Colibri Animato

for the Feast of St. Francis

3 October 2021
     - my 60^th birthday

There is a language we share:
the air that together we breathe,
beneath the open sky!

Who could have known that would be enough
to bridge such an enormous gap?

But even the diary from one year ago
does attest:

“Rounding the corner,
and there you are!

-- We share this life,
though one is fractional
to the other

-- We share this home;
though our dwellings differ,
we are only liminally separate
-- In truth, we are together."

Of another shared aspect,
--that of torpor--
our intersectional relationship
reaches the overarching conclusion:

Choose life!

For, suspended animation is merely life incremental,

slowed to the blessing of the molto adagio,
where the dream that animates us bids us all to live

to each newly dawning day,
slowing each passing moment of awareness
so that we may all be the moment together, and in time.

For how long, my friend,
shall we bless one another’s company,
in the newly dawning om of day?

You greet me by landing on the tomato cage,

despite that fruit being no longer in due season.

Only in the most foreshortened sense of being
can my three-score years coincide with your own

-- yet will I delight in your special greeting,
in the beauteous now that we have,
in the blessing to have been truly seen
and to also have truly seen,
in the mutuality of seeing and acknowledging,
of knowing,
and of caring,
and seeking to live cooperative within that notice--

yea, let this, what we have, be our deepening moment
for as long as providence may bless us both
with such patience and perspicacity,
with such sacred and familial union,

as is that rounding of the corner,
to be with you,
        where you are with me
and we are joyously
together.

© 2021 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.com

 

Waking beneath swirling stars

Waking beneath swirling stars
into this kaleidoscopic array,
where colors, light and shadows play
through loud or unexpectedly quiet hours,
grateful for: fruit of the vine,
waiting to be crafted into wine;
all the prayerful, fragrant flowers
snug ‘neath warm and sunny ray;
the themes with variations
of being and doing, each day
a new start at the foundations;
the play of You at my horizon,
which is really the Play of Us,
hum-sung to grow and wisen
all toward easiness within, without fuss;
the freedom to know and accept love;
the curiosity to seek and explore,
both below the surface and above,
what can be known of music and rhythms,
in their proper expansions and contractions,
mind and heart exercising all possible lyricisms
beyond the care of doubting reactions;
borrowed place and renewing rest;
for the weight of others’ cares;
for communal work and quest;
for those willing hands, hearts, arms and chairs
offered in my own hours of need;
and more,
            and more,
                        and, oh, so much more;
take this as a pledge to sow and seed and cede
beauties where most appropriate, never forsaking.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meetings – A Remembrance of Dawn Foster-Dodson

I wrote the poem you will read below for Dawn in 2002 and revised it in 2004; who knows, perhaps it is not truly finished. This poem is actually about Dawn and her relationships with her cello and with one piece of music, Max Bruch’s Op. 47, Kol Nidre. But really, it is about the will and freedom of the spirit to express beauty.

I had the honor and joy to hear Dawn play Bruch’s Kol Nidre each year on Erev Kol Nidre from 1997 to 2015 at Temple Isaiah in Lafayette, most of those years in collaboration with organist Michael Secour.

Over those years, Dawn’s relationship with this piece and with her cello, as well as her ensemble with Michael, deepened and expanded. I was amazed to experience her cello’s voice growing in depth and expression, Dawn’s touch of the bow on the strings becoming so second nature into meditation – the experience of hearing her became more and more translucent, if that at all makes sense. The sadness of the melody really was an uplifted prayer, less sad than a balm of love, poured out for all in the sanctuary, and beyond the beautiful stained glass windows of the synagogue, released into the world.

In the early years, Dawn used sheet music. Over the years, I could see that piece of sheet music was well-loved; it became dog-eared and worn on the edges from use. One year, she came to services without the music. Of course, she didn’t need it anymore. She hadn’t needed it for years and years. The music stand and the music copy had long become superfluous – she always closed her eyes and just played. She had transcended that barrier.

Every year, Dawn and Michael would play that piece for an assembled congregation of at least a thousand or more, over the course of two evening services. And every year, she drew the congregation away from their cares, concerns, fidgeting, drew them into their prayers with her music. You could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet, as if the congregation was holding an uncharacteristic but necessary border of silence around Dawn and her cello, Michael and the organ, to protect the precious fragility of the beauty being recreated for them.

And every year, at the last note, a collective sigh of thanksgiving for that translucent, shimmering beauty sent all those prayers aloft to Adonai. Every year. When her illness kept her from us last year, another kind of sigh was heard. And this year, a different one yet shall be heard.

Dawn, Dear One, with tears, my soul sings the shimmering, translucence of your transcendence, as a prayer of thanksgiving for the beauty of your life among us.

Meetings

Paper worn,
sheets so old
there's no rustle left in them,
more like felt under her fingers,
or softer yet,
like the worn cheek
of a beloved old friend.

Settling the pages,
making them comfortable,
she arranged herself,
just close enough
to see the signs and symbols,
and on them meditate.

Cradling the instrument
within her warm embrace,
she took a long, deep breath,
filling her being with its sweetness.

Fixing her gaze
on those worn pages—
old friends, revisited often;
“the rules of engagement,”
she had once heard;
an apt description,
the thought occurred
—she drew the bow,
forward over the strings.

Then she leaned back,
closed her eyes,
and let the bow find the strings,
the way that they would do,
just now.

Inner ear to mind,
mind to thought,
idea to quill,
quill to manuscript,
symbols dot paper,
shapes greet the eye,
horsehair strokes steel,
steel vibrates wood,
wood sings,
space hums,
body rejoices,
soul soars.

The sum
of all these meetings
is God’s voice,
heard as music.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This Moment For Thanks

This moment,
just this moment—
to take this moment away
from the ballyhoo and sway,
the wind and weather fray
that seems to increasingly mark each day—

To recognize the beauty of this life,
so replete with challenges and strife,
yet manages still to overflow with vibrant
music, colors, movement and words,
and the magnificence of simple gestures,
such as light rising out of dark shadows,
called forth by throngs of singsong birds—

To remember all the many faces,
the far-flung and beautiful places
where senses were bathed in graces
formed by so many generations past,
built, with lavished, crafted care, to last,
and also remind—

To feel fully in my body and free,
even to revel in the mundane task
that could so often vex, one day in three—

To meet around the bountiful table,
with expectations and pleasurable
gusto, to bare and share as we are able,
proves a central truth: We need one another—

To be reminded all that is good
requires due diligence without fraction;
anything less threatens contraction,
and this is a humbling thought
to release from its abstraction:
Gratitude is a call to action—

This moment,
just this moment,
I’ll take this moment away,
to take in a deep breath and say,
marking the beauty of this day;
whether you, my loved ones,
being either near or far,
wherever you are,
thank you, oh, thank you, most indeed,
for bringing your life-giving beauty
to this world, to my life,
to this moment.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Rose and The Ladybug

The rose,
past its budding,
past its blush,
starting to wither and such,
yet still luscious of bouquet.

The hand,
wielding power,
wielding shears,
with intent to cleave and clear,
clipped the rose at its stem.

Raised it,
with its fading colors,
the fading bloom,
for a final salutary sniff,
a last draft of heavenly perfume.

A look,
within the drying folds,
within still silken folds,
unexpectedly revealed a nest
for a green ladybug.

For rest,
whilst seeking a cosy place,
seeking a haven safe,
a rose might be a handy spot
to stop for the night.

Sun touched,
awakened, the ladybug rose,
awakened, out she crawled,
this ladybug, lately rose tenant,
to greet the day.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 3. The continuous rumble

                  3.

The continuous rumble,
the watery babble,
the trending of disaffection
continues apace;
forward we tumble,
we rabble scrabble,
neither ending the dejection,
nor seeking to displace—
this no-wise movement
is how houses usher,
divide and fall.

Birdsong and flowers,
dappled light through trees,
lure one away from the smoky,
first world drawing room;
out through the French doors,
in through the hedge,
and into the garden we go,
following deception,
we do not know.

Ah, to breathe!
The lively stillness
dispels all former torpor
and mindless twittering;
the freshness of all that is real
reaches out from the day,
singing like a merry bell peal,
tugging the spirit, as if to say
your cares I beguile
for the while
you are here.

The soul cannot well thrive,
no matter what plot might contrive,
away from the gardens of Paradise;
tending the diverse flowers,
for weeks, for days or just hours,
allows one to realize
the duty bounden
on each person’s part
to nurture the beauty in one’s heart,
the garden of where you are.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Stop and See—Contemplate

Let me celebrate Life at all times;
may a song to beauty always be on my lips—
May all my days glorify the sweetness of Being!

Friends, join me in singing;
let our music weave a celebration of Life!

We, who search and strive for truth,
are sometimes so woefully unaware:
truth constantly surrounds us
and is continually being revealed.

Let all who seek find,
and all who realize glow with dignity;
May all who suffer find relief
through transformative possibility;
Let none of us be confounded.

This lowly person asked for truth,
and was given an answer:
The Spirit of Life surrounds all those
who fully engage with the world.

Stop and see—contemplate
by resting in the goodness of Life.

Blessed are all
who love,
who do right by others,
who speak truth and beauty,
who make and nurture peace.

All who find the goodness of Life
and share it abundantly
cannot fail to be blessed.

Together,

Let's celebrate Life, at all times;
may a song to beauty always be on our lips—
May all our days glorify the sweetness of Being!

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

***

Stopping (concentration) and Seeing (insight) are integral halves within Buddhist meditation practice. “The Great Stopping and Seeing” is a collection of lectures set out to explicate the various methods of meditation practice, as realized by the 6^th century Chinese master Chih-i.

While filtering Stopping and Seeing through my own experience and practice, the thought drifted into my head that Stopping and Seeing sounded somewhat like “o taste and see” from Psalm 34, and so this offering is a sort of re-envsioning of Psalm 34.

The interesting thing about Psalm 34 is that its heading indicates a relationship to the story of David’s adventures in Nob, as told in I Samuel 21. David, in this situation, acted as though he was insane, in order to escape from danger. Is the Psalm a crazy outburst, or does it reveal method in madness? Likewise have those awakened to enlightenment been thought, at times, to be crazy.

At any rate, we could all do worse than throw ourselves headlong into celebration, at every opportunity! 

Birdsong

The bird sang,
singing to the beauty of day and light,
from the afternoon through the night,
and this sweet music was the very last,
the most utterly sweetest collection of sounds of all,
and why Jesus wept.

Hearing the sweet song,
he remembered the time before time,
he remembered the Artist forming time
and all being, and being formed within and from it all
—and though he knew that the bird could not know this,
he and the bird and the song would meet in Paradise.

And thus it was that,
on the third day,
the sun rose,
and the bird sang for joy,
and the bird’s song was heard
both in this world and all the others.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Gratitude

thanks,
such a small word
to exchange for
the magnificence
of glittering pools of light that,
spilling through
all the mornings of my life,
stir me first to wakefulness,
and then to rapture,
at the illumined beauty
of the world;
of family, friends &
familiar places;
of tactile relationships &
flavors on the tongue;
of music to the ears &
flower scented air;
of being empty &
then being filled, full and
fully satisfied;
of being busy,
in work and in play,
then to stop for rest &
for the sleep that renews—
all of this in daily doses,
for a lifetime of wonder
—thanks,
this word so small, so humble,
is really all that can sound
from these lips,
awed by life’s beauty,
the so far & the more

I know is yet
to be revealed.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen