holding space
resonates for me
deeper than
simply taking up space.
giver,
an easier fit than that of
receiver.
a calling to serve
with me since birth.
compelled to leave an imprint
to help make our world a little
better and kinder;
to mirror back to people
their best self, their good seeds
offering that which was not
always reflected to me.
And so, I hold space,
co-creating an expansive
and porous container-
a Welcome mat
a soft place to breathe,
to grow, to change.
A space that also
expands and contracts-
as intimate as the womb or a cocoon
and as wide as the night’s sky-
whatever the healing yearns for,
I hold The Space.
share
The Wall
I hit The Wall
today;
ran right into it –
mind, body and Spirit – splat!
Hit it so hard,
the tears came
tumbling down,
suddenly,
out of seemingly nowhere.
A deluge –
in public no less!
“What is this?” I cried,
trying desperately
to cover and hide.
A rare occurrence
for me-
losing control,
forced to surrender,
pause,
look,
pivot
and reconsider
choices made,
examine
subconscious motivations,
and
the allowance
of subtle intimidation.
Pearls from Tears
I remember well my fascination with oysters – rather unattractive on the outside, very rough around the edges. Yet, inside, lay a much sought-after jewel, the pearl. When later I learned that the pearl is the by-product of an irritant entering its sensitive insides, I understood why the oyster so resonated with me. This was me, my life: nothing particularly compelling on the outside – by typical standards – but inside, my heart and my mind, utterly extra-ordinary, beautiful, invaluable and unforgettable.
To this day, I draw my sense of self-worth and place from what lies beneath my skin, that which cannot be seen or felt by most. Alas, residing in a world where the outward appearance is a major determinant of one’s currency and where the attention span continues to rapidly decrease, what place is there for the pearls that lie within? Will anyone pay attention? Does anyone care?
For us, the human oysters, the world’s daily dismissal serves as the irritant; our tears, fodder for the formation of precious pearls. They pile up, the pearls, on our delicate insides, yearning to be seen, worn, to adorn. They were not meant to be stowed away, these iridescent fruits of vulnerability, discomfort and despair. No, they are gifts to be brought to the Light and shared.
And so, with lips quivering, hands trembling and hearts pounding, we take a tentative step, and then another; we open our mouths to speak, softly at first; we pick up our pens and write, allow the pearls to flow out, and then quickly hit send.
Some of what we offer will fall on fertile hearts and minds and be valued; most will be discarded or just plain ignored. No matter. The response is not our responsibility; we are tasked only to release.
A-sexual
A-sexual,
this is what
it can feel like
to be menopausal.
What use to be
exquisitely
sensitive
has deadened.
no amount of
stimulation
will it
reawaken.
not one for
medication,
I bide my time
with
meditation.
Such is Life:
The Lord giveth
and He taketh
away and then
returneth
another day,
as per
His Way.
An Untold Story
buried deep
inside,
a part of self
wishing only
to hide,
preferring to
“live”
a lie.
how to see
it
let alone speak
it–
that,
which altered
a Life.
innocence
forever lost,
a new trajectory
is now forced.
but not
without
a heavy cost.
one can only run
from The Truth
but so far
before it
festers and scars.
An untold story
will travel from life to life,
causing all matters
of angst and strife
until it is
revealed,
brought
finally
to the Light.
The Wave
i must see myself
as part of The Wave,
not some outlier to be saved
from this swarm of humanity
and its seeming insanity.
to most every body,
this frenzied activity
is really quite ordinary.
though, not to me –
a Soul that craves
tranquility;
the one that runs from the grind,
just trying to find
much less human density.
must do so quickly,
lest risk immediate psychic misery.
“Oh Lord, help me to perceive differently,”
i pray, so that i may longer stay
in the place where i am free,
not enslaved by a trickster ego
playing devious jokes on me!
Give it Away!
Give It away!
For It does not belong to you.
You are but the vessel It flows through.
It chooses you, coming seemingly
out of the blue
to awaken and amuse.
“Give Me away!”
It begs.
“I was not meant to remain hidden in your head,
dormant, because you are afraid.
I come from a place that is nothing but pure.
Hence, no need for you to be insecure.”
Yield Your Fruit
Yield
your
Fruit,
just give it all away-
that which you came
here
to do,
to say.
Don that suit
with only your name on it.
Bring that song
you were crafted to sing.
Return to the dust
from whence you came
emptied
-with absolutely
no thing
left within.
Go home utterly spent-
’tis the only way
to live a life content.
Fated
it comes relatively easily,
that which is fated.
the steps run smoothly
as if actions in an incredulous movie!
one feels as if riding a powerful wave
toward that thing God long ago named;
this place He slated
for you alone,
to grow, to blossom, to come into your own.
“this is your path, walk in it,” He declares.
“trust me. do not let your heart be troubled nor scared.”
not all in this life need be a struggle,
an interminable inner fight
to discern where one belongs,
which way is right.
indeed, sometimes a boulder is thrown –
the Universe knowing better
than to reach you with a mere quiet stone.
Urgent, desperate prayers come up constantly to the sky:
“help me!” they all cry.
God cannot do for us
what He cannot do through us.
that we are each other’s keeper –
a remembrance that is sacred, an absolute must.
The call for help
is responded to
by an ever-evolving self
that consciously
with a sense of deep conviction
and moral responsibility
relays relentlessly:
“here I am, Lord, please use me.”
This surrender,
ego placed out of the way,
then renders
the necessary space
for one’s fate
to perfectly navigate.
Memories of the Child
Memories of Me as Child
very rarely
feature
prominently
in my mind.
Sometimes,
a memory
will come
spurred by that
of another One.
Such was the case
recently
when the memory of
a beating came to me.
Perhaps, the worst ever
by my parents
wrought,
the result of me following
my child heart.
An adventuress,
I have always been
from deep within,
yearning to explore my world,
for real life to unfurl.
Such was the case when
at ten years old,
I did something very bold,
against which I’d been sternly told.
I visited the home of a classmate,
Molly was her name.
She had dark hair,
freckles and such seductive flare!
Molly lived in the biggest house I’d ever seen,
just down the road from my apartment building.
Four stories, it stood,
dignified and handsome –
in sharp contrast to the rest of the ‘hood.
Intrigued, curious, in love, I was.
Hence, how could I have declined
Molly’s invitation to come inside?!
Adventure called,
I could not it stall!
A blissful afternoon I spent
while my parents wondered
where their child went.
Alas, all good things must come to an end;
my parents found me at my friend’s.
That evening, I learned
there is a price for authenticity,
that its sweet pleasure is earned.
Fear and anger were unleashed
with every swish
my father’s belt
on my young skin
released.
Though, the physical wounds have since healed,
the memory is sealed,
seared forever into my Soul.
There to one day be told.
Not a story of pity, no!
Rather one of victory
and great resiliency.
For you see,
I am still me
filled with the same boundless curiosity,
in love with Life immensely.
Always will I be,
no matter the external story.
Sculpture: First Portrait of Roma of Barbados, 1932, Jacob Epstein
burgeoninc 