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

//

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. 

Love Came as a Child

For them that walk in starkness,
a lucid dream appears;
for them, a retreat from darkness
draws on the horizon and cheers.

Yea, there was a second and a third,
but when was spoke the first word,
that indeed was a concept: Love.
(Sung, as if from somewhere above.)

Then, held safe from all harms
as might lie in the wild,
from Labor to a mother’s arms,
Love came as a child.

Love, appearing as light,
thus cast darkness away
into new realms of night,
visible as shades of grey.

Abundant, how abundant,
and full, oh, so verily sooth:
Love, to all life incumbent,
our charge, our care, our truth.

What the shepherds saw,
what, to worship, sages sought:
loving care should be the flaw
to defy any, all, prizes bought.

The metaphor of the cattle stall,
is both the sermon and reminder:
A peaceable kingdom is here for all,
but only when we are in deed kinder. 

Love, as a child, came down—
Incarnate Love, we cannot shirk;
Life, Love’s cradle and crown
is, in every generation, our work.

© 2018 Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Dear Ones, 

My wish for you, now and always, is that Love be your most abundantly shared and greatest flaw. Imagine the epitaph: “Their one flaw was that they loved too deeply, too much…” May your days be filled with everything that can be shared with love and laughter; even hardship is soon overcome where Love is lively and at work. Many hands move the work forward, onward and upward. Blessings to all!

Meditations in Fast Times: 21. The truth of the rose

Note to Readers: “Meditations in Fast Times” is a devotional writing experiment for the Season of Lent. Each day during the season, I am writing a poem as a meditation on, taking as my inspiration and intertextual basis, T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, as well as incorporating the daily office, current events, and other readings—some the same as those Eliot used while composing his seminal work and others.

                21.

The truth of the rose,
lies in no ghostly apparition,
but as that sweet music,
borne among clouds as a dream,
that passes through the waves of the sea
to be born into the garden of our seeking.

The truth of the rose
defies test tube and lab;
for in as much as the volatile ester
can be created beyond cloud and sea,
the truest circadian emission of rose
can only be realized in the garden of experience.

The truth of the rose
lies enfolded in the mystery of eternal, recurring Spring,
which willfully disturbs the world with vibrant color and
soulful perfume that cannot help but rise like delicate music
through our tender senses and memory,
in the gardens of earthly reality and of Paradise.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 13. Getting off the train

                13.

Getting off the train,
thinking to leave behind the clutter of old ways,
our old, shabby thoughts drift across the platform
and flow up the escalator with us,
flowing amid the general mess
of commingled thoughts and emotions,

—really the wants of the rough and tumble masses—
whose sound has gone out into all lands.

Strive as we might to stay in possession,
sometimes rummaging the lost and found
to reclaim half-baked ideas,
the mobile phone dropped yesterday,
or cans for the recycle,
we miss the small presence,
the unprepossessing gift
that arrives, unasked for,
in the face of the flowering weed
growing out of the blighted cracks
of the forgotten and foreclosed factory;
seeking so much beyond our ken,
we fail to see the ordinary
(still very much noteworthy,
in as much as it is woven into the fabric of our being).

Whether we see it or not,
the weed is, in our time or any other,
and exists to be;
that it purifies the air is beside the point,
but for that we should give thanks.

We struggle forward,
making plans,
rehearsing incoherent speeches,
wrestling with emotions,
but Truth interrupts,
does it not?

Truth is neither of passion or dispassion,
but it constantly crosses our path,
manages to derail all our plans
and frequently sends unwanted messengers,
as if to say:
here I am,
pay attention.

Truth is,
Truth is what happens
when we are making other plans;
time and place cease to matter,
acceptance is all in all.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 11. Up from the dark

                11.

Up from the dark,
each of us from our own depths,
as if hearing the cry, “Sleepers, awake!” 

Up into the waking state,
and perhaps for an hour,
some part awake, while the rest sleeps.

We enter the train from the platform,
find the patient no longer here,
the passengers unsettled
within their myopic world of media
their gazes held in their hands,
rocking forward toward indifferent arrivals.

Little can be expected of such a day,
unless one is awakened by Genius,
tazed by the Security Guard,
or assailed by the Transient Upstart;
on such days, not even coffee will serve
to jumpstart us to a higher awareness of Life.

Though the lamps are lit,
they are eclipsed by the false day
with its mechanical nudgings and dronings,
and repetitions of soulless activitiy;
our eyes are not prepared for sight
under the burning gaze of a truer Light.

© 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! 

How Does The Garden Grow?

We are miracles of being. We are packets of life that burst into a world that is often unprepared for us, although it is furnished with the potential to serve all our needs.

As adults, perhaps we spend too much time weighing the potential of life to serve us, while not enough time in service to that integral nature that sustains miracle upon miracle, and has done since opposite somethings began to attract, in those first unprecedented moments of creation.

For sentient individuals, this span of existence, in whatever form we take, is so brief and brutally free, while filled with such inexplicable beauty in each moment that is our now, I wonder why any person would isolate themselves in the virtual.

Reality and realism are a calling. Immersion in what-is, above what-can-be, is an essential landscape I fear is missing from the lives of many. This is not to say that what-can-be is unimportant or missing from the world. What-can-be lies within a limitless field of creative potential.

Sadly, most people frame their lives, whether they will admit so or not, within prisons of what they deem are “inevitabilities.” Mortality aside, nothing is inevitable. Therefore, all things are possible.

What-can-be could be seen as that which you grow in your garden. What will your garden contain? What will you grow? From whence shall the seeds be harvested? How often will you water the young seedlings that sprout after you have the seeds you have acquired? What culture will you grow? How will it impact the world?

These odd questions are vital, yet rarely directly addressed in our upbringing—the upbringing that shows us primarily how life must serve us. Parents too seldom pass to their children the knowledge of culture—where it comes from and how it is perpetuated—beyond the mere experience of it; I think, sometimes, we haven't learned all that is required to bring culture to birth and nurture it; to build and maintain it; to pass it on to its next conservatorship.

To think this way seems beyond so many people. Artists perhaps, may have the greatest potential and sensitivity to the philosophical implications of life in service to beauty. Too many others feel that sort of dedication is someone else’s domain and responsibility. Too many others believe that culture is and should remain free, and by that they mean, existing without investment. Somewhat like parents who expect schools to train their children to be good people, yet invest nothing or little in seeing to that themselves. Somewhat like people who decide how to vote based on what they read in checkout counter tabloids or what they see on Fox News.

Is this how the garden grows, the garden of you and of all of us?

From one impulse through many impulses, from one voice through many voices, from one set of hands through many sets of hands, your life flows. Infinite messages flow through all your experiential pathways. To which and to how many shall you respond? And what will be the result of that response or interaction?

Life is a series of callings within the single, yet infinite, garden of being. Yours is to choose. “Life is all about choices,” a friend once reminded me.

The paradox of life is that it supports you while you support it.

How will you nurture what has nurtured you? This is a vital question, a real question.

Everything depends on your answer.

La Habana, en versos libres: V. Dias Cinco

Not quite late, but nearly
—even so, time enough
to roll the dice
with the coffee machine;
guess who won?

To class, to class, to class!
—the last one
in which we attempt to learn
the most complex genre of dance.

The eyes,
the mind,
the heart open;
so this is the truth:
when they took the drum away,
on the continent,
The People were robbed of their language.

Expected to capitulate,
The People on the continent,
nevertheless invented a new language.

But the islands regained the drum,
by way of the invention of the clavés;
the culture survived,
even flourished,
despite unintended changes,
via telegraph and telephone,
that brought a blossoming,
a renaissance,
to the tropical paradise
of song birds
walking trees
and rum.

This is a true story
[though, from his library in Argentina,
Borges would have observed
it is a true story
just made up;
this would be both
right and wrong]:
There are two birds in the forest;
both are holy beings.

One bird desires
union with the other,
to achieve the basis
that is universal:
one.

The male plumps his colorful plumage,
while the female demurs.

Though the female seems plain,
she is the Queen of
sky, sea and forest;
it is she who is mother of all.

The male, the Fourth King,
he who enjoys a good party,
he knows the Queen is best,
so he reaches into the sky,
calling on Thunder and Lightning,
pulling their power
deep into his gravitas,
placido y not.

The Queen,
she can have anyone.

The King,
is he worthy?

Right now, what can he achieve?

Is this the opportune moment
and portal
for encounter
and engagement?

Can this be love,
or merely convenience?

And what will happen next;
what are the consequences;
will the cosmos be changed?

Harmony is a coordination
of chant,
rhythm,
and movement
—one language,
heard and understood
in all times and places;
call and response,
with an outcome,
is a complete revolution,
a return to stasis and rest,
that resets the stage
for a new play.

Oddly,
“The more things change,
the more they stay the same”
is not true;
this drama kicks forward;
the revolution is really an evolution,
but only when the ritual is
correct and also unique;
there is no empty repetition
if there is blessing,
but blessing only comes
when being is engaged.

This is why the true language,
composed of thought,
                        word,
                        deed,
expressed as rhythm,
                        song,
                        dance,
is not a trinity,
but one expression,
that is being,
only when being is fully engaged.

There is no emptiness in being,
nor is there perfection;
there is only engagement with possibility.

If you believe,
if you know,
you realize the future imperfect
need not be tense;
there are no winners or losers,
there is only change,
even growth,
perhaps even understanding
and healing,
if all goes according to what is possible,
while maintaining the integrity of being one.

This, my friends, is rumba.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Day We Were Together

It was the day we were together,
perhaps the only one,
and Holy Heaven opened above us,
a place so vast it overflowed,
pouring down flaming, music-like wind
on our eyes, our ears, our hearts,
and when we spoke,
it was as if we were one being,
speaking in all the tongues of humanity.

Together, we thought,
“Woe is me! I have gone mad!
I am among crazy people!”

But a collective thought-stream commenced:
Sad it is that I must remind you:
I have created you and blessed you;

I have given you a heart of flesh.

Hear, and now understand,
See, and now perceive,
Be healed, now,
and go to share the news!

Mistake not fulfillment
for drunkenness;
your purpose is,
and has always been,
to love one another
— in thought, word and deed,
in dreams and in reality,
to love is to serve.

Rejoice and be Glad!

It was the day we were together,
perhaps the only one.
Do you remember?
Or was it just a dream?

             *****

Prayers of the People on Pentecost

To Holy Wisdom, that came

In silence, wind and flame,

We lift our prayers, saying:

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

As we bring forth our different faces, colors, gifts and voices,
Please guide our vision, our work, our ministries and choices.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Strengthen your ministers, ordained and lay, all,

To heed what our minds, hearts and covenant call.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Move those who govern beyond profit, loss and liability;
Guide them to uphold freedom, truth, justice and dignity.
            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Guide us in the sustainable use and care
of this Earth, our planetary ecosystem so rare.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Bring comfort to those with any concern or need;

            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)

Support every earnest thought word and deed.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

We offer thanks for every blessing and beauty;

            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)

May our gratitude show forth as joy in our duty.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

We pray for those who have died and those who mourn;

            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)

May they be wrapped in Peace; may their spirits be upborne.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead them with your Spirit!

With one accord, in unity, and in all the voices of humanity,
Let us say: Amen.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

From Isaiah 6 to Acts 2, in places near and far, love has been declared the common language. 

What will you do to celebrate?

Current Events

Eventful, today;
not much else to say,
except that—little by little—we slip away,
but maybe that’s okay.

Voices, loudly they cry;

“Choices,” they proclaim, “buy!”

Fruits of summer
winter in discontent;
smart suits are dumber,
tinder for wildfire foment.

Voices, quietly they sigh;
invoices quell the buy-high.

From inane to insane,
rinse, repeat and remain.

Maybe it’s okay
that we slip away
when truths known no longer hold sway
with those who have the say.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The statistics for our National GNP (gross national product) can only be generated by our purchases. We can only purchase when we have jobs and income. We can only have jobs and income if the corporations that earn the GNP open up the job market to a wider audience. Policy makers don't see this as a reality that needs to be faced; they continue to make policy based on the notion that their jobs depend on the support of corporate lobbies, not on the wider audience of potential purchasing public. The policies made by policy makers allow corporations and their talking-head-suits to abuse the working classes of the world, workers here and abroad, so that they can control more money with fewer workers (or cheaper off-shore labor). The result is economic stagnation. Policy makers know this, but refuse to do anything but pander to the corporate lobbies. Privatization has driven the cost of everything upward, even though the quality of what we are buying (think education) is substantially less. "They" tell us the costs are greater, after "they" said that business could do it all better and for less. This is the new definition of "less is more." If that weren't bad enough, out and out fraud is committed, throughout all industries, unchecked, unabated, unregulated. Seems to be a national insanity, for which there is no cure.

Lotus Dreams

Rising to the occasion
of dewy, rose-hued dawn,
blue lotus emerges
from one world,
breaking middle-place tension,
to meet another.

Greetings, Friend!
In the rosy Dawn,
a thousand petals
open like arms to bless you
with their touch, so like silk
upon windblown reeds.

Nestled on water,
as if in the palm of a hand,
loving arms reach
across any imagined void
to perceive relationships
through a central lens,
musically.

And when dusk comes,
these thousand arms will
close to embrace you,
oh, You, who will retire,
under gaze of moon,
to vivifying lotus dreams,
wrapped safely against chilly damp.

But, morning will find us all
rising together in beauty,
returning you to sunshine-life,
where, once again,
you can walk on water.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Reflections on Reality, Love and Family

There have been so many things, lately in the news, that have made me reflect on the concept of "reality."

For example, when you read an entire arc of written history and find that the ancient notion of Trinity has been purposely derailed from being Father-Mother-Child to Father-Son-and-[(female in name origin only) Holy Spirit], you tend to suspect that the proper order of things has been usurped to fit a human agenda that can often seem less evolved and fit for holy work than one would hope for humanity (which claims to want peace even while raising their weapons to conquer).

The historical model Father-Mother-Child really needs a more modern amendment to  acknowledge the actually exisiting model of [Responsible&Committed Parent(s)-Grandparents-Guardians-Villagers]-Child(ren—history reveals this to be the reality of what has actually happened, through times ancient and modern, in thick and thin, in times of war and peace.

I just wish that reality what actually happens didn’t have to constantly obscured, diminished, denied, denigrated, fought over and legislated, so we could all get on with the actual (and more important) holy business of loving each other—from within the sacred choices we have made about our identities—and caring for each other and our beautiful planet, which is, after all, supposed to be the whole point of this existence.

Maybe someday there will be a holiday called “Stipulation Day”, where everyone could remember the day we all said, Okay, we’re ALL so COOL! Let’s CELEBRATE that we’re all taking care of each other, and that this is the way it should be!


(sigh)

But, the problem with holidays is that we have parades where we all line up in separate groupings. We reduce everything to sentiments that are printed on cards and balloons. Over time, we forget what the holiday was ultimately all about, and why it was needed.

Perhaps a better solution is to make everyday a Sabbath day, where there is time for work, time for play, time for celebration, time for reflection and time for rest. Is it possible? Could life be like that?

Meanwhile, I feel so VERY LUCKY to live in a part of the world were there is so much more consciousness about the multiple definitions and dimensions of family and neighbor--and life.

Reality

Materialism:

products are petted,
becoming self-referential fetishes
for our admiration,
critique &
worship.

Compassion:
heart opens out
ever more outwardly mobile
in the exploration
of life &
of love.

A middle way:
experience of form and spirit,
accepted as inherent
to every journey
—moderately lived,
appropriately embraced.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

No Writing Peace

There is no writing peace;

peace is an unnatural word.

Peace should be
an element ubiquitous,
like water, light and air,
born into all cells and fibers,
an active ingredient in bread,
planted as a crop,
mixed into cement,
displaying ultimate flexibility
along with diamond hardness,
wearing like iron,
yet as soft as down,
yielding to every need.

Peace should be
all things to all people,
indeed, all Being.

Instead, the human world
is built on the shifting sands
of arguments called diplomacy,
and the groundwater
liberally laced
with discord,
tribal enmity,
provincial vision,
irrational governance,
top-down authority,
and condoned oppression.

This thinking erodes the earth
by a grasping of more than is required,
and profanes life by promoting death,
while claiming to make sense
of an insensible world.

There is no writing peace.

Peace may be a beautiful word,
but until the word can
write people
to right action,
and the kind of living
that comes as naturally
and habitually effortless
as water, light and air,
the sands and time,
then its beauty is meaningless
and has no real place
in the language of life.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen