Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Forsaken


what is forsaken in the hidden places,
what bruises the soul, that you let go-
to fall down so deep,
your heart weeps for recovering-
light of the angels stream through,
the dark hold-
what tries to chain us to the depths of black,
love tethers us to light and pull us through-
no place hides that beauty of your glow,
you are love and light you know-
even if you feel like its lost from you now,
for all that tries to bring you to abandon-
is left in the dust of the fire that burns-
through you emptied hollow places,
flooding it with warm love and truth-
what creeps underneath is casted away,
love conquers the battlefield of your wounding-
heals you inside and out. 
Author Maureen Kwiat Meshenberg ©
Artist Ella Nowak


Thursday, September 10, 2015

Pain

“Pain is the doorway to the here and now. Physical or emotional pain is the ultimate form of ground, saying, to each of us, in effect, there is no other place than this place, no other body than this body, no other limb or joint or pang or sharpness but this searing presence. Pain asks us to heal by focusing on the very center of the actual torment and the very way the pain is felt.
Pain is an introduction and then an apprenticeship to alertness and particularity. Through the radical undoing and debilitation of repeated pain we are reacquainted with the essentialities of place and time and existence itself. In deep pain we have energy only for what we can do wholeheartedly and then, only within a narrow range of motion, metaphorically or physically, from tying our shoe-lace to holding the essential core conversations that are reciprocal and reinforcing within the close-in circle of those we love. Pain teaches us a fine economy, in movement, in what we choose to do, in the heart’s affections, in what we ask of our selves and eventually in what we ask of others.
Pain’s beautiful humiliations followed fully make us naturally and sincerely humble and force us to put aside the guise of pretence. In real pain we have no other choice but to learn to ask for help on a daily basis. Pain tells us we belong and cannot live forever alone or in isolation. Pain makes us understand reciprocation. In real pain we often have nothing to give back other than our own gratitude, a smile that looks half way to a grimace or the passing friendship of the thankful moment to a helpful stranger, and pain is an introduction to real friendship, it tests those friends we think we already have but also introduces us to those who newly and surprisingly come to our aid.
Pain is the first proper step to real compassion; it can be a foundation for understanding all those who struggle with their existence. Experiencing real pain ourselves, our moral superiority comes to an end; we stop urging others to get with the program, to get their act together or to sharpen up, and start to look for the particular form of debilitation, visible or invisible that every person struggles to overcome. We suddenly find instead, our understanding and compassion engaged as to why others may find it hard to fully participate.
Strangely, the narrow focus that is the central and most difficult aspect of bodily pain, calls for the greater perspective, for a bigger, more generous sense of humor. With the grand perspective real pain is never far from real laughter – at our self or for another watching that self –laughter at the predicament or the physical absurdity that has become a daily experience. Pain makes drama of an everyday life with our body and our presence firmly caught on stage and in the spotlight: we are visible to others in a way over which we have no choice, limping here or leaning there.
Lastly, pain is appreciation; above all for the simple possibility and gift of a pain free life- all the rest is a bonus. Others do not know the gift in simply being healthy, of being unconsciously free to move or walk or run. Pain is a lonely road, no one can know the measure of our particular agonies, but through pain we have the possibility, just the possibility, of coming to know others as we have, with so much difficulty, come to know ourselves.”
 by David Whyte

Saturday, September 5, 2015

Hearts Calling

sometimes I feel like life is trying to drown me, I can't catch my breath, 
but this I know, the thread of Love is always there to pull me through ~
I feel like I'm floating,
under water-
seeing the outline of trees,
so tender and green-
dipping leaves,
branches bending as if-
to rescue me,
unable to surge through and above-
unable to breathe,
falling under and over-
your words sting and ache me,
I am not perfectly human-
I am only just me,
gasping between the waves-
descending upon me,
ascending and reaching in between-
the days that lay on each other,
covering me with deep water-
but then I rise,
I touch sky clouds-
that swell with rain,
drenching upon my pain-
all falling down,
not making excuses-
or chatter of blame,
I am no longer the same-
even in the doubt of my being,
I rise to grasp the thread of love-
as I reach towards the sweet sky,
wings open now,
ready to fly.
Author Maureen Kwiat Meshenberg ©
Artist Erika Craig

Friday, September 4, 2015

"HOME,"

"HOME," by Somali poet Warsan Shire:
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbours running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won't let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it's not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn't be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i've become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here.
by Somali poet, Warsan Shire

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Happy birthday Henry!


A brief, momentary glimpse of beauty often softens and touches our hearts
 in a tender and profound way, opening our eyes with reverence and
 awe to the sacredness of life.
~ Mary Ann Byrne





Happy New Year 2

​I call this Ukrainian New Year a tradition of celebrating using the Georgian calendar.