This Is It - Episode 3: Finding Purpose

He’d returned from being on the road. He’d been traveling, observing, learning, and teaching. From time to time, he’d return to see how things were at home. Each time, it seemed things had further deteriorated. 

The occupation was putting more and more strain on the people. The average person found it difficult to make ends meet, as more and more taxes were being levied—some to fund pleasure palaces and cities meant to honor men who had no honor. Building the city of Tiberius over the bones of the dead, not good—unclean. No pious person could live there.

Having made his way out into the world, he learned that there were more ways of worship than what Jerusalem offered; the farther you traveled away from the Temple, the greater chance of discovering a new sect of people who proclaimed to know better, more perfect ways of divine observance. And then there were the Greek gentiles and all their gods—and their philosophical thinking. Everyone was competing to be “right.” 

But more immediately, having returned home for a visit, the family spoke to him about their growing concern for cousin John, his ministry and mission. He had not seen John much over the years; as an adult, John had become a bit odd and estranged from immediate family. He’d found he couldn’t live indoors, and had left town to live in the countryside. And then he’d found a purpose—and now had a following. The family feared his purpose would make him a target. Perhaps an intervention was necessary.

And so he had been shadowing John, at the behest of family, to see what it was all about, to hear what John had to say. He found that with much of John’s talk, he was in full agreement. 

Daily, he had witnessed the same corruption John spoke of, impinging on the lives of the people. It wasn’t enough that the Roman occupation was burdening the people with new taxes and gentrification, but there were things going on in Jerusalem, even at the Temple, that were disquieting to him. Human nature, business as usual, quid pro quo—whatever you wanted to call it, the world seemed utterly at odds with what the scriptures taught was “the way it should be.”

What disturbed him personally was that people were complacent in their powerlessness, rote in their observances and treating their mundane daily tasks as a burden rather than a blessing—or worse, as an emptiness rather than a fulfillment. It was easier to point fingers of blame than it was to find solutions from within the foundations of faith. The politics of everyday secular life was dividing people, and the life of the sacred was begging for renewal.

He watched as John helped people to renew their covenant, to acknowledge their need for healing, to turn back to the holy one. Person after person walked away refreshed and with new purpose. For how long that might last, who knew—but in the moment, with the support of the crowd, this was a shining moment in the life of a soul.

And a feeling welled up in his own soul, a need not to intervene, but to be a part of this movement and in support his kinsman, John. 

This, he felt to his core, was the sign he himself had been waiting for, in order to make his own purpose manifest.

So, he stepped forward, out of the crowd, and said, Me. Take me. I’ll be next.

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

A brief note about my literary exploration of the ministry of Jesus of Nazareth: I have undertaken this exercise having read, sung (in several languages), meditated and prayed on the contents of the Synoptic Gospels (as well as the Non-Synoptic Gospels) for at least 45 years. In that time, I’ve accumulated a bit of a library (which comes as no surprise to those who know me), and I try to follow modern scholarship. Here is a partial list of the authors and books that come to mind as I write these episodes:

Ballentine, Debra Scoggins, The Conflict Myth & the Biblical Tradition; Oxford University Press 2015

Erdman, Bart, various titles

Gaus, Andy, The Unvarnished New Testament; Phanes Press, 1991

Herzog, William R., Parables as Subversive Speech; Westminster John Knox Press, 1991

Louden, Bruce, Greek Myth and the Bible; Routledge, 2019

Tatian, Diatesseron; www.earlychristianwritings.com/diatessaron.html

Wajdenbaum, Philippe, Argonauts of the Desert, Routledge, 2011

Ward, Keith, The Philosopher and the Gospels, Lion Hudson, 2011

Yosef ben Maityahu (Titus Flavius Josephus), various writings

This is It - Episode 1: At the River

Though he lived alone, he was never alone. Nature was his home, true, but people never left him alone there. They followed him around. It was because of the things he said, strange things, some thought. People wanted to know what he was all about. 

The message was simple, and always the same. It was a message from before time, from before sky and before earth and before oceans. It had formed itself in his mind from a dream he could vaguely remember, from deep in his childhood. As it was so like some of the sayings he had been taught of the prophets, he knew from where it had come and that it was truth. 

The message of the dream obsessed him to the point that it was all he could think, all he could say, all he could do. He knew that he had to give the message away, that he could not keep it to himself. Ultimately, it was this message that made him go out into the world. 

This is it, he said to all within earshot, the dominion is at hand, and you will be judged on your actions, as well as all the thoughts and words that led to them. Regret your thoughts, words and actions that are selfish and immoral; return to the bosom of the most high. Lighten your soul by doing good, being kind, and sharing.

One day, during a rare instance of hiking alone in the wild, he came upon a spring. He felt dirty, tired and thirsty. 

He’d always understood water, loved water. This was so ever since boyhood, when he fell out of a fishing boat into the sea, and suddenly knew how to swim. No one taught him; he just knew how. 

At this moment, he plunged his head in the spring. Water was the way through the muck and mire, the way to be refreshed and renewed. He reveled in the coolness and wetness of the fresh, fresh water. When he rose, the feeling of the soft breeze over his wet face was like a blessing, likewise the trickle of water rolling down his body.

That was where and when he heard the voice. It was not a big voice, but a very small one. It surprised him that he could hear this tiny voice. It said: You are here baptized, for your heart and soul long for goodness in the world. This makes me happy. Share the blessing of your friend, water.

After that, he couldn’t bear to be inside. He stayed outdoors, close to the land and water, where he found sustainable nourishment from insects, berries, flowers, herbs and honey. He wore simple clothes he fashioned for himself. And he talked to the stones and the plants and to the creatures of the wild. People heard his talk, as well, and they followed him, to see what might happen next. Some thought he was crazy; he didn’t care. He knew he had to talk his talk, so that is what he did.

One day, at the riverside, while he was talking his talk to all that would listen, someone asked him, How will the holy one know I’ve changed in my heart and soul?Will you speak for me?

That stopped him short. He fell silent. Surely, he could not speak for others.

Then he heard the voice, again; that one from the spring, the small one. He heard it even in the midst of this noisy knot of people.

Share the blessing of your friend, water, with everyone. As this was the sign for you, it is the sign for them, too – and for me.

So, to the one who had asked, he said, Come, walk with me into the river. 

The person hesitated, and the gathered group held their collective breath. What would happen next?

Do you admit to wrong ways of thinking and speaking and doing, to these assembled people and to the most high?

Yes, said the penitent one.

Take my hand. Come wade with me. Tell us about the bad things you want to turn away from. Then, I will dunk you under the water, and you shall rise up, clean in body, mind and spirit, in thought, word and deed. This is how you let the holy one know, and how you awaken to a new life for yourself.

When that person rose up, refreshed as if new, all could seethe change. And they wanted to be reborn to goodness, as well.

And so, in part, that is how the life of this particular person found it’s bloom.

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com 

A brief note about my literary exploration of the ministry of Jesus of Nazareth: I have undertaken this exercise having read, sung (in several languages), meditated and prayed on the contents of the Synoptic Gospels (as well as the Non-Synoptic Gospels) for at least 45 years. In that time, I’ve accumulated a bit of a library (which comes as no surprise to those who know me), and I try to follow modern scholarship. Here is a partial list of the authors and books that come to mind as I write these episodes:

Ballentine, Debra Scoggins, The Conflict Myth & the Biblical Tradition; Oxford University Press 2015

Erdman, Bart, various titles

Gaus, Andy, The Unvarnished New Testament; Phanes Press, 1991

Herzog, William R., Parables as Subversive Speech; Westminster John Knox Press, 1991

Louden, Bruce, Greek Myth and the Bible; Routledge, 2019

Tatian, Diatesseron; www.earlychristianwritings.com/diatessaron.html

Wajdenbaum, Philippe, Argonauts of the Desert, Routledge, 2011

Ward, Keith, The Philosopher and the Gospels, Lion Hudson, 2011

Yosef ben Maityahu (Titus Flavius Josephus), various writings

Todtnauberg by Paul Celan - a translation

Arnika, Augentrost, der Trunk aus dem Brunnen mit dem Sternwürfel drauf, in der Hütte, die in das Buch - wessen Namen nahms auf vor dem meinen?-, die in dies Buch geschriebene Zeile von einer Hoffnung, heute, auf eines Denkenden kommendes  Wort im Herzen, Waldwasen, uneingeebnet, Orchis und Orchis, einzeln, Krudes, später, im Fahren, deutlich, der uns fährt, der Mensch, der's mit anhört, die halb- beschrittenen Knüppel- pfade im Hochmoor, Feuchtes, viel. (Frankfurt, 1. August 1967) Arnica, eyebright, the drink from the well with the star-carved-die on it, into the Hut, into the book —whose name did it take before mine?— in this book, the penned line about a hope, today, for the thinker's coming word from the heart, forest peat-sward, uneven, orchid and orchid, singly, crudeness, after, while driving, explicit, he who drives us, the man, he also hears it, the half- trod log-paved trails on the high moor, cloy-clammy, very much.

English rendering © 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem by Celan, this very difficult poem, is a poem about place, about person, about the potential for healing and about hope unrealized. The brilliance of this piece is its economy (69 words), with at least half the words being each so pregnant with meaning that reams of commentary have been written on them.

I undertake my own variation at great risk—many, many more informed people than I have attempted to render this poem in English. My attempt is particular to me, owing to the presence and symbolism of plant life, and the fact that this poem is an entry in Celan’s internal diary.

This poem is a single-line sketch of the 1967 meeting Celan had with the philosopher Martin Heidegger at his Todtnauberg cabin retreat called “der Hütte.”

For just the barest background, Celan and Heidegger were engaged in intellectual dialogue between the years 1952 and 1970; Celan had a great deal of admiration for the work of the philosopher, discovering similar views on “truth” and “language”, “time” and “being”, and how “language speaks.” But Celan also had a great deal of ambivalence toward Heidegger because of his affiliation, collaboration with Nazism, while Rector of the University of Freiburg, for which he seemed reluctant to express public – or private – regret. For Celan, the German-speaking Jewish Romanian survivor of a labor camp, whose parents were deported and died at an internment camp, this “fact” of Heidegger’s complicity with Nazism created an insurmountable gulf, despite mutual admiration and shared dialogue, despite Heidegger’s support of Celan’s work.

Shortly after giving a Der Spiegel interview, and following Paul Celan’s July 24, 1967 lecture at Freiburg, Martin Heidegger took Celan to see his cabin at Todtnauberg. Celan signed the famous guestbook, the two men engaged in a brief conversation, followed by a short walk and a drive back to town.

Brevity is key. The poem is all too brief; in fact, it seems rushed.

The botanical surroundings, at first, breathe hope into the encounter. Arnica Montana, that bright yellow asterid, dots the landscape surrounding the cabin; so, too, eyebright, another asterid—this one’s flower is shaped like two lips. Arnica, a balm for bruises; eyebright has been used for centuries to quell eyestrain, to bring a return to visual clarity, or to relieve inflammations of the upper respiratory system. The only caveat is that eyebright grows as a semi-parasitic plant in conjunction with various grasses and other plants.

There is a tapped spring, right alongside the cabin, a source of life and renewal. A cube, carved in the shape of a star, adorns the top of the post that houses the waterspout that feeds water into a long stone trough. The poem doesn’t really indicate a cube, however—the word choice indicates that carved block is like a die. So, chance may be at work; the meeting may not be by chance, but the visitor may be taking a gamble. Even so, the scene continues to seem benign and full of potential. The visitor takes a refreshing drink of the pure mountain water.

And then he is brought into the cabin and invited to sign the guestbook, this book that has taken many names before his. Do the names of other Jews reside in these pages? The visitor cannot help but associate this taking of the name and documenting of his name; perhaps in two ways—on one side, in the Book of Life, juxtaposed on another side against the meticulous records Nazis kept with regard to atrocities and thefts against the Jewish people.

The visitor recorded this line in the guest book:

“Ins Hüttenbuch, mit dem Blick auf den Brunnenstern, mit einer Hoffnung auf ein Kommendes Wort im Herzen. Am 25. Juli 1967 / Paul Celan.”

“In the book in the cottage, with a view of the well star, with the hope of a word to come in the heart. July 25, 1967, Paul Celan.” 

In whose heart was the hope of a word, at that moment, I wonder?

In the poem, clearly the word is desired by the visitor of the thinker, the philosopher. This is a kind of pilgrimage.

But the poem does not even hint at discussion. The time in the hut seems but no time at all, and they are back outdoors, walking briefly over the damp ground, one orchid beside one orchid. The mountain orchid has been used medicinally for centuries in Europe to ease gastro-intestinal complaints; the Chinese use orchid medicine to improve eyesight and boost the immune system. More to the point, in this poem, the plants consist of a double bulb, very like testicles in shape; one German word for orchid is Knabenkraut (boy’s weed). Celan refers to orchids in other poems. I am not sure if Celan would have been aware of Zen symbolism of orchid as “poet” and “thinker”, but I will gamble on that. The poet walks alongside the thinker, but they are not joined as brothers; instead, they are just as contained and separate as they were when they arrived at this locus. Further, the ground is uneven, so they are not on the same footing, at the same level.

The pilgrimage fails to ford the chasm, despite the appearance of benignity and healing.

The visit further dispels any notion that such a transcendence of their differences can take place, with unfortunate words being uttered during the car ride back to town. It is unclear who uttered the words, but the visitor claims the driver to be a witness who can verify, leaving the implication towards the thinker, speaking without thinking, perhaps.

As they drive back to town, the occupants of the car pass by and through wooded areas, partially logged, with log covered foot trails, perhaps owing to the moistness of the landscape. The living pines stick up straight, the logs lining the path are likewise straight, like cudgels, in the soggy, peaty ground, dispelling the artifice of the semiotic presence of the benign, the healing, and the hopeful. Now, it seems as if the ground is swollen with rot; this meeting is no longer an idyll with an idol. The idol has proved himself not to be worthy – or, the pilgrim has not brought forth the purpose of his quest.

While others tend to translating “Wort im Herzen” into English more literally as “word in heart,” I chose “word from the heart” because I understand the point of the meeting to be a pilgrimage, in search of a means by which to transcend the gulf of differences into brotherhood, if the thinker could but offer a heartfelt word of some kind. Instead, the meeting seemed perfunctory, and whatever discussion exchanged is either insubstantial (at the cabin) or “crude” and “explicitly so” on the way back, in the car.

The encounter that inspired this poem did not end well; but the two men continued to communicate with one another, even if the communications were somewhat strained, until the end of Celan’s life.

//

Despite this pessimistic reading (really the only choice available), I suggest that implicit in the poem is the endless potential for healing, if the all important (magical?) word will be spoken. The potential for the positive and the healing is always alive, always rich, always supported. The fact that healing and transcendence were not experienced here was a matter of choice, both on the part of the thinker and on the part of the poet. Place was not the primary factor, neither was the timing. Overloaded expectations may have been a factor, as well as courage or lack thereof, toward articulating a question. Certainly, an inner struggle and perhaps a crisis of identity factored into this outcome.

Perhaps I chose to explore this poem on this day is to suggest that brother/sisterhood is always a worthy goal, and always possible – if one can bridge the chasms of ethnicity, class, race, religion, criminal record, victimhood, guilt, shyness… loneliness. And this may be at some cost, but it should never be at the cost of personhood and self-value/self-respect.

Pristine water still wells from the spring; the arnica and eyebright, the orchids still grow and bloom; the turf and the trees provide fuel and shelter. We humans pass through this land of potential, and don’t often enough use the good of what is provided. We opt instead to avoid, or worse utter the unmindful word, and tend toward the destruction of what is good.

My thought and prayer for you, for me, for all of us this day: Positive potential greets you, everyday; don’t be afraid to engage it. Don't let unrealized hope close the book on your quest.

Eloquence

After the stormy blasts:

Why are you here?

The question not heard,
but felt from before before,
as if thought-occurred,
but not.

Because of you!

After the air is
completely stilled,
yet poised, bated:
Why are you here?

Because of me!

Even the stilled landscape,
hushed to stasis as it was,
registered a riffling shift
through space and time.

Return!

This is where to go
will not be to arrive
at any reminiscent place,
but where leaving
is departing
from old places and ways
as they are irrevocably
and forever
being torn from the fabric
of memory and knowing.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

~ kol d'mamah dakah

Good Neighbors: 7. Sunday

Listen!
Hear what I’m saying?
Don’t judge

what you don't understand!

How can you justify
pushing me away?

I’ve been objectified,
            I’ve been abused,
I’ve been both overwhelmed
            and ignored by those who should help.

I remember better times,
when I was able to work,
and could think deep thoughts.

Now, it is all I can do to stand up
            and reach out.
I’m living through a drought,
            and thirsting for true compassion.  Hear that?

Hear me,
Now, as I stand before you,

Don’t turn away,
as if I am invisible.

Let me feel love in the morning;
            if I am to believe in the system,
teach me how it works,
            so that I can freely be in it. 

Deliver me,
help deliver us all from failure and shame;

we’ll follow you to salvation,
if you’ll let us in.

Teach us to live anew,
            for you have found the key;
if you are truly good,
            lead the rest of us to that promised land.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is part of a cycle based on the so-called seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is “Psalms from the Streets”. This entry is based on Psalm 143, and could be subtitled, “The Abused.”

Turning

Leaves cascade to the ground,
a small music,
played by the wind;
it has begun,
this turning,
detaching
and falling
to freedoms
complicit with windy whims.

It is just the beginning
—we must be clear about that—
the start of a dialogue, a transition;
each leaf, as it turns,
glows, even as it fades
under the Autumn sun,
and, dying, dries,
and when it falls,
this is only a newer
hello,
the very latest one.

A slow dance,
this seasonal song,
is merely one of nature’s
many conversations;
the cold breath of Winter
may find an answer
in the winds of Spring,
or a balmy reply
on Summer’s sunny crest.

To turn,
to burn;
to prance
and dance,
unpinned
by the wind,
upended
(mayhap unintended)
and made free
to flee and be
and to become,
with all and some,
wholly changed material,
electrically ecstatic and
eclectically charged
for both the now and next.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Weekend Away

         12 January 2013, 2:30-5:00pm
           Girl Scouts of Northern California Kicked Back Weekend,
           Camp Bothin, West Marin

Into the car,
heading down the road,
we ride into the darkness of night,

Arriving at road’s end.
There, in the middle of nowhere,
we can pretend.

Whether to stay up or sleep?
Hmmm, the company we keep
rarely goes without a peep.

Then, up comes the sun,
stirring sleepy heads,
first to breakfast, then onward to fun

And games, with knowledge braided,
from one to another are passed:
flames to rekindle lights faded.

Soon, dinner and pageant shared,
songs and dances done, and
hijinks, too, as far as can be dared.

Day well done gives way to dreams purled.
We’ll wake once more, to buns and kapers,
friendship circle and flag furled,

Thence back to car,
to road and to the weary world,
returning to places near from far.

“Here, always!” the birds cry,
above motors’ hum and churn,
as all about us they flutter and fly
—for they know that we’ll return.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Falling Silence

Snow,
falling on earth,
falling on snow;
snow, the falling silence,
covering frozen buds
brought forth last Spring,
buds intended to form new thought,
that might grow and be taught,
rather than swiftly and blindly caught
to be cut down, to be lain
in frost-bound graves.

Snow,
blanketing earth,
carpeting earth,
a covering, a silent prayer
for the return of Spring,
whose sun-warmth will melt frost,
warm and awaken cold roots,
encourage and tend new shoots
beyond the reach of cold brutes,
to raise new buds to bloom,
to bring blessing, peace and new fruits.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

rest in peace, beloved children

-the world is indeed a better place because you were here

In the Garden of Delights: V. Perfect Storm

By faulty thinking and vision,
having achieved imbalance irrevocable,
there seemed nothing for it
but to throw a party.

Invitations addressed and sent,
an invisible feast was prepared,
a metaphorical table set.

Nothing left
but to await
the coming
of the guests.

First a gathering of winds,
from east and west,
from north and south;
well met were they in song
over a scarred and ravaged land.

The great whirling howl
stood time and travel still;
even the oceans stood in their tracks.

A quiver of lightning arrows
signaled volleys of hail and fireballs;
such foundations as remained
were shaken to the core
and submitted to a tired earth in defeat.

The seas and rivers walked upright,
dancing to the music of the wind,
joining a rhythmic patter of rain,
purifying all places low and plain,
in a symphony of lyrical wetness.

Into the deafening roar, I cried out:
“Save me, O Divine One, save me!
The water is wide upon the earth;
there is no place to stand,
and I drown in my own tears!”

“Save me from the drink!
Don’t let me sink!
Awaken me to think
beyond this gaping pit
of watery depths!”

My Dear,
this rising brew
comes to renew,
to save and sew.

These rivers of water,
walls and sheets of water,
with the leaky clouds and springs,
come by invitation to celebrate!
They come to wash, to heal, renew.

Allow your heart to be opened by your tears,
open your eyes and ears;
a way shall arise
beyond the rubble of former years,
a way of peace and wellness.

These watery guardians shall eventually recede,
their dancing shall give way to pure land;
in the places where monsters tormented,
sweet grasses and herbs shall rise.

Through the merry waving thickets,
a highway shall verily appear,
bidding you welcome
to a new journey.

O Daughter of Zion,
cast off the lameness
that paralyzes you!
Open your voice
to the dawn of day
with the new song
that all life is a celebration!

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

---
We are too rational to realize that weather is a wild party. All the natural forces are our neighbors who we might wish would party in a quieter and less destructive fashion. The destruction wrought at such times is an invitation to build anew, with better plans, better materials and better intentions.

Luke 14:16-23; Psalm 107: 29; Psalm 18:13-15; Psalm 69:14-15; Isaiah 41:18; Isaiah 35; Zephaniah 3:14

Memorial Day

Open, oh holy earth,
open and accept this flesh,
this flesh that once breathed
and walked carefree above ye,
little knowing, little knowing.

We have committed much to death,
where we might have planted seeds for peace;
we have committed too many to war,
where flesh has lost to gross weaponry,
and, dear earth, you have lost holy ground,
to the insanity of blood and rubble.

Open, oh holy earth,
open and accept this flesh,
accept this sacrifice
we made unknowingly,
and now painfully regret;
please let us consign to you
the body of our honorable servant,
late and lamented, spent
—renew the sanctity of your guest.

Then, allow us to attend to thee,
oh, gentle—oh, most holy earth,
—to tend those wounds
we made in the name of death,

to amend for our grievous sin
against you, against life,
little knowing, little knowing.

Open, oh holy earth,
open and accept now this flesh:
a living sacrifice
to life and renewal,
to seeds and growth,
to nature and nurture,
to love and life,
to life loved,
as never life
has ever
been
by us
but, nevertheless,
is
in you.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Wake Up Call

Weeping

and the sound of stone scraping on stone
announced a blinding light.

“Come out,”
called a voice,
distant, yet familiar;
far away, yet close by.

A call from one world
to another,
as yet unrecognized
by an object.

“Friend, come out,”
the voice softer now,
closer, kindly.

Could it be for me?

Rising with effort,
encumbered
and stiff,
the faintest trace,
the faintest memory of I
shuffles toward
a bright world.

Sleep,
it has seven beneficial qualities:
    sleep heals,
    sleep relaxes,
    sleep stores focus,
    sleep sharpens memory,
    sleep checks appetite,
    sleep supports a positive outlook,
    sleep calls forth a morning filled with light.

But the wake up call
goes one better than sleep:
love of the Friend is greater than death.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

within silence

withdraw, withdraw from the noise!
withdraw into the stillness of creation,
like burrowing into the folds of a warm cloak.

stillness invites silence
to the center of self and every living thing,
and to the interiority beyond,
which is the beauty of creation.

when silence speaks,
receive the message,
and be its instrument.

let silence play through your soul
like the breath of a song
on the beat of the sacred drum.

like the flower,
unfolding from the bud
to make a bed for the bumble bee,

silence will call blessed rest,
will speak beauty to your dreaming,
and greet you warmly in the truth of dawn.

withdraw, withdraw from the noise!
withdraw into the stillness of creation,
like burrowing into the folds of a warm cloak.

stillness invites silence
to the center of self and every living thing,
and to the interiority beyond,
which is the beauty of creation.

when silence speaks,
receive the message,
and be its instrument.

let silence play through your soul
like the breath of a song
on the beat of the sacred drum.

like the flower,
unfolding from the bud
to make a bed for the bumble bee,

silence will bring the blessing of rest,
will speak beauty to your dreaming,
and greet you at the dawn of day.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Trignosis 2.

2. mandala

the bud opens,
spiraling from her soft center,
reaching to the eight directions
and out toward the welcoming arms of infinity

it has been this way since before the dawn,
and thus it shall ever be,
song without end,
amen

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Feelings

A certain poverty,

the lack of touch,
is felt as isolation of the flesh
from all that is and would be sensuous.

Long the light ponders this quandry,
playing over limpid surfaces,
tracing each plane and place,
'til at last each body is kindled
with the truth:

All that it is not
is touched by all that is;
sensual it is to be,
completely sensual,
in this ever-renewing event,
where one is, where all are,

sensed,
noted,
checked,
equated,
felt,
explored,
and known.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Shores

In ways that we could not ever have predicted,
the waves of our discontents and frustrations
wash up, in perpetual canon, on the shores,
and nothing we can do will still them;
long after the wreckage has been disseminated,
these waves continue to arrive,
your flotsam to my jetsam,
beaching in the very place
where our hearts should lie glowing together, warmly,
bleaching, instead, to a unity of purposelessness.

Perhaps a saving grace,
ours is not the only dreck to litter the shores,
and, somehow, all still manages to gleam
with an unencumbered purity.

Perhaps all the waves to follow
will pound into soluble atoms
all that drew us to this insoluble conclusion,
and we shall sift with the sands,
under alternating rains and sunshine,
into the peace
love deserved
and passion longed for
when we were sought out
to belong together,
within the song of the sea.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen