steward at the butterfly's gate

consciousness,

a living record of dreams
and daydreams
and lucid dreaming
that tumbles through time
with seeming coherence,
rhythm, rhyme,
purpose and point.

from the cushion
of my contemplations,
realization flutters
like a weightless butterfly;
i stay rooted,
although i would soar
and have traveled to heights
no words can paint.

my seat is the footstool
at the base of the stupa of my soul,
heights of which—i continue to discover
—rise beyond the skies
of science and religion,
though no full-scale expedition
has been made to chart it,
for dread of the burning bush.

the bush is there, somewhere
high above clouds of desire
and persistent fog of unknowing
—it awaits my pleasure
with simple humility;
i must greet it equally
on the holy ground of being
—the sacrifice is in the meeting.

The call is felt,
within this grounding
beyond all foundations,
as a tension between worlds,
one that allows the heart’s flame
to walk over watery depths
with such peculiar innocence
that it can neither be dampened nor doused.

i sit between these worlds,
between the dawns and dusks of knowing,
holding that delicate balance at my brow,
neither surrendering nor ruling,
a steward at the butterfly’s gate,
with freedom to roam the hill
—so long as i am there to answer
the knock of the weary traveler.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Flights of Fancy

Gifted by the sun

for the full measure of this day,

the soft strokes of pollen-laden branches

along the side of this house

invite honeybee and hummingbird,
alike and united by a love of unfailing sweetness,

to rejoice in these dwindling days of summer.

Lifted from some glum

thought or worry or hurry,

the loft glows with sun-drenched particles

that, spiraling, seemingly long to find freedom

beyond the windowpane and sash,
much like muted, even urgent thoughts

tend to curl gracefully upward and outward.

Sifted, as through dun

and drear, merry and colorful thoughts contrast,

the toft now billowing with rising and sprightly intimations

of what suspended moment could hold—

if not being this brief encounter with bliss, then what?

—and one wonders why one doesn’t

surrender more frequently to such flights

—Which thought intrusion, of course, breaks the tender thread…

In the Blink of an Eye

In the space of
the blink of an eye,
an invisible river
of poetry overflows
its musical banks,
lapping lazily
at the far shores
of mind and
sensibility,
out of time
and place.

Merest suggestion
of that bounty
might be all
that is visible
to the naked eye,
in a seed, a shoot,
a bud, a root;
but perhaps,
if that is all,
it is enough
to assure
forward momentum
and a musical life.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Nature

After thousands of years of commitments,

affirmations, creeds and manifestos,
of contracts, covenants,
didactic recitations,
and promises,
one would think
the repetitions of all
such declamatory,
not to say noisy,
vocalizations
would by now
have ingrained and
enpatterned
a golden age
of golden rule
among people.

By contrast,
the natural world
makes no promises
but simply is,
and being
blooms and prospers.

Perhaps some other lesson
lies in this observation,
but hear the time honored:
actions speak louder than words.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Moon Seekers

They watch the sky by day,
Scanning for the soft night orb,
Devoted, even while the sun's hot flame obscures it.

Her name was the first word they uttered,
Hers the first tune that they ever heard;
She is mother to all creation.

Her changing form is a cyclical mystery,
To be observed, to be studied, to be mastered,
Piece by piece, sliver by sliver, day by day,
From their rising in the morning
To the afternoon siesta,
And on waking from thence to
Night's sweet-dream sonambulance,
They track her progress through the gardens of Eternity.

Rare daylit sightings are cause for celebration,
While the backlit splendor of night's full array
May send shivers of glee down their spines,
Past their knees and into their toes,
Where a hop or a jump sends it all back up
To rush out through their moon-like smiles as squeals of delight…

For they, like the stars, know the tune by heart,
For it is the music of the spheres, and they play a part;
For it is her tune that sings them to their rest, then to their reawaking start.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Jesus: Capitalist or Humanist?

I have to confess that I struggle mightily with the notions of conservatives, and particularly conservatives who identify themselves as Christians, who talk about having money, but not about using money for public good—who, in fact, will fight to keep themselves from having to pay taxes and also to keep public money from going into programs that help people.

I have heard many homiletic distortions on the subject of Jesus and money… I have heard and read rants in the media, from people I would have to consider irrational and even insane, on the topic of money. After hearing modern money-mongers and religious zealots on the topic of money, I must say that I continually come to the same conclusion: Jesus is not a Suze Ormon type of financial guru! And, also, that many of the rich who claim to be faithful to a supreme deity are deluded hypocrites. Is it really a person's God given right to accumulate wealth? Gosh, I haven't read any passages in scripture that assert that.

When Jesus speaks of the widow’s two mites, he really is saying that her offering was the greatest simply because it was all she had to give and she gave it all. In another story, the rich man Jesus “sent empty away” (and sorrowfully he sent the man away) precisely because he was not at all willing to give all he had to give, which was much, and could have been really helpful to many in need. 

