Reflection for August 25, 2010

Ukraine Orthodox Angelic Icons

I thank God for this day, for bringing me together with this space, for allowing me to be a clear and present vessel for Your energy.

I ask that I am able to detach and release from all that no longer serves.

I ask that I am able to detach and release from the outcome of this, my prayer, so that all may be offered in the Highest Good.

I ask for this or something better with all my brothers and sisters.

Amen


Song sung after meditation - Bread and Roses
by James Oppenheim (1882-1932)

As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill-lofts gray
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing, "Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses."

As we come marching, marching, we battle, too, for men --
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes --
Hearts starve as well as bodies: Give us Bread, but give us Roses.

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient song of Bread;
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew --
Yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for Roses, too.

As we come marching, marching, we bring the Greater Days --
The rising of the women means the rising of the race --
No more the drudge and idler -- ten that toil where one reposes --
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses.

Reflection for August 18, 2010

When Death Comes

When death comes

Like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright colors from his purse

to by me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measles-pox;

When death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say; all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder

If I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Mary Oliver

From: New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver

reflection for August 11, 2010

It is never my responsibility to:

Give what I really don't want to give.

Sacrifice my integrity to anyone.

Do more than I have time to do.

Drain my strength for others.

Listen to unwise counsel.

Retain an unfair relationship.

Be anyone but exactly who I am.

Conform to unreasonable demands.

Be 100% perfect.

Follow the crowds.

Put up with unpleasant people.

Bear the burden of another's misbehavior.

Do something I cannot really do.

Endure my own negative thoughts.

Feel guilty towards my inner desires.

Submit to overbearing conditions.

Meekly let life pass me by.

Reflections for August 4, 2010

Matins

i
The authentic! Shadows of it
sweep past in dreams, one could say imprecisely,
evoking the almost-silent
ripping apart of giant
sheets of cellophane. No.
It thrusts up close. Exactly in dreams
it has you off-guard, you
recognize it before you have time.
For a second before waking
the alarm bell is a red conical hat, it
takes form.

ii

The authentic! I said
rising from the toilet seat.
The radiator in rhythmic knockings
spoke of the rising steam.
The authentic, I said
breaking the handle of my hairbrush as I
brushed my hair in
rhythmic strokes: That’s it,
that’s joy, it’s always
a recognition, the known
appearing fully itself, and
more itself than one knew.

iii

The new day rises
as heat rises,
knocking in the pipes
with rhythms it seizes for its own
to speak of its invention—
the real, the new-laid
egg whose speckled shell
the poet fondles and must break
if he will be nourished.

iv

A shadow painted where
yes, a shadow must fall.
The cow’s breath
not forgotten in the mist, in the
words. Yes,
verisimilitude draws up
heat in us, zest
to follow through,
follow through,
follow
transformations of day
in its turning, in its becoming.

v

Stir the holy grains, set
the bowls on the table and
call the child to eat.
While we eat we think,
as we think an undercurrent
of dream runs through us
faster than thought
towards recognition.
Call the child to eat,
send him off, his mouth
tasting of toothpaste, to go down
into the ground, into a roaring train
and to school.
His cheeks are pink
his black eyes hold his dreams, he has left
forgetting his glasses.
Follow down the stairs at a clatter
to give them to him and save
his clear sight.
Cold air
comes in at the street door.

vi

The authentic! It rolls
just out of reach, beyond
running feet and
stretching fingers, down
the green slope and into
the black waves of the sea.
Speak to me, little horse, beloved,
tell me
how to follow the iron ball,
how to follow through to the country
beneath the waves
to the place where I must kill you and you step out
of your bones and flystrewn meat
tall, smiling, renewed,
formed in your own likeness.

vii

Marvelous Truth, confront us
at every turn,
in every guise, iron ball,
egg, dark horse, shadow,
cloud
of breath on the air,
dwell
in our crowded hearts
our steaming bathrooms, kitchens full of
things to be done, the
ordinary streets.
Thrust close your smile
that we know you, terrible joy.

Denise Levertov, “Matins” from Poems 1960-1967