LABYRINTH

My spiritual mentor Michael lives in a place of serenity. On his farm in the grasslands of Saskatchewan he has mapped out a Cretan labyrinth with field stones. Medieval monks walked such a labyrinth at Chartres, between masses, deep in meditation. Breath comes into rhythm with step. Time slows. The spiral leads to the centre.  A tree grows at the heart of the labyrinth. There is a simple bench to sit on. Facing west. The afternoon sun sinks toward the horizon. The meadowlarks  & magpies call out in the wolf willow. In our inner selves there lies such a spiral. Walk inwards with your being. The centre is a place of eternal stillness. Calm. Silent. The Source. Be there. 

SHE

 Who is she? I know, like me, you have seen her. She stands just beyond the far tree in the rain-fall forest, in a gown the colour of mist. She waits behind the pillar in the arcade,  patient. She dresses in a shawl of snow & drifts between the tall banks  in the winter fields. She swims up to you in your boat & you are sure you can see her down below the golden green.  You looked into her eyes the moment you were born & then for the next year & more. She whispers in your ear the moment you fall asleep & in the moment just before you awaken. She contains all mystery but she is calm & serene as the light of an April dawn. She is older than the Creator. She knows you for who you truly are.  You belong. Beloved.

THE NINE

I have endeavoured in several art forms in my brief sojourn here on the third rock from the star Sol. Music, poetry, painting, writing. What I have come to realize is that anything of value that I arrive at as an artist comes to me as a gift. I am the conduit. The vessel. The medium. My role is to ready myself... to discipline my skills to the highest level so that when the inspiration comes I am ready. I venerate the muses.... all nine of them. It is they who have on occasion chosen me. Lord knows, many times they do not come through to me. I offer myself in sacrifice. I pay the highest respect. The artistic process is sacred. My muse is very shy... very fragile... & very jealous. She has grey eyes & when she chooses to come to me. to speak through me, the world around me becomes clear as mountain spring water.

RUTHLESS BLADE

The sunshine penetrates the opium gloom
& though we drift the silk across our face
Our whisper words are gone without a trace.
The light so cruelly paints our secret room,
The sky so naked past the honest glass...
& you, still lost in forests, dark with jewels,
& I, still drinking drafts from tidal pools.
The lingering mist still blurs the day’s trim grass.

We wove love’s skin upon the moon’s gossamer loom...

In shades of violet sought the hidden place.

The air was silver with necromancer’s gas.

We saw with fingertips, our senses keen.

The sun unsheathes its blade of wide awake.

The lovelies flee before its ruthless blade.

 

AXLE TREE

I live near a living tree... a limber pine... that grows on a ridge in the foothills of the Rockies. It entered its sapling youth centuries before Columbus landed on the continent he had the hubris to claim for his branch of the species. Lying on my back under the great spreading branches, the wind stirring the summer boughs, the greens scintillating from yellow to blue & back... turquoise, emerald, avocado.... the sun dazzling & daubing in penetrating strokes I know absolutely the earth belongs to the trees. Under their quiet majesty I feel in my core the creation is perfect & cannot be perfected. From root to sprig. Eyes closed.   I am at peace.

THE RED BULLS OF THE SUN

Odysseus, the great first hero of the western tradition, was cautioned never to kill the bulls of the sun. His men, starving, could not resist. When Odysseus came back to camp he found his men eating of the forbidden flesh & all but Odysseus were doomed from that moment forward. As humans we are suspended between two worlds, the world of the spirit & the world of the flesh. On the plateau above Delphi I came upon two red bulls under an ancient tree. I was filled with a moment of fear. The bulls were huge, unfenced, with sharp horns. I saw them suddenly with my otherworldly eyes. In that moment, I knew myself as Odysseus. I heeded the warning. I saw the bulls of the sun were to be known but not to be possessed. I bowed my youthful head & accepted the gift of my vision. The bulls watched me in silence with their soft gaze. They let me pass. The sun above was blindingly bright.

SCARAB

 The ancient Egyptians saw the lowly dung beetle as a symbol of the resurrection... each day the sun god Ra was reborn & the sun was rolled towards the horizon. Albert Camus saw the myth of Sisyphus, perpetually rolling his boulder up the steep slope, as a metaphor for modern man. I saw the bugs in real time on the slopes of Mount Parnassus in Greece. As as works of creation these insects are hilarious, miraculous... delightful. Pushing their globes of cow manure, filled with eggs, over the dusty ground.   Creativity equals Spirituality. The Creation is endlessly unfolding in perpetual beauty. It is marvelous. It is going to be alright. The world is perfect. I know because the scarab beetles showed me.