Jesus seemed always to encourage an unencumbered life, one without anything more than one needs.  Jesus told the disciples not to have stuff, and only to take what was needed where it was offered freely. I read an article a few years ago about a tent city in Washington; one of the people interviewed said that if Jesus were alive, he would be living there, not in a suburban home, much less a luxury penthouse.

With regard to giving, the passage where Jesus speaks of the rendering of what is Ceasar’s unto Ceasar, what is God’s unto God, is an interesting passage for this reason: Jesus is pointing out that God does not make money and there is no money that has God’s image on it. Jesus is not at all telling people to tithe, he is telling us that God does not ask for or need money! (Have you ever heard that preached? I sure haven’t.) The implication that seems more proper is this: if God wants something from us, then what God wants is something more along the lines of giving of ourselves, with mind, body, spirit, where what we are or what we have is something needed to keep creation moving forward in a healthy way, to benefit people and planet. We pay tribute to God by in the most consistent and holistic way by giving of ourselves when what we have is needed elsewhere in God’s Garden, even if all that is needed is a smile.

Matt 6:19-21 “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” is completely consistent with this notion of rendering.

The miracle of the five loaves and two fish, found in all the gospel texts, could be understood as a story about sharing, akin to the old Stone Soup story. The disciples have two fish and five loaves, but who is to say that more food isn’t being hoarded among the crowd? The miracle might be less one of five loaves and two fish being divided among 5,000 people and more that the crowd understood that it could and should bring forth what food there was among them, for the common good.

When we tithe to our religious communities and when we pay our taxes, we must invest in the notion that keeping the organization running serves that requirement of giving of ourselves, a giving that is not just for us and our own benefit, but for the community at large, where our organized existence might serve to meet the needs of those who have less, or have nothing at all.

That is to say, we must invest our treasure and our hearts in God where God is and is needed most, which is, of course, everywhere. Those wealthy and apparently religious individuals who claim otherwise are wolves in sheep’s clothing, and sinners.

Thank you, Warren Buffett, for being real and for pointing out the obvious:  People with extreme wealth can afford to contribute more in taxes—and should. 

*** 

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/15/opinion/stop-coddling-the-super-rich.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=buffett%20and%20taxes&st=cse

The Way of Love -- a found poem

This poem was written in 2002 for Emily and Ian,  in memory of
P.L. Travers… and her friend, Mary Poppins.

This posting is a bit late, but I was out of town on August 9th, the birth date of P.L. Travers (1899-1996). If anyone knows who she is, it is because of Mary Poppins, the magical character that she created. Most people know this character through the Disney film; lovely thought that is, it is a saccharine representation of this character who flits through time, is a mythological being, and has known many other mythological beings. Travers was a lifelong enthusiast of mythology and mysticism. Later in her life, after Mary Poppins brought her fame, her lecture series given at Scripps was turned into the book, In Search of the Hero: The Continuing Relevance of Myth and Fairy Tale (1970), and she published a full-length study on myth and symbolism What the Bee Knows: Reflections on Myth, Symbol and Story(1989) at the age of 90. She was also a regular contributor to Parabola magazine.

          "Oh!" breathed Jane, touching the hair that the wind had curled. 

          "How very small and sweet.  Like a star.  Where did you come from, Annabel?"

          Very pleased to be asked, Annabel began her story again.

         "I came from the Dark--" she recited softly.

          Jane laughed.  "Such funny little sounds!" she cried. "I wish she could talk and tell us." 

          Annabel stared. " But I am telling you," she protested, kicking.

                      -- P.L. Travers, from "Mary Poppins Comes Back," Chapter V

Open your eyes,
said Sunlight to the little ones,
and they stirred lightly from their sleep,
opening their eyes onto the new world
for Sun to put its bright shine upon.

Breeze dropped lightly into their cradles,
warmly stirring the cozy covers and,
feathering their hair into each its permanent lifewave,
fluttered over to sit with Sun on the window sill.

Please, tell us your story,
said warm Breeze and Sunlight,
settling in for tea and a biscuit,
if you aren't tired from your  journey.

We are earth and air and fire and water,
We are come from the dark,
from which all Being comes,
into the light;

We are of the sea and the tides;
We are of the sky and the stars;
We are of the sun and its brightness; and
We are of all that is green upon the earth.

Slowly, from within a sleeping and a dreaming,
Slowly, from inner-world to outer-world,
Slowly we moved, alone and together,
Slowly, remembering all that we had been,
Remembering all that we might yet be.

When we had dreamed our dreams,
we wove them together tightly for the voyage,
then we woke from our dream-sleep and
quickly came to Be.

Along the way, the stars were singing,
wings were carrying us far and away,
through deep, dark waters and thick jungles,
across the desert plains and through rocky clefts,
over the mountains and through the air,
until we reached our Home.

That is the way of love,
sighed Sun and Breeze, remembering their own journeys,
that is the way of love for us all…
it is the perpetual song of life.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen