Cowrie Dreams

Having had this dream over many nights,
of singing in a church
with a stained glass window
depicting God’s eyes, ears and lips
as cowrie shells,
I confess to cowrie dreams
having haunted my daydreams
and daytime thoughts
about this world of beauty
and of crisis.

Amazing that shells are invested so much
meaning over the epochs
of human existence:
as pawns in the games of children;
as money for trade,
great strands of them roped around
the necks of men striving
over mountains and across deserts;
tools of divination into the divine mystery;
potent symbol of feminine power,
for creation and for renewal.

The cowrie see,
the cowrie hear,
the cowrie speak,
and settled in the fossil record,
they uphold each fragile footstep
and crushing blow to the crust
of an ever growing and complex planet,
while yet soft sea breezes
play through them
on bleached white beaches,
where mothers fish
while keeping watch
over their small children
playing the ancient first games,
manipulating sticks, stones and shells
—where rules are of expedient moment,
and later lost, consigned to memory,
or buried with all that is deemed childish
once ways, means and manners are cultivated.

But still the cowrie see,
the cowrie hear,
the cowrie speak,
the cowrie take it all in
reporting, sorting, retorting
from the depths of silence,
marking, remarking and remaking
from within deep wells possibility
on wings of wind and weather.

What is?
What has been?
What shall be?

What is real?
What is truth?
What is imagination?
What is good and bad?
What do the cowrie see,
the cowrie hear,
the cowrie speak,
if indeed they impart
by way of the shifting winds?

One true day,
these feet found their fragile way
over a patch of fossil record
into a sanctuary lovingly rebuilt
by generations following
its eve of destruction
by hurricane.

There, above an altar
to human resilience,
the very modern clerestory
depicts Omniscient Divine
as having cowrie eyes, ears and lips
—and there I sang, I sang there,
my voice joined with others,
while in concert this descant
sang potently within my soul:
I called to you, and you came,
and here we are, together.

The song of the watchful cowrie:
In this existence,
nothing is guaranteed,
but even so,
anything is possible,
because no matter where we are,
we are together.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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The dream depicted in this poem is real, and it recurred over a number of months in 2010. In 2013, I traveled to Cuba on a cultural exchange visa with the choral group, Pacific Mozart Ensemble, now known as Pacific Edge Voices, under the direction of Lynne Morrow. One of the places in Havana where we performed was Iglesia de San Francisco de Paula. When we entered the building, it dawned on me (as I moved closer to the altar window) that I had met my dream! Not in the depiction of Jesus, which is so standard, even cheesy, in conforming to a European standard of what Jesus might look like, but in the depiction of the All Seeing Divine, which can just be vaguely discerned in the photo within a bluish bubble above Jesus, at the very top of the window. There was the Divine depicted with cowrie openings, always open both ways. I was to see the metaphor in other art works, while in Cuba, but at that moment, I was astonished that dream had met reality. 

Classic Order

That photo of me,
shuffling toward you
for the very first time,
says it all:
small being,
newly bipedal,
approaching tall man
emerging from fuzzy background
— and that is how I remember it;
“There he is; go on,” she said,
but my baby eyes
could not see that far ahead.

Sometime later,
you and I stood on the corner
of a very wide avenue,
and little me could only cringe
at the speed of everything flowing by
— fast, so fast, too fast for me —
but when the light changed,
you took me by the hand
and we raced across,
returning to the car lot
before it closed,
because the steed we’d driven off
had failed only blocks away.

It was revived, however,
to become the beloved chariot in which
we rolled over every stretch
of road we could wind along,
from coast to Sierra foothills,
staying at creaking cottage courts
or car camping roadside,
like that time a small dog
tried to catch a mighty river by the tail,
while her human sisters panned for gold
— the golden treasure garnered,
the laughter this triggered in us all.

These are glimpses
of how this child gained vision:
Plans meticulously made
so often veered out of control,
and the lesson always seemed to be
Just Roll With It;
though not always what we expect
(Results May Vary),
rewards can still be reaped,
such as a cozy at-home indoor picnic,
because an unexpected storm
rained out an intended excursion.

Adventures in education,
ever a tilting against windmills
of cultural experimentation;
how could “new math”
compete with “old math”?
Surely there is only onemath;
but while numbers were fated
to be my Achilles heel,
for you they were stock and trade.

Building and design,
weights and measures,
these are living lessons in conformity
and resistance — even revolution;
any angle can be joined,
but will it stand and withstand
the forces of gravity and
unintended use?

Perspective is itself an art,
and everyday proposes a new lesson;
perspective does not always form in
nor heed to the painful symmetries
we are taught to expect,
asked to cultivate.

Any rejected stone
has keystone potential,
viewed with the right eyes
and placed by the right hands,
as masons from Greece,
Europe and Yavapai attest
by way of the monuments
they left behind.

And this is how you taught me,
whether you know it or not,
that symmetry is illusory,
even unnatural;
the human struggle has
always been a vertical challenge
to the gently curving horizon
of a continually growing and quaking earth,
a battle against the natural order;

Similarly, modern science is baffled
in the attempt to unmask
nature as a formulaic perfection,
perhaps because there is
no perfect, simplistic formula,
more an ever growing
agreeable synergy
of complexities.

How many places, things,
people and relationships
have we witnessed that work
in defiance of a stated perfection,
while the captains of industry
fail to produce a toaster that can toast?

Perhaps more to the mark,
nature trains us to cooperate,
revealing the truth that beauty
is uniquely, even willfully, nonconformist,
as can be seen in any garden;
you can nurture and train,
but a garden will go its own way,
and even lowly weeds can flower
with unexpected beauty,
given their moment in the sun.

You’ve lived at the apex
of this age-old human battle
to best nature, and you’ve
tested your fulcrum against
the weight of normative fashion.

I’ve observed that
your preference has been
to lay paths that gently conform
to the soft contour of the natural setting;
there you’ve planted the aloe and reed,
and together we’ve released
butterflies into the wild
— letting go is the magic blessing
that allows beauty to bloom
as it will do.

This lesson in artful living
has not been lost on me,
and these feet of mine
find those paths,
from time to time.

It is in such times and places
where I find a classic order
that allows me to
feel my feet firmly planted
and to see just a little
of what lies ahead.

for Father’s Day

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Influences

Wind, hot and dry,
filled the lanes with dust,
intruding through every crack,
invading every door and window.

Waves of flame,
reaching as from above,
came to stay and oppress every brow,
and we were filled with a divine madness,

Such that suddenly
all different voices were one voice,
all messages one message,
all humanity, each unique, yet one.

This is how all truly is,
verily, verily, unto ages of ages:

We are one family, sharing space and time;
we belong to one another.

How else could God make the case
but to strike us with understanding,
if only in a moment of brevity,
and then charge us with handling the rest?

Such is the mystery of Divine Influence.
Each of us is intended to intervene
to maintain the sanctity of all our lives;
everyone has a role in this heavenly task.

Be fired with your divine purpose!
Of all colors, shapes, the plethora of singsong tongues
proclaims the truth that divine fire exposes:
There is but one people, one life, one purpose.

Ye have been touched, all of ye!
Gather your whits about you,
for each day’s intent is this fire,
this purpose of divine life-giving influence.

Peace be to thee and your neighbors all!
Alleluia, Alleluia, and amen,
and blessings be to ye all
unto the ageless ages.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen