesto coated sunflower loaf; watch a moorhen’s insistent neck-jerk as it propels itself through the water: “Did you know moorhens have no legs? That’s why they jerk their necks – like trying to ride a skateboard without touching a foot to the floor, or trying to make yourself weigh more by bouncing on the scales…” Believable lies are fun to tell and fun to find yourself believing: she smiles without feeling stupid, for I’ve touched upon the child inside.
         Two small girls run passed us giggling, elfish and magical and somehow unreal; then another two girls, trailing echoes of an adult’s shouted orders in their vibrant wake; mother dashes passed, apologising to us for some unknown but acceptable reason, looking desperate and foolish, the little girls’ innocent abandon and sense of fun seemingly unable to penetrate her concern – but part of her is simply enjoying the chase; and her concern is a pretext for play…

The pond and the sweet little river and the life of the ducks all calling to us: we want to splash the clean brown water onto our backs and ruffle it through our feathers; we want to travel these watery low-ways with small eyes and small bodies shining wonder onto the sights; we want to become ducks for the day and set about devising a plan that might carry us there: beyond imagination – or so far into it that it matters not.
         We build little wings out of found feathers and attach them fan-like to our ears. We paint our noses yellow like beaks and practise quacking at each other. We fill a large white bowl with some water from the pond, turned bronze and light-filled. We find a secluded spot not far from the source that splashes and bubbles and gurgles. The bushes hide us from prying eyes and deaden the soft steady sound of the drum (*bom bom bom bom*). We quack softly at each other. Our pupils expand to give our eyes the appearance of puddles of unknown depths stared into on a starry night. We lightly knock our beaks together and flick water from the bowl at each other, shaking our heads and ruffling our wings in preparation for flight. We continue banging the drum; slow, steady, soft; taking turns, giving life to the heart of this newborn imagination. We stare into the bowl, into the water, into the faces of the ducks we are staring back at ourselves… without noticing any transition: the reflection is gone, the sound of the drum disappeared.

A carpet of light slowly undulates; I watch the ripples emanate from my sitting place, extreme comfort; I feel perfectly supported all round, only slightly disconcerted by the droopy wiggles of my feet dangling below me in uncertainty. My left leg twitches and I slowly rotate to the right; I am met by the sight of my beautiful mate, reflective green flourishes marking the spectacular curves of her neck: “Quack.”

“Quack-quack.”

We swim side by side, an eye on each other and one on the bank and the sights beyond, effortlessly drifting; pushing slightly every now and then, or using paddled feet like rudders to stay on course, riding the flow with as little interference as possible; revelling in the beauty of our surroundings and the simplicity of living in this mode of being; perceiving anew this well walked river. Stopping to entertain some well-meaning children throwing bread into the water: it slips down my gullet and expands into a sickly feeling in my stomach – I give them a few golden quacks none-the-less (some of my best yet) and we continue drifting.
         Obnoxious vocal noise and loud music reaches our hidden ears as we meander into a busier area of these town-centre pleasure-gardens; a group of teenage children are drinking dubiously procured booze and egging each other on to jump the river; they spot us, bypassing our calm beauty to see only an opportunity to impress one another and shock the old codger sitting peacefully on the bench: a half-filled beer can sails through the air and hits my companion. A nervous fluttering of distressed quacks mixes with the disapproving mutterings of the fearful fellow on the bench. I get up and chase the perturbed teenagers: they laugh and jeer but know well enough to keep running from this odd character with his yellow nose, trailing feathers come loose, agitated by their quick release but soon calming into soft see-saws as they sail slowly to the ground, touched by the faintest gift of gravity.

My companion is nursing a bump on her head as I return, flustered and red-faced, having let the wayward teenagers off with a stern shouting, ignoring their insults-at-a-distance and turning away with as much grace as a yellow nose could muster.
         We take some time to present ourselves more subtly, wrapping the remaining feathers in the old cloth we cleaned our faces with and taking a few small sips of pond water to help us remember… the rest of the water is returned to the ground to help make the memory long.

Walking back through the willows we see the old man on the bench, he is standing now, the bench has a yellow ribbon warning ‘wet paint’ tied from arm to arm. There is a small pot of varnish with a brush balanced on top sat upon the nearby wall. He looks at us with a curiously potent mix of sadness and fondness. We say “Hello” and he acknowledges our greeting with a nod. I catch sight of a few words engraved in the plaque fixed top-centre on the back of the bench:

“Your smile would light up the day.”

Love working with the crazies — hate that crazy system!

One Private Universe on the Edge of the World

I could get to work and back along the beach, which made all the difference to my state of mind;—one morning I was taking a breather on a bench overlooking the ocean before starting my shift when a guy walked past with his hood up, mumbling persistantly; he had obviously come from the hospital so I kept an eye on him; he walked down to the edge of the water and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to stop – but he turned and started strolling along beside the breaking waves. I contemplated him: hood up, still mumbling, and clocked the absurd disparity between his intense intro-spection & the limitless possibilites of the open ocean rippling calmly in the morning sun – first thing that came to mind was the phrase: “One Private Universe on the Edge of the World;” thus the germ of this painting was born.

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2007. Acrylic, Watercolour, Sand & Feltpen on Paper. 40 x 30cm. For Sale.

MeanWhileSleepSmile

I was working the night shift when they brought in this straggly-haired elf of a lady, old & small & sweet, they’d found her at the bottom of a cliff but didn’t know anything about her because she couldn’t speak: she’d bitten off her tongue. They didn’t know if she’d done it on purpose, or accidentally during her fall, as I said: they didn’t know anything. She was assumed to be high risk and put on the second highest level of supervision, meaning someone must be watching her at all times, (the highest level means someone has to be within arms reach at all times.) So I was assigned to watch her. She’d walk over to the window and do these tai chi-like movements that I felt were some kind of prayer. She was incredibly shy & nervous. Eventually she fell asleep, and for the first time since she arrived I saw her smile:—her situation was horrific, yet here she was, glowing like an elf in some peaceful dream, wearing a smile that was completely serene.

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2007. Acrylic & Watercolour on Paper. 40 x 30cm. For Sale.

HyperVent

This painting was not directly inspired by any particular experience, in fact it arose from a desire to blow some paint about (I got quite light-headed, hence the title: “HyperVent” from hyperventilate.) But it comes from the same period and speaks to me about my own experience of madness: the blinding chaotic burst of uncontrollable experience, the many beings surrounding the brain, the swimming eyes – but, beyond all this, the calm observer lurking in the shadows… the unflappable centre of the true self… it is this sturdy centre that is my saviour, yet I wouldn’t know it half as well without my wobbles!

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2007. Acrylic, Watercolour, Feltpen & Pencil on Paper. 30 x 40cm. For Sale.

Percy

I actually painted this whilst working on the ward, I’d raided the activities cupboard in an attempt to relieve the stifling boredom, and spread out a bunch of paper & paints on a table in the lounge. One of the ladies asked me what his name was and I told her I didn’t know – did she have any ideas? “Looks like a Percy to me,” came her answer – and so he was! This lady was among the first on the ward to interact with me: It was my first day and I was sat on a chair nervously guarding the door (this was before they made it a ‘locked ward’) as she muddled up in her nightgown and said: “Do you mind if I talk to you?” I could see a fellow HCA smirk and back away, so I wondered what was coming but still said “No, not at all.” She looked immensely pleased, I got the impression no-one had agreed to converse with her in quite some time, and then I found out why: “I’ve never had a cup of tea…” — “Oh really? Would you like one?” — “…I’ve never been on holiday, I’ve never watched TV…” — “Well, that’s great actually but there’s a TV in the lounge if you’d like to…” — “…I’ve never had a cup of tea, I’ve never watched TV, I’ve never been shopping, I’ve never been on holiday, I’ve never worn a dressing gown, I’ve never had a cup ot tea…” —!— This went on indefinitely… I actually quite enjoyed it.

Pinkurple Profile

I painted this at the same time as ‘Percy’ – not much to say about this, I just wanted to paint something pretty to stick up on the sparsely decorated walls. The ladies liked it, I told a few of them they were welcome to take it after it had been on the wall for a while, but no-one ever did.

Elephantine Snail

This was drawn for me by a young lady who had a history of making accusations of misconduct against carers. We got on pretty well, she was difficult to manage at times but it was just like dealing with a slightly troublesome child, so when she asked if I would take her out for a walk I agreed; she was deemed quite a high level of risk so we could only wander around inside the hospital, I took her down to the vending machines and passed the Occupational Therapy department then back to the ward; when we got back the nurse in charge asked her if she’d had a good time, she looked at me mischevously and said: “I especially liked it when me and Sam got lost in the cupboard together.” !!!

Throw-a-wayKey

The male & female wards shared a dining room, so at meal times a carer from each ward would stand in the lobby outside and make sure no-one tried to escape. We’d often sit on this big window ledge, eating a few smuggled nuggets of the patients’ food & chatting. We had these folders with sheets inside for keeping a record of the comings & goings of those patients who were allowed in & out, I sat and doodled this on the back of a blank sheet one morning, I showed it to the guy next to me and he said (perhaps a little predictably) “You want to keep that to yourself mate or they’ll have you in here.” I was probably considered a little odd by most, but respected for having a way with people; among my nicknames were ‘Gandalf’, ‘Mop-head’ & ‘Jesus’!

Robot Destiny

Soil-people

The scrawl on the left is one of the many notes I made mid-job, when such absurd little sayings would pop into my head and I’d be compelled to write them down. The scrawl on the right is one of many little notes handed to me by one of my favourite patients. She had done some awful things in her time as a result of her illness and had ended up on our ward because no-one else would have her – though we weren’t really equipped to deal with such challenging behaviour and she ended up being under constant supervision for weeks. I wrote a letter advocating for her, as it was my opinion that being watched constantly was actually the source of some of her problems (especially when she didn’t get on with the person doing the watching!) and they did eventually scale back the supervisions, which mostly worked out for the better. I found her to be quite an amazing lady; I can’t really go into any details but she was very creative, perceptive & knowledgable & had lived a very interesting life. This is another one of her notes:

Snails making for Magic Mushrooms

She had this entire mythology about snails, in particular one special snail called: “Snalien” …

She was room-bound in a previous home due to some reasonably serious misdemeanour, the windows only opened a little so she had them as wide as they would go and was looking out into the garden, a snail crawled up the wall and started slithering into her room and she freaked out and closed the window on it; she felt bad about her impulse reaction and opened the window back up – a third eye came poking out one of the cracks in its shell and she realised it was no ordinary snail: it was SNALIEN! She put him on some plasterboard which he ate to heal the cracks in his shell, and thereafter he was her friend and came to visit on many occasions. One time when they’d doped her up and she’d crashed spread-eagled on the floor she woke to find he’d been keeping her company in the night: traced in a perfect outline around the spot she’d been laying was a shining snail trail (like the chalk outline where a murder victim once lay.) It was glittering transparently… shimmering with friendly meanings.

There were many more stories of encounters with Snalien, even a creation myth,
but I’ll have to make a more concerted effort to remember them some other time.

Is that the Question?

I’ll leave you with a poem she gave to me,
including its notes, and a final doodle…

         O MYSTIC ROSE
         DID SOME SILLY BEE
         WITH DIRTY LITTLE FEET,
         STICK HIS PROBOSCIS
         UNDER YOUR COVER
         FERTILISING YOU?

         IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
         OF EARTH MOTHER
         THROUGHOUT ALL

*Mystic Rose is the Mediaeval name of Mary Mother of God.
*The word “silly” in Mediaeval times meant wise –
applying to Witches, Healers, Seers & Prophets.

She wouldn’t believe me when I told her I loved her poem.

^My Long Dance Banner^

Sitting cross-legged on the roof
apprehending the future;
a flurry of gulls squawk and screech above me
swooping to meet my line of sight and then firing themselves at me,
tilting their wings just in time to put enough sky between us
that there is no beak in my eye.
Haranguing me, humbling me to the power of nature.
A display of awesome beauty.
A taste of things to come.

The next morning,
still without the exact location
but with details of the nearest train station,
I decide to set off.
Halfway there I’m informed of my destination
by a very busied organiser.
I make my way to the site,
a farm to be a festival in a few weeks,
a sign saying “HIPPIES >” and a dude without much of a clue
(thru no fault of his own) point out the way in.
I find the fire pit in the centre of the site
and ask the guy working there if he knows where
the medicine ceremony will be, he smiles a great smile,
I have a flash of recognition, and he points me towards
a circle of poles and some busying bodies in the distance.
I go over and greet some of the loveliest people
it’s possible to meet. I ask what’s going on
and where I can lend a hand.

After a time and a few chores
I notice the brother from the fire pit in the centre
sitting on the ground, half way around putting string between
the circle of poles which will contain the dance.
He’s stressing out, letting his frustration out into the air
(and into the kind, willing ear of a listening brother.)
Fireman has a lot to do on this festival site
and is feeling trapped in the trips of others,
a lack of love and too big a load -
The string he was winding has fallen from the broken spool
into a pool of knotted thread – fireman needs a rest.
I go over and say I am only too happy to untangle the mess
and continue on with his job so he can go off, relax and prepare.
He thanks me, accepts, and goes to take a shower.
I sit and unwind then continue to wrap,
the knot gets too much and I call for a helping hand,
together we finish binding the circle:
A high line, a low line and one in the middle;
an entrance left open to the east.
A pile of earth dug from the central circular fire pit
(set in a six-pointed star drawn in stones)
is placed in a mound outside the entrance and decorated
with beautiful objects – stones, shells, flowers, feathers and more…
This mound is the Earth Altar.

After many hours all have arrived;
peoples banners – visual representations of their prayers
and intentions, things to leave behind, things to call in to their lives -
have been hung around the ceremonial circle.
Finally, all is set and all are gathered.
We sit on blankets between the points of the star,
Miguel sits with his great beard and wonderful presence
amongst instruments, pipes, and more…
A plethora of “big boy’s toys”
the likes of which I have never seen.
He begins to speak, making every word count,
reminding us why we’re here,
that we’re dancing for more than just ourselves.
Asking that we fully commit to seeing the ceremony thru
to its conclusion, that we resist the urge to wander off,
to stop and rest (unless to pray or if it’s really needed).
That we be mindful of the music of others when we pick up
a drum, and to be quiet when his special subtle sounds are on.

We each put our prayers via breath into cornmeal
and send them into the fire.

A long dance for all my relations,
for the totality of my being in the world,
Our Being.

Doing the rounds, banging the rattling staff on the ground,
speaking from the heart to translate our banners -
our reasons for being here. Now.

Then the medicine is passed around the circle,
hand to hand until each is holding,
stirred with a stick and then down the hatch -
air exhaled thru clenched teeth.
We grimace at the bitter beauty -
good medicine, tasty medicine!

We go out the door and walk the circumference,
one way – and then the other,
We re-enter and start the dance…
Down into the molten core of the earth,
dancing to purify, to release.

After pangs of doubt, not yet feeling the medicine,
instead feeling the fool for moving like this with all these people;
feeling futile, as if what we’re doing is too ridiculous to be real.

Soon, moving this circle path, this spiral path, brings peace:
I am slipping into trance.
Letting go of expectations, of attitude.
Letting go of thinking-I-know-without-tasting-the-flow – Now I am
judging the book by licking the words from its pages
and burning the cover.
Opening to the undeniable
malleable reality of the moment.

Rattles, gongs, all kinds of drums…
Sitting together on feeling, something higher than,
yet inclusive of, rhythm and form -
The goodness of making music is in a total acceptance of the moment,
respect for other sounds, and a willingness to take part.
Sometimes I carry a drum like a baby
like a burden – unsure if my very being
is playing thru it as I dance
or if I am simply one with the sounds, with the souls, of others.
Sure it doesn’t matter, whatever it is: it is.

No smoke, no water, no warmth, no rest for my aching back, no respite.
Our smoke, our water, our warmth, a snake like stretch for my aching back.
Know respite. Know all these things
Feel them swirling in the space around us.

Dancing down, sometimes circle big, sometimes circle small.
Sometimes people rushing fast, sometimes people slow.
Some songs respond to purging like performance to applause: Encore!
I walk and stumble and bubble and burp and spit my shit thru the ropes.

I sometimes struggle with making sound, the power so great
that I feel too weak to wield it, too afraid.
Yet I want to contribute, thus am torn.
Miguel and his assistant are singing a song,
Shadows are walking the ropes outside, I don’t know if they are spirits
or actual people, I dance for them too, privileged to be doing so.
Soon the song morphs out of ancient language,
(tho perhaps I am simply understanding its meaning?)
It is speaking directly to me.
(and, as I later found out, to others: both inside and out)
“This. Is-Not. A-Spec-tator-Sport!” Over and over…
I stumble into the centre on my next time round,
pick up a bodhran laying by the fire and begin hitting it with my thumb,
the sound is freakishly liquid and low and I don’t know what I’ve done,
I continue beating and soon others are helping me with their rhythms -
it’s like some dark wet slimy spider dance done safely.
A kind of exorcism. I am grateful.

Sometimes the beat calms,
Miguel picks up his long stringed bow.
A mouth harp guitar like crystal water
in our bodies, little plips and ripples
as beautiful as any sound heard purely now,
so incredibly enchanting -
we’re like freeform puppets on invisible strings,
spinning tops winding round some musical maypole.
We dance entranced. We walk in rapture.

His brothers in the art of holding space,
the rudders of our ritual,
share songs with him and us,
keep the beat when the energies dip -
whatever is happening we ride with it -
AHO Captain!

Dancing and walking and stumbling
thru pain, thru tiredness, thru flaking thought,
thru huge grins and unspoken connections,
keeping on ‘cos this is bigger than me.
Keeping on thru more than I can recall.

The sky dark, blurred hints of moon
growing stronger like a sun shedding skin
to calm amber orangey pink.
An echo of sunrise in this sinking circle.
Suddenly looking up and the clouds have parted for the stars
above us. We know our place.
See it. Feel it. Dance it.

Just when it should
a conch shell sounds
then farts as lips falter
and turns into laughter!

For a moment there is no way
but spinning giggles and bubbling joy
then the shout goes out and the tide turns:
“Change Direction!”

Dancing now for blessings.
Sending out and calling in.
Manifesting prayer.

Sometime here I feel part of the fire,
my meat stirring like ashen burning wood.
I am walking into the fire,
becoming it.
Giving myself graciously unto death
for the greater good.
Releasing all that I hold dear
to come across that precious thing so far and so near:
What really matters
and what to do with it.
Just Being.
Humble Service.

The unshakable balance of all things.
The wonder of being totally yourself,
planting seeds and letting be.
The perfection of the universe.
The understanding, allowing,
of other points of view.
Seeing the spiral of life,
some are in front, some are behind; yet
All are One. All is equal.

My people here with me their people,
themselves and countless friends, flesh family, spirit family,
morphing into and out of each other as the blessings flow.
Dancing for so much more than ourselves.
Knowing that in some way, on some level, it helps.

Everything has changed.
Everything is the same.

A brother becomes my brother, I know he needs it
and I know he is here. A lady becomes my Lover,
I commit myself all over to loving her forever.
It is pouring out of me…

I am shown that my Love is true, I was worried it had become pose,
empty memory. My connections to family, friends, my love, my life,
Our planet, this Universe, are strengthened. Confirmed.
All doubt is burned away.
Sanpedrito opens my Heart.

Sometimes, at just the right times,
The songs turn into laughter. This laughter is like an answer,
the questions are not important.

After dancing with the moon
under spinning stars, inexplicable yet highly reasonable
configurations in the sky,
morning starts again – subtle, slow.
Bringing light and solidity to these beautiful surroundings.
Filling in nighttimes potent gaps with washes of steady tweaking colour.
Wanting only one thing more than to flop on the floor
and that is to keep on moving. Waiting for the right time
to kneel and pray, when it comes it comes effortlessly -
Sheer relief, deep gratitude kissing/eating out of me
into Mother Earth. My head pressed into her bosom.
Home again. Home a-gain!
Then jiggedy jig and back into the flow…

Beautiful Sisters dancing, twirling,
Sensual, precious, powerful, loving.

A robot dancing, swift-twitching brother
twists contorted on the floor
as his opposite sides realign in winding jerks,
healing the split at the source and working out
thru piled on layers of tension. His process supported,
softened by clouds of smoke sucked and blown
over and into and out of him…

A blessing for each of us as we dance into Miguel’s steady waiting
and are cleansed in a shower of smoke.

Finally, after a seeming eternity – A beautiful eternity
teeming with hard work and grace -
We finish the long, long dance and move into anew space.

Gathered together under the loving gaze of a buffalo brother
and his beautiful, spirit-filled partner, part-stripped and sitting
on the grass. Feeling the wandering wind turn
liquid skin into air. Getting a chill and savouring it.
Knowing the heat will soon be intense.

We enter the sweat lodge one by one,
crawling clockwise until all are inside.
The central pit is fed hot stones,
the door flaps closed.

Water and incense rush into the atmosphere
soaking us in steam and sweat,
the first round of prayer begins,
devoted to the Great Spirits, our Grandparents in the West.
Each heartfelt contribution punctuated with another blast
of heat and sizzling steam.
Cool breeze and big relief with the opening of the door.
Then seven more hot stones and prayers to the North.
This cycle repeats for East and South,
each time the heat gets more intense,
Blessed water condenses in my throat and mouth.
My head sometimes pressed into the ground,
thanking the Earth for its calm and cool collectedness,
making me able to bear the heat of our prayers.

We exit, shining in the morning light, and line up
for those two loving souls – tenders of the lodge -
to pour cool, cool water onto the backs of our necks.
Unspeakable Bliss.
Thirst quenching sips.
Prayers thrown into the fire, riding tobacco wings
to transformation heaven, the great beyond between.
Here and Now. Hear and Know.

And then we laugh and smile and feast,
we love out loud – our laughter leaps!
People bring out an astounding range of treats,
we help ourselves to fruit, biscuits, crisps, vegetables and juice…
If the sky was a roof my head would’ve hit it,
instead my gratitude and joy rises into infinity
and loops thru the universe back into me.
Blessed be all creation!
Blessed be the sacred medicine!

I crawl into my sleeping bag, something like
ten hours after drinking, and fall into
deep sleep for a time.

We wake around noon and recoup.
Now the staff is passed around the group
and each person opens their mouth and speaks from the heart
of what they experienced.
I am moved to the cusp of crying
hearing of people’s healing.
Feeling the love and gratitude blossom in my belly.
The ceremony has been perfect beyond imagination -
The trust and open, willing co-creation.
We bless all our relations, the entirety of being
with our humbled gratitude.

The simple truth nested deep
like the shiny egg of a phoenix
glinting in our eyes.

I am reminded of what I had become
too tired, too jaded, too distant from
to keep in mind, to embody:
The wonderful rightness of being.
All is family, and all is well.

We who are lost, wandering, searching, striving, withdrawing,
building strange effigies to the ghosts of ancient memories…
What we have lost has never left us – it is up to us to turn and face it.
We are too heavy and heady to know how to look.
All we need, all we know, surrounds us.
It cannot be written in a book, it is too vital – too alive.
It requires honesty, humbleness and dedication
to become a conscious partner in creation.
To read the message of life, to know the secrets of nature -
All that it takes is where it takes ya.

We bid each other farewell with hugs, blessings and smiles,
the sense of solidarity is profound.
The fireman thanks me for helping him earlier the other day,
He said that he felt like he was caught up in a spider’s web
(I was covered in little spiders all morning)
and because I had helped to unravel it he was able to work thru it.
He told me that if I hadn’t offered to help him
he would not have been able to tend the fire
(which he did diligently all night)
and that if I ever got in trouble I could call on the six directions
and the fire in my heart for help. He blessed me.

I am reminded of the importance of helping others
and humbly serving the greater good. In the depths,
at the peaks, of my dancing – all else fell away -
service and simple being were left shining
like the only light there is.

I leave you the affirmation of this light as a blessing…

Now, two days later, my feet ache like I have bruised my soles.
My calf muscles stiffen and I have to rub them loose.
But I have woken up once more to the glory of existence,
this fading pain is not pain but a blessed physical memory
of that most deep down and dirty, exalted and pure experience.

I will never, ever forget it.

I urge you with all my heart to take part in a dance
if you ever feel the need and if you ever find the chance.

Heartbursting blessings to all my relations.

I Love you.