Of Palms and Palimpsests

 

To dream is not an evasion,
nor a waste of time or energy,
even if dreams fly
beyond the arc
of human consciousness.

To dream is to be in continual free-fall
to the unexpected, unanticipated next;
dreaming requires no notion or plan
—all is suspense, all is in suspension,
a readiness in unreadiness
or the scratching of a quill
over the sheet of foolscap—
archaic,
but only in the sense
that one might lack the ink
or the penmanship
in the non-present now.

There, we might glance
at our lively page
to find nothing written there, at all;
but the paper has been folded and eared,
screwed up and tossed,
retrieved and smoothed,
folded neatly, then unfolded,
creased in differing directions,
only to be undone back to flat,
worn, now and limp,
lacking enough integrity, perhaps,
for aerodynamic flight.

And all for a lack of direction,
a longing for flight
fighting reticence to height,
so that the dipped reed might record
a thought or trace a silhouette
—or otherwise leave a mark,
even if a splotchy blot

—Ultimately, the run-on sentence
is the avoidance of endings,
especially for those who
can’t figure out how to make a start,
or maybe it is all continuous starting,
without end,
Amen.

While wrapped in these ponderings,
in this landscape of dreaming,
there approached a form
drawing slowly up from a distance,
and soon there appeared a man,
riding an onager.

His gaze was steady and warm,
laugh-lines were in evidence,
and he greeted me like a friend.

Seeing the creased and blank sheet,
he said,

We embody the world we see,

an unfathomable array of beauty
punctuated by experiential pain.

Life is good, so we are taught,
and we can find ourselves

in this goodness as existential truth

even when the willow bends to breaking.

Don’t leave the canvas blank, my friend,
make your mark.

Don’t be afraid to create yourself,
be in the being;
as you have folded
and unfolded,
so all your markings
continue to amend and change.

Simultaneously, we each
know and do not know
where we are and why;
doing is all,
we invent as we go.

The words we utter,
and later record,
live on, even down to the dust
that is carried on the wind;
don’t die with your song trapped inside
—sing out, in full voice.

I’m making my mark, see?
he said,
touching his forehead, his lips, his heart,
don’t hesitate to make yours,
even if you don’t understand the significance
—the run-on sentence is the doing,
not the avoidance;
you can write and overwrite,
paint over and write some more—
it’s all continuous starting,
continuous writing,
without end,
Amen. 

He reached out and took my hand,
and held it for a moment, smiling,
before letting go,
but, as an after-thought,
reached out and touched my forehead.

Then, handing me a palm frond,
while good naturedly
slapping the onager’s flank,
forward and off on their page they went.

Looking down,
I saw that my page was full,
and that words were even running,
puddling in the creases,
accumulating in pools,
to run off the page
across the wadi,
or fly off the page,
up into the sky.

Both knowing and not knowing,
continuously starting,
we run, we fly, and we sing
without end,

Amen

© 2023 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Meanderings on Motherhood

There was that time, long ago,
(but when I picture the photo in my mind,
I can recall it as if it just happened),
Your voice urged, “Go! There’s dad!”
and these feet (much smaller)
carried this body (tiny then) upright,
for the first time in recorded mystory.

Since then, to now, such a stretch
of rolling and running and walking long trails,
working on words,
how they are formed
on the lips and in the mind,
naps and daydreaming,
watching motes of dust
float through the air,
the sacred holding of ladybugs
in small hands and large,
skipping beside you,
my hand in yours,
later walking on my own.

Of the countless adventures:
The tiny kid on the painter’s ladder,
“But I can do it, mom!
I can go all the way to the top!”
I clearly remember saying,
and when I got there, I looked down,
to realize that up and down are
two wholly different skills,
and your fear-of-heights coaxing
“But it’s time for lunch,
I have your favorite, all ready,”
literally willed my safe descent
from the edge of the rooftop.

Only a superhero can do that,
I hope you know.

Cups of sweet, milky coffee,
in the time-honored tiny tea set,
with fresh from the oven cookies,
punctuated long days of discovery;
who knew that spiders, large enough
for Tiffany the standard poodle to bark at,
could emerge from under an old house,
or that summer swim lessons would
require you to wear your winter coat,
while blue and shivering kids paddled,
as you observed from the stands?

Rescues, both small and great:
the bus-missing preschool finger-paint project,
that found me walking wrong-way home;
the playground knee-roll over broken glass,
requiring a taxi ride to Emergency,
where an old man walked through the plate glass door,
as if to continue a theme of shatteredness;
your calm voice calling to me from up the block
while a stranger tried to lure me with a lie,
through his car window.

Further opening windows of consciousness,
the daily theme, from the portholes
of your piercing brown eyes to my own,
everything an exercise in expansion,
from cultivation of flowers
to the care of small creatures,
from the march against war
to the long bus ride to help
in the marina after the bay oil spill,
for we must save the sea birds.

Over time, these portholes on the world
have upgraded themselves from transoms
to casements and skylights, even bays
clear or color-stained like gems,
to picture and double-opening French windows;
Windows on the world within and without,
these aforesaid windows of consciousness,
this is extraordinary vision,
mapped as the starry heavens,
and the young must first be led
on all the well-trodden paths
before they can forge any path on their own.

The painstaking after-school reading lessons,
for this late bloomer, a first opening
to the greater world beyond our time and place,
leading to the sharing of books and music,
endless school art shows and concerts to endure;
How you and every pet in the house
stood the squawks and squeaks
of an inexperienced bow across the strings,
I’ll never know, even though
every pet in the house slept at the epicenter,
and you sat proudly through every concert,
from violin to voice. 

And I know now,
         I now know,
through my open window,
         what it was all for,
what it meant to you,
         what it means to me,
having relived it all,
         in a different time,
and with a different voice.

And I want you to know that,
         though you are far away,
the little hand of your child
         still reaches through open windows
of consciousness and vision,
         finds your warm hand,
ever-curious mind and open heart,
         and feels your mommally hug.

Love,

         Elisabeth

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//
Top photo: Mom has given me little kirigami to throw into a bowl of water, where we watched them open into flowers, circa 1962.
Bottom photo: Me with my twins when they were very young, circa 2000

All That You Touch

It is not enough
that each step moves forward
if there is neither measure,
nor meaning;
if the ground that offers support
isn’t also speaking,
or, if speaking, is not heard.

Know: All that you touch is also touching you.

Being is a reciprocity,
an opportunity and invitation
to participate in fullness, everywhere
         to glean,
                  to feel,
to make,
         to sing and
                  celebrate.

Remember: All that you touch is also touching you.

You are the butterfly sightings
the drumsongs of feet,
caught up in this epic symphony;
your instrument
is tuned to the entirety
of all that has ever been,
         of all that can ever be.

Every touch, every encounter,
is an opportunity and invitation to renew,
         to grow,
                  to learn,
         love,
                  laugh,
an invitation to linger in song.

Celebrate: All that you touch is also touching you.

An infinite smear of star dust,
twin enigmas of light and dark,
blessings of water and earth,
join in the marvel of you,
burnished by sun, wind and waves,
l’dor v’ador, in saecula saeculorum.

There is no need to discover,
the garden of wisdom,
the lake of merit,
the mountain of repose,
the vale of mysteries
—they meet on the
landscape of your soul.

For, all that you touch is also touching you.

There is no need to search for
mystical union,
for all that you touch is already touching you,
awaiting an answer to the eternal question:
“Will you be with us?”
—awaiting the resounding song of your soul,
the song of “Yes.”

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Starlight Ballroom

With a subtlety
bordering on flagrancy,
every outer contour
of awareness
opens to the great dance.

So many strive
against conformity
by conforming;
proclaiming their uniqueness,
they spiral inwardly toward implosion.

Can you keep a secret?

This world of light and dark,
of beauties seen and unseen,
does not feel any dominion we claim,
and only just tolerates our presence.

In ever expanding waves of motion,
patterns weave an imperfect math,
advancing the latest musical form,
one poised to rend the fabric of time
and make everything new.

Given the choice,
I would rather unravel
into starlit dance.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Shadows and Shades

At the outer edges of awareness,

shades hide in shadows,
silken shades,
peripheral,
yet presently alive,
watching and wondering,
witnessing
the shift of time,
as actions and images flow,
revising truth,
reviving resolve,
releasing moment
from any proviso
that may try to hold
what no longer is
to what may become.

What can be no longer
is not, is not, and can never see

beyond what was
that can never be again,
but in shadow, in shade

and in memory.

Shades hide in shadows 
at the edges of awareness, 
silken shades, 
sight out of light, 
away from sharp pain of focus,
fleeing and fading, 
colorless dissolutions 
that evolve and resolve,
even hope to solve, 
in the offing of ever,
newness and beginnings.


© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Three Strikes; You’re OUT at the Ole Ball Game!

I haven't written in a while. I apologize! I've been a little preoccupied.

***

When I was growing up, in the latter portion of the 20^th Century, I never played a team sport. Mostly, I wasn’t interested. I really didn’t have any friends who played team sports, although I have a vague recollection that there were organized baseball games held at the park I used to play in. They might have been Little League games—I don’t know. I think I watched a few, but it really didn’t hold any interest; I mostly hung out because they had a hotdog stand. The nearest thing I had to a “sport” was bicycling.

Fast forward to 21^st Century Parenthood. My twins are in middle school, and my son is nearing the end of his three-season Little League career. He started late, but developed pretty quickly into a decent ball player, jumping from AA into the Majors in his second year. My daughter, who had never expressed anything but boredom at being dragged to her brother’s games, suddenly decided this Spring she wanted to play softball. I am sure she was influenced by the example of her best friend, who has been playing for years.

My daughter went to the tryouts. She could catch, but not throw very well. She had not really done any batting to speak of, but managed to hit a few at the tryouts. She was put on a team with girls she had never met before, although she had seen a few of the older girls at school.

The most beautiful thing, indeed the very best thing, about the softball program in my town is that all of the practices and most of the games take place at a park that is literally across the street from my house. No driving. (Little League is another story…) So, my daughter would cross the street with her equipment bag for practices, and I could watch out the window or stroll over to watch, if I was at home.

My daughter would frequently come home from practices tearful and frustrated.

“Mom, I can’t do anything right!”

“Dear, you are just getting started. That is why you practice! So that you can improve.”

“The coaches keep telling me all these different things. The tell me I am not in the right place on the field, and then I move, and later they tell me to move back to where I was!”

Well, not having been a ball player, I couldn’t offer a response to that. So, I decided to go watch what they were doing. I sat through some practices. I watched the drills. I listened to what the coaches said. Finally, a scrimmage with another team was announced. It was then called off, due to rain. And it rained and rained and rained. Our fields were closed, our practices postponed. (sigh)

Once the rainy season decided to end, practices resumed. Then, the first game came and went. It was a disaster. The girls didn’t know how to read the coaches signals, the in-field didn’t know how cover their positions or how they should back up other positions. A few girls could hit, but not others. No one could really slide. There wasn’t any communication or cheering going on. I won’t tell you what the score was.

[And here is the truth about scores: Scores don’t matter. I figured that it was good that my daughter was outside, getting some fresh air and exercise. I didn’t really expect much more than that.]

After a few more disappointing games and practices, that I watched closely, I could see that there was a bit of a misunderstanding, involving the way the coaches would tell the players to move on the field. I had figured out something fundamental to team strategy: Once the coaches have seen the opposing players at bat, they have an idea what that player can do, and they try to remember and use that knowledge to reposition their fielders to better advantage.

“Mom, I can’t do anything right! I want to quit.” She came banging in the door, crying, one afternoon.

“What happened?”

“The coaches kept yelling at me to move to different places. First I had to move back, then forward, then way over to the side!”

“Sweetheart, let me explain what they are doing.” And I told her what I had figured out, summing it up with, “so you weren’t in the wrong spot. The coach was moving you to a new correct spot, every time.”

That made sense to her. It is so funny that something like that never gets spelled out for anyone but the pitcher and the catcher, but there you have it.

After that, it was a matter of improving on her batting and getting better with her throw, and remembering what area her position covered and what position she had to back up. They worked with the girls on sliding into bases. Turned out Emily was a natural at it! The coach nicknamed her “Slick” and had her demonstrate for the other girls. Pretty soon, I was hearing her little voice piping from the field with how many outs there were and where the next play was. The girls started cheering each other at bat more.

As I watched them during their practices, I realized that baseball and softball, and probably all team sports, require you to be both conscious in the moment of what is happening and also to think forward into the realm of possibility—to be aware of what must be done at the individual level in the now, as well as think through possible consequences of your actions on your teammates in the next moment. WOW!!

And again, I say:  WOW! Who knew?

The team continued to have a lack-luster season, but they did win a few games, and that lifted everyone's spirits.

Finally, the playoff game dates arrived. I thought we would be out of it immediately.

Here is what was written about Playoff Game #1:

5/29 Playoff Game #: Diamonds-In-The-Rough 10 – Good Sports 9

Possibly the most exciting game of the season! No scoring until the 3rd, when K.C. made it home for the Diamonds. Pitcher B.L. and catcher S.W. shut down the Good Sports’ chances, allowing one runner on, later tagged out at 3rd. Top of 4th, G. O. scored a 2nd run, leading with a strong double. Team B.L. and S.W. foiled Good Sports’ at bat. Diamonds were unable to score at the top of 5th, when Good Sports powered home 5. Diamonds shook it off with runs by G.O., A.G., B.L, K.C. and E.N. Good Sports brought it up to 9. S.W. and A.G. scored in the 7th to tie it up. Pitcher G.O. and catcher S.W. shut the Good Sports down 1-2-3. International tiebreaker was called. K.C. broke the tie. G.O. struck out one Good Sport, but it was a fabulous double-play, with A.G.’s in-field throw to K.C., and K.C.’s quick throw to S.W., taking out runners at 1st and home, that closed out this sensational game.

We who watched the game were beside ourselves! That was a fantastic game! Like the light switch had come on, and the Diamonds were really a team now!!

So, they had one more playoff game. When we found out who our girls were playing, we thought, oh, well. They were just up against the first ranked, undefeated team, of course!

(sigh)

Here is what was written about Playoff Game #2:

5/31 Playoff Game #2: Diamonds-In-The-Rough 9 – Expulsion 8

Another exciting win for the Diamonds! No scoring until top of the 2nd, when B.L. was driven home by E.N. Expulsion tied it up with one at the bottom of the inning. Diamonds got no traction at the top of the 3rd, and Pitcher G.O. was hit off of by three Expulsion batters, but the first two ground out at first and the third popped a fly caught by 2nd base-girl E.D. Top of 4th, Expulsion bobbled K.C.’s single into a triple, and G.O. slammed one deep to bring her home. A.G. also scored. B.L., on the mound, and S.W., at the plate, held back Expulsion with one strike and two batters ground out. In the 5th, the Diamonds did not score, but B.L. and S.W. held off Expulsion with a double-play assist from K.C. at first base. No scoring in the 6th. Top of 7th, G.O. and A.G. scored again, owing to Expulsion fielding troubles and a line drive from E.N. Not to be outdone, Expulsion took swift action, confounding Pitcher G.O. with 7 batters, three of whom scored, tying the game at 5-5. The exciting and decisive 8th inning found C.Z., V.S., K.C. and B.L. making it home. Expulsion battled forward with two more runs before a third strike ground their season to a halt.

You cannot imagine the scene. Our girls were screaming with joy. The other team’s chins hit the ground and their coaches looked like thunder. The stands were full of family and friends of our team, figuring it was the Diamonds' last game. Everyone bounced out of their seats and surrounded the girls. WOW!!

And again, I say:  WOW! Who knew?

The undefeated first place team had just been upset by the fifth place team. The fifth place team was now going to the championship!!!

This was the shot heard around the league! (And believe me when I tell you it was HUGE news and that parents and kids in lower divisions were talking about it for days.)

As you can imagine, it was an unbelievable victory and we were all full of joy. The underdogs sometimes get to shine!

Now, I won’t hold you back from the end of the story: The Diamonds lost the championship, having to settle for 2^nd Place.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Well, take it from me: that’s wonderful.

(Whew! The season is finally OVER!)

Mirage

It is as if I have been following you
along a trackless path,
and I have been
always.

The desert is the only place
where you can be found,
it seems
—and every place is
its own desert,
isn’t it?

You are like a mirage,
flowing somewhere before me
across the steaming plain,
the parched nowhere,
this empty expanse
of possibility
that I inhabit;
you seem always out of reach.

When the rains come,
you don’t flow as freely,
and I cannot see you

in the stream of my own consciousness
for being washed
into and down arroyos of
tracklessness
and unremitting emotion.

What are you?
A dream or a reality?
Why can’t I see you,
face to face?

Possibility, breezes breathe,

by way of answer.

I am what you make of me;
my being is because of you
—I am nothing without you.

You are not a dream,
but a Dreamer;
I am not a dream,
but I am Possibility
—we are twins, you and I,
mirror images
on an outbound journey called Reality;
we see one another as creation.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Coherence

Walking in sand,

polyphonic motion,
a response
to the song of the sea.

The lapping of waves
is but an invitation
to join the rhythms
of the rising song.

The sun answers the moon,
who sings her verses in the night,
music that shimmers
of cool mystery and allure.

The sunsong brings warmth and light,
calling the birds and the fish,
calling to the upright:
challenge the horizontal plane,
challenge the vertical plane—
challenge being particulate
by being instead the wave,
or by just being,
or being within being
being.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Dawn

          a song for Easter

          The Holy Spirit is the rising sap, 

          And Christ will be the green leaves that will come
          At Easter from the sealed and guarded tomb.

                       Patrick Kavanagh
                       From the Great Hunger: III, lines 25-27

Steal in,
Steal in softly,
Steal in silently, sweet Other;
Flow thy sweet living steams in,
Flow in vision, flow in being
On the exuberant morning tide!

Illumine from dark to dim to light,
To consciousness and the recognition of it;
In you flowing tide, fill me from outside in,
Until you fill my veins and my visioning with beauty,
Gently birthing me out of your essence.

Steal in,
Steal in softly, Beloved,
Steal in slowly, dear Other;
Flow like the flames of dawn into my senses,
Sing like the lark through my veins,
Extrude me from your consciousness,
Unfold me from the budding of your source
Until I am everything,
And the fleeting thought on the wind,
As the light grows from rose to flame.

Steal in softly, and
Weave our endless song--
Theme and Variations
On our eternally new moment of discovery.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem was written in 2002.

This text has been set to music by composer James Hurd.

breath

rising and falling,

with the fullness of time,
is what makes the song
sing

following breath,
living is easy

breath of heaven,
blowing on the head,
            in the heart,
            through the lips,
in the fullness of song,
            of life
            and being

fill me now,
and always

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen