Classic Order

That photo of me,
shuffling toward you
for the very first time,
says it all:
small being,
newly bipedal,
approaching tall man
emerging from fuzzy background
— and that is how I remember it;
“There he is; go on,” she said,
but my baby eyes
could not see that far ahead.

Sometime later,
you and I stood on the corner
of a very wide avenue,
and little me could only cringe
at the speed of everything flowing by
— fast, so fast, too fast for me —
but when the light changed,
you took me by the hand
and we raced across,
returning to the car lot
before it closed,
because the steed we’d driven off
had failed only blocks away.

It was revived, however,
to become the beloved chariot in which
we rolled over every stretch
of road we could wind along,
from coast to Sierra foothills,
staying at creaking cottage courts
or car camping roadside,
like that time a small dog
tried to catch a mighty river by the tail,
while her human sisters panned for gold
— the golden treasure garnered,
the laughter this triggered in us all.

These are glimpses
of how this child gained vision:
Plans meticulously made
so often veered out of control,
and the lesson always seemed to be
Just Roll With It;
though not always what we expect
(Results May Vary),
rewards can still be reaped,
such as a cozy at-home indoor picnic,
because an unexpected storm
rained out an intended excursion.

Adventures in education,
ever a tilting against windmills
of cultural experimentation;
how could “new math”
compete with “old math”?
Surely there is only onemath;
but while numbers were fated
to be my Achilles heel,
for you they were stock and trade.

Building and design,
weights and measures,
these are living lessons in conformity
and resistance — even revolution;
any angle can be joined,
but will it stand and withstand
the forces of gravity and
unintended use?

Perspective is itself an art,
and everyday proposes a new lesson;
perspective does not always form in
nor heed to the painful symmetries
we are taught to expect,
asked to cultivate.

Any rejected stone
has keystone potential,
viewed with the right eyes
and placed by the right hands,
as masons from Greece,
Europe and Yavapai attest
by way of the monuments
they left behind.

And this is how you taught me,
whether you know it or not,
that symmetry is illusory,
even unnatural;
the human struggle has
always been a vertical challenge
to the gently curving horizon
of a continually growing and quaking earth,
a battle against the natural order;

Similarly, modern science is baffled
in the attempt to unmask
nature as a formulaic perfection,
perhaps because there is
no perfect, simplistic formula,
more an ever growing
agreeable synergy
of complexities.

How many places, things,
people and relationships
have we witnessed that work
in defiance of a stated perfection,
while the captains of industry
fail to produce a toaster that can toast?

Perhaps more to the mark,
nature trains us to cooperate,
revealing the truth that beauty
is uniquely, even willfully, nonconformist,
as can be seen in any garden;
you can nurture and train,
but a garden will go its own way,
and even lowly weeds can flower
with unexpected beauty,
given their moment in the sun.

You’ve lived at the apex
of this age-old human battle
to best nature, and you’ve
tested your fulcrum against
the weight of normative fashion.

I’ve observed that
your preference has been
to lay paths that gently conform
to the soft contour of the natural setting;
there you’ve planted the aloe and reed,
and together we’ve released
butterflies into the wild
— letting go is the magic blessing
that allows beauty to bloom
as it will do.

This lesson in artful living
has not been lost on me,
and these feet of mine
find those paths,
from time to time.

It is in such times and places
where I find a classic order
that allows me to
feel my feet firmly planted
and to see just a little
of what lies ahead.

for Father’s Day

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

All About Making Waves

MYSTERY CYCLE
V. Making Waves

                   for Emily and Ian and their Dad – 20 October 2000

It’s your turn,
a heavenly voice said,
then a tremendous tickle ran out through the clouds,
followed by jiggling rolls escaping into snickers,
and pealing positively gales on gales of giggles
until, finally, there wasn’t anything for it,
and the clouds burst into laughter,
what you call rain.

Drop upon drop,
from small to large, both young and old,
they all fell down akimbo,
tumbling from the sky,
collecting, drunkenly you might say,
in puddles to pools to rivulets to streams,
finally running like great silver ribbons to the sea.

I can’t remember,
One asked an-Other, still giggling the tickle,
I say, what was the joke?
but Any-one would have been too wet to answer,
though really No-one heard clearly enough to say,
and Every-one was wondering what would happen next,
so, if there was a reply, who could say if it was made,
and whether by Which-one,
or not?

But Some-one was able to hold the thought long enough
and, floating up through the lovely bubbles to the surface,
called out to friend Sky for the answer.

A, Darling, did they not tell you long ago?
It’s your turn to have fun!

They gather you all up into their arms,
lulling you with sweetest windsongs
from all the Four Corners of existence,
and when it is your time,
they shake you loose
to join the great throng,
so you can be free.

But what shall we do?
asked the littlest drop.

Moon shimmered a silken answer:
Dearest, anything you do will make me smile,
but why don’t you make me some waves?

So, laughing and shoving all the more,
fumbling and recklessly tumbling,
all heels over heads toward the shores
and to the utter delight of all,
they did.

Reprinted from
“Songs of A Soul Journey” by Elisabeth T. Eliassen © 2002 all rights reserved.

It has been a rainy year, and so, on this anniversary of the birth of my twins, Emily and Ian, I bring you the message that life is wild, wet, wooly, weird and wonderful. Punctuated by hard times, yes; but even so, still the best game in town.

I, who declared at the age of 12 or so that I would never have children, gave birth to twins on this day, 17 years ago -- which is to say that one can make all the bold pronouncements one likes, but the cosmos has other ideas... 

From wombmates to roommates to housemates, they have shared so much with us and each other… 

So, to Emily and Ian, (and to all of you) I say:

Keep jiggling the rolls and giggling the tickles, 

because it’s your turn to have fun;

it's all about making waves!

~ love,

Mom

Meditations in Fast Times: 32. The middle

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.

                32.

The middle, I have found.

Here I am, in the middle way;
the twenty-five years of my exploring
not wasted, no, not at all, not ever,
not even when discoveries proved
to be dead ends;
for even dead ends show signs of life.

Here I am, in the middle way,
still l’entre deux guerres,
for that condition seems unchanged
—the barbarians, after all,
are a kind of solution
bullies fall back on
when they have no other reason
to incite, intrude or invade.

Here I am, in the middle way;
the tattered, folding maps
are giving up, their faded lines
were useful and lovingly explored;
such charts are no longer made:
people no longer travel but by turns and
the art of topography is all but forgotten.

Here I am, in the middle way;
from the beginning to each far place,
I met beauty, I met goodness and joy,
and when I returned, here I found the same,
although there was no sameness
to the varieties of expression
—every place has flavorful salt.

Here I am, in the middle way;
this unusual place, difficult to find
because it is overgrown and untended,
seems deserted and lonely,
though birds and other creatures
do make their homes here,
among the low hanging tree branches.

Here I am, in the middle way;
this is possibly the road least traveled,
by my reckoning, though many
say they know how to find it
—interest in being here has dwindled;
polarization seems preferable, somehow,
or at least more socially popular.

The middle, I have found,
and I shall not stop exploring
the intricacies of its beauty,
the subtleties of its forms,
the art by which it cultivates me
—In the scheme of things,
I arrive, in the middle, a beginner.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Draughting

unhampered by outcome
the vanishing line becomes
freedom for new
perspective &
dimension.

uninhibited by form
the mind flows toward
the vague and distant
presence,
seeking coalescence.

unencumbered by conformity,
the spirit gathers itself
for omni-linear
exploration &
expansion.

uninhabited,
the foreground
represents every
convention
left behind.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Yawning

Stifling a yawn,

I felt my body reset itself, cat-like,
to normal flexibilities, albeit aging,
and stretch to realign with the more fluid now.

Perhaps the yawn does not prefigure boredom,
but rather points toward a yearning:
for movement,
for light and lightness,
for that which will not settle,
but take up any stray parths
and rise up in winding spirals
of exploratory spirit
of muses and musing,
and discovery.

Whereas boredom cannot reach beyond itself,
light crosses borders,
gathers creative dust,
and sings the planets and stars to life.

Let my yawn be bent on travel,
calling forth invisible wings
to open out and,
stretching fluidly