Who are you to be small and flickering
Dimly lighting a fearful path
Dreaming through a fog of forgetfulness
Whispering sweet nothings in God’s ear
Be consumed
Lit up
Fiery
A contagiously
fierce force of nature
Fire dance,
like the red man
Wheel and glide
like an eagle
Hurl yourself into the beat of life
Into the burning passion of Spirit
Wake up
Get up
Dance
till you have no feet
Sing till your voice has gone
Paint your life, the colour of rainbow.
Have faith
in change,
uncertainty
embrace complete insecurity,
and let the dance, dance you.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Holy Stones
Gathered for a thousand years
Stones made holy by their wounds
Worn by time,
Penetrated by life
Smoothed by rushing wave
Tossed by timeless tide
Given up to the earth
From the vastness of the sea
Now in the palm of your hand
Waiting for their fate
Asking you to listen
To the secret they came to tell.
Their wounds reflect the wounded
The gouged out parts of our souls
Battered by the tides of life
The small stones message
When kept and contemplated
Is –
All lives are worn and wearied by time
And through that hole comes compassion.
Smoothing of waves, in joy and sorrow
We birth gentleness
Tossed by tides beyond our control
We find the flotsam of forgiveness
Given up to earth and matter
We treasure humanness
Originating in the vastness of ocean
We discover our belonging
Held in the palm of God’s hand.
Stones made holy by their wounds
Worn by time,
Penetrated by life
Smoothed by rushing wave
Tossed by timeless tide
Given up to the earth
From the vastness of the sea
Now in the palm of your hand
Waiting for their fate
Asking you to listen
To the secret they came to tell.
Their wounds reflect the wounded
The gouged out parts of our souls
Battered by the tides of life
The small stones message
When kept and contemplated
Is –
All lives are worn and wearied by time
And through that hole comes compassion.
Smoothing of waves, in joy and sorrow
We birth gentleness
Tossed by tides beyond our control
We find the flotsam of forgiveness
Given up to earth and matter
We treasure humanness
Originating in the vastness of ocean
We discover our belonging
Held in the palm of God’s hand.
Feather
Float like a feather on the breath of God
Way beyond the fog of fear
Sink into the clarity of love
And settle on eternity’s breeze.
Rest in the wings of the spirit
In the peace beyond understanding
Dance in the song of the Universe
And reel in the laughter of the spheres
Rejoice in this rare gift of life
And know and be known as beloved
See yourself face to face and let go
Into the arms of God
Way beyond the fog of fear
Sink into the clarity of love
And settle on eternity’s breeze.
Rest in the wings of the spirit
In the peace beyond understanding
Dance in the song of the Universe
And reel in the laughter of the spheres
Rejoice in this rare gift of life
And know and be known as beloved
See yourself face to face and let go
Into the arms of God
Breath of Life.
Brooding over deep waters,
Breath waits
Breaking the silence with wind beating wings
She watches with piercing gaze
Upon the random identity of fragile shell
Life curling and unfurling in
Sorrowful joy and joyful sorrow,
A world opening and closing.
The promised fruit of primal seed.
A Uni-verse in breath abating labour.
Were She to be seen with half open eye
Her beauty would blind
Her being would blow you away.
But She hovers near enough
To encourage a crack in imagination
Where the echo of eternity is glimpsed.
In time she calls you to freedom
To crack wide open and with a cry
Receive her fully in a freefall rush of breath
And the deafening beating of wings.
Breathe deeply the breath of God
And let the coiled limitation of death
Shatter completely in the mirage of a moment.
Open to the divine kiss of life and be reborn
Breath on breath
One-Song awakened
Breath waits
Breaking the silence with wind beating wings
She watches with piercing gaze
Upon the random identity of fragile shell
Life curling and unfurling in
Sorrowful joy and joyful sorrow,
A world opening and closing.
The promised fruit of primal seed.
A Uni-verse in breath abating labour.
Were She to be seen with half open eye
Her beauty would blind
Her being would blow you away.
But She hovers near enough
To encourage a crack in imagination
Where the echo of eternity is glimpsed.
In time she calls you to freedom
To crack wide open and with a cry
Receive her fully in a freefall rush of breath
And the deafening beating of wings.
Breathe deeply the breath of God
And let the coiled limitation of death
Shatter completely in the mirage of a moment.
Open to the divine kiss of life and be reborn
Breath on breath
One-Song awakened
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Water into Wine
WATER INTO WINE
You are the visible manifestation of the invisible…
You are the rarest beings in the universe………
You are the pinnacle of consciousness in created form….
You are spirit breathed..
Yeshua looked around at the people sitting near him. In his mind he addressed each one with these truths but they were deafened by their thoughts, their self-consciousness, their awareness of each other. Comparing, judging, feeling small, feeling large, feeling inadequate, feeling smug, the thoughts of those dressed to their best, for a gathering, a feast, a wedding.
His heart sank. How could he ever convey to them what he knew them really to be. He could see each one, Spirit breathed, wind blown from the stars, deeply connected in a space within, part of a Oneness they had no awareness of.
Words were not going to help. They already had their own words made into meanings neatly boxed in the mouths of priests who divided and multiplied forgiveness and sins. Words that resonated with their perceptions of themselves, as un - holy, separated from Being, in need of saving. A land locked nation living on promises of glory, occupied by a foreign power.
All they wanted was a God given warrior, a King they could give all their responsibility to, who would lead them in victory over their oppressors.
Yeshua took another sip of wine. It tasted like vinegar. It had been a long 3 days of feasting, he was tired and ready to go somewhere quiet. He longed for the hills and their silence, the wheeling of birds and the sound of presence and freedom.
His body ached to go to where the wind blows where it pleases, where you hear its sound but you can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going.
He stood up ready to bid his farewell when his mother caught his sleeve. They have no wine, she said.
He looked at her. ‘That’s not our business, the bridegroom should supply the wine not us.’
He looked again at the oblivious faces of the party. The bride’s new husband was in no fit state to even care. Yeshua wasn’t sure if anyone else would notice if they were given water instead. They accepted so little, like empty clay jars waiting to be filled with anything, fated to accept whatever was poured into them. The cheap wine had increased their forgetfulness. They had forgotten that they were guests of the universe to whom one life had been given, a life they did not comprehend in its true belonging.
His mother’s words reverberated in his head “They have no wine.” and tears filled the corners of his eyes. These beautiful beings were meant to have the fullness of life, deep embodied fullness that expands the vision and cracks open the egg of existence to be born into the deepest of eternal knowings.
He glanced at the clay jars being re-filled and imagined their contents turning from the emptiness of water to the rich red fullness of being. As a tear fell he walked away and the party continued into the night. This was the first of the miracles that no-one would understand.
You are the visible manifestation of the invisible…
You are the rarest beings in the universe………
You are the pinnacle of consciousness in created form….
You are spirit breathed..
Yeshua looked around at the people sitting near him. In his mind he addressed each one with these truths but they were deafened by their thoughts, their self-consciousness, their awareness of each other. Comparing, judging, feeling small, feeling large, feeling inadequate, feeling smug, the thoughts of those dressed to their best, for a gathering, a feast, a wedding.
His heart sank. How could he ever convey to them what he knew them really to be. He could see each one, Spirit breathed, wind blown from the stars, deeply connected in a space within, part of a Oneness they had no awareness of.
Words were not going to help. They already had their own words made into meanings neatly boxed in the mouths of priests who divided and multiplied forgiveness and sins. Words that resonated with their perceptions of themselves, as un - holy, separated from Being, in need of saving. A land locked nation living on promises of glory, occupied by a foreign power.
All they wanted was a God given warrior, a King they could give all their responsibility to, who would lead them in victory over their oppressors.
Yeshua took another sip of wine. It tasted like vinegar. It had been a long 3 days of feasting, he was tired and ready to go somewhere quiet. He longed for the hills and their silence, the wheeling of birds and the sound of presence and freedom.
His body ached to go to where the wind blows where it pleases, where you hear its sound but you can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going.
He stood up ready to bid his farewell when his mother caught his sleeve. They have no wine, she said.
He looked at her. ‘That’s not our business, the bridegroom should supply the wine not us.’
He looked again at the oblivious faces of the party. The bride’s new husband was in no fit state to even care. Yeshua wasn’t sure if anyone else would notice if they were given water instead. They accepted so little, like empty clay jars waiting to be filled with anything, fated to accept whatever was poured into them. The cheap wine had increased their forgetfulness. They had forgotten that they were guests of the universe to whom one life had been given, a life they did not comprehend in its true belonging.
His mother’s words reverberated in his head “They have no wine.” and tears filled the corners of his eyes. These beautiful beings were meant to have the fullness of life, deep embodied fullness that expands the vision and cracks open the egg of existence to be born into the deepest of eternal knowings.
He glanced at the clay jars being re-filled and imagined their contents turning from the emptiness of water to the rich red fullness of being. As a tear fell he walked away and the party continued into the night. This was the first of the miracles that no-one would understand.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
THE BAKER
The mans face was set in deep concentration as he turned the millstone and listened to the grinding of the wheat between its jaws.
He thought of how only the other day he admired the grown wheat waving like a sea of gold in the breeze,. He remembered how he had planted it months before, scattering each seed onto the damp earth. As he did, he imagined the life of a seed, its succumbing to the earth to be broken down, released of its protective husk. How it would have plunged its remaining energy into the deep soil in the form of a single root, drawing on the nourishment to create a second shoot that would with the strength of an arrow work its way towards the sunlight.
It took his breath away.
Such life and courage, such patience and strength.
But today the field was motionless, only stubble remained. The wheat had been cut, thrashed and threshed to separate it from its useless chaff, and now, here, it was being crushed beyond recognition. Yet from it poured the finest flour, flour that could be made into bread, cakes, puddings, biscuits, all kinds of delightful nourishing meals.
He scooped up the flour, put it into the bowl and began to mix in the yeast, the salt and the water. All his strength and love went into transforming the mix, kneading and pummelling, feeling it transform under his fingers into shiny dough. Letting it rest, and watching it grow in the warmth of the kitchen, reforming, reshaping then into the oven to turn a golden brown.
He placed it on the table and saw the summer sun, the nourishment of earth, the death and darkness of the seed, the constant changing and transforming all bound into this small loaf.
As he took it into his hands and broke it he remembered how in a dark time he too felt like the seed in the ground with life stripping him of all he believed himself to be. He remembered how he had to dig deeply in search of a new way of nourishing his being.
He broke it again and remembered the yearning for sunlight, for times when the darkness seemed too much to bear. He remembered too the courage found to imagine a new.
He broke it, and felt the freedom of renewal, basking in the wonder of being, nearly touching the sun.
He broke it and felt the ground come up to meet him as life took an unexpected turn and he was changed again..
This time beyond recognition, removing all he thought himself to be, until all that was left was gift for the baker to knead and cook and be shared.He broke it once more and he knew now that he was the bread of life. Living, changing, dying and renewing life and in that same moment he remembered; he was the Baker.
Bev Robertson 2008
The mans face was set in deep concentration as he turned the millstone and listened to the grinding of the wheat between its jaws.
He thought of how only the other day he admired the grown wheat waving like a sea of gold in the breeze,. He remembered how he had planted it months before, scattering each seed onto the damp earth. As he did, he imagined the life of a seed, its succumbing to the earth to be broken down, released of its protective husk. How it would have plunged its remaining energy into the deep soil in the form of a single root, drawing on the nourishment to create a second shoot that would with the strength of an arrow work its way towards the sunlight.
It took his breath away.
Such life and courage, such patience and strength.
But today the field was motionless, only stubble remained. The wheat had been cut, thrashed and threshed to separate it from its useless chaff, and now, here, it was being crushed beyond recognition. Yet from it poured the finest flour, flour that could be made into bread, cakes, puddings, biscuits, all kinds of delightful nourishing meals.
He scooped up the flour, put it into the bowl and began to mix in the yeast, the salt and the water. All his strength and love went into transforming the mix, kneading and pummelling, feeling it transform under his fingers into shiny dough. Letting it rest, and watching it grow in the warmth of the kitchen, reforming, reshaping then into the oven to turn a golden brown.
He placed it on the table and saw the summer sun, the nourishment of earth, the death and darkness of the seed, the constant changing and transforming all bound into this small loaf.
As he took it into his hands and broke it he remembered how in a dark time he too felt like the seed in the ground with life stripping him of all he believed himself to be. He remembered how he had to dig deeply in search of a new way of nourishing his being.
He broke it again and remembered the yearning for sunlight, for times when the darkness seemed too much to bear. He remembered too the courage found to imagine a new.
He broke it, and felt the freedom of renewal, basking in the wonder of being, nearly touching the sun.
He broke it and felt the ground come up to meet him as life took an unexpected turn and he was changed again..
This time beyond recognition, removing all he thought himself to be, until all that was left was gift for the baker to knead and cook and be shared.He broke it once more and he knew now that he was the bread of life. Living, changing, dying and renewing life and in that same moment he remembered; he was the Baker.
Bev Robertson 2008
Saturday, 23 May 2009
Truth and Story
Truth and Story
In a time before time in a land faraway the people of this land were so excited when they heard that Truth was coming to visit their village.
The men, women and children all dressed in their best clothes to await Truths’ arrival in the village square.
Soon they heard the sound of horse’s hooves coming from afar. ‘Here he is’ the children squealed, clapping their hands with excitement.
In rode Truth and dismounted his fine horse. He was pleased at such a welcome and strode about greeting everyone, but something was very wrong! Truth was as naked as the day he was born! Parading around with not a scrap to cover him.
Now the children were really squealing. Their mothers were putting their hands over the eyes of their little ones and the Fathers were putting their hands over the eyes of the mothers and all were trying so hard to scurry each other into the houses and away from the sight of naked Truth.
Now all this time Story had been taking tea with the villages greatest Grandmother. When she heard the commotion Story hurried to see what was happening. The village square was bare except for Truth who stood there weeping.
‘Why are you weeping so,’ asked Story tenderly.
‘These people don’t want me.’ snivelled Truth,’ Look they have all run away from Truth, they never run away from you in you’re beautiful robe of rainbow colours all shimmering and shining like the sun’.
‘I think I know what the problem might be’ said Story, ‘You see people can’t always take the bare naked Truth, it is a little shocking at times.’
Story smiled, ‘Wait here a moment, I have something that will help’
Soon she returned and brought with her a beautiful rainbow coloured coat that shimmered and shone, much like the one she wore herself. She wrapped it around Truth covering his nakedness. Truth was delighted and danced about making the coat shimmer and shine even more. Story laughed and said‘ Now you will always be welcome anywhere and everywhere just like me.’ As she spoke, first the children, then the mothers and eventually the fathers all came out from behind closed doors and welcomed this new vision of Truth dressed as Story all shimmering and shining in multifarious colours. Truth spent many a long day and night in the village saying all he had come to tell. There was not one who did not hear him and not one who went untouched by the beauty of Truth robed in Story.
This is not an original story, it was given to me by someone who heard it on the radio some years back, sadly I don't know the true author.
In a time before time in a land faraway the people of this land were so excited when they heard that Truth was coming to visit their village.
The men, women and children all dressed in their best clothes to await Truths’ arrival in the village square.
Soon they heard the sound of horse’s hooves coming from afar. ‘Here he is’ the children squealed, clapping their hands with excitement.
In rode Truth and dismounted his fine horse. He was pleased at such a welcome and strode about greeting everyone, but something was very wrong! Truth was as naked as the day he was born! Parading around with not a scrap to cover him.
Now the children were really squealing. Their mothers were putting their hands over the eyes of their little ones and the Fathers were putting their hands over the eyes of the mothers and all were trying so hard to scurry each other into the houses and away from the sight of naked Truth.
Now all this time Story had been taking tea with the villages greatest Grandmother. When she heard the commotion Story hurried to see what was happening. The village square was bare except for Truth who stood there weeping.
‘Why are you weeping so,’ asked Story tenderly.
‘These people don’t want me.’ snivelled Truth,’ Look they have all run away from Truth, they never run away from you in you’re beautiful robe of rainbow colours all shimmering and shining like the sun’.
‘I think I know what the problem might be’ said Story, ‘You see people can’t always take the bare naked Truth, it is a little shocking at times.’
Story smiled, ‘Wait here a moment, I have something that will help’
Soon she returned and brought with her a beautiful rainbow coloured coat that shimmered and shone, much like the one she wore herself. She wrapped it around Truth covering his nakedness. Truth was delighted and danced about making the coat shimmer and shine even more. Story laughed and said‘ Now you will always be welcome anywhere and everywhere just like me.’ As she spoke, first the children, then the mothers and eventually the fathers all came out from behind closed doors and welcomed this new vision of Truth dressed as Story all shimmering and shining in multifarious colours. Truth spent many a long day and night in the village saying all he had come to tell. There was not one who did not hear him and not one who went untouched by the beauty of Truth robed in Story.
This is not an original story, it was given to me by someone who heard it on the radio some years back, sadly I don't know the true author.
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