Friday, June 1, 2012

Day Ten: Ten days of Persian Influence

The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.

~ Rumi

This little poem gives me hope.  I gave up lots to pursue a dream. Right now it feels like I might fail.  Like it is not going quite as planned.  It also reminds me of the beautiful image offered in the first stanza of the  Emily Dickinson poem, Hope:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

Feathers and wings,  singing and falling to fly,  I will go on doing what I love.  Doing, making,  not judging, believing...hoping

Day Nine: Ten Days of Persian Influence

Look how desire has changed in you,
how light and colorless it is,

with the world growing new marvels
because of your changing. Your soul

has become an invisible bee. We
don't see it working, but there's

the full honeycomb! Your body's height,
six feet or so, but your soul rises

through nine levels of sky. A barrel
corked with earth and a raw wooden

spile keeps the oldest vineyard's wine
inside. When I see you, it is not so

much your physical form, but the company
of two riders, your pure-fire devotion

and your love for the one who teaches you;
then the sun and moon on foot behind those.


Last weekend I was in Bendigo. Saturday I ate lunch outside. Rugged up to front the crisp air and catch the intermittent sunshine.  I was outside mainly to accompany the pup so that she could play. In the tree overhanging the courtyard where I was staying were bees.  At first I thought they must be wasps as I was sure it was too cold for bees.  But I looked closely.  The tree had just buds of leaves. No flowers and was pretty bare, really.  I couldnt see what would be attracting bees. Nevertheless, the tree was alive with them.  Bees feature strongly in my pantheon of meaningful symbols. I received their surprising presence as a gift.  They were gone when I went outside just an hour later.  I love the idea of my soul being an industrious bee: the idea of having an inner life that is fecund and creative; full of honeycomb. That this might extend beyond me (rises through nine levels of sky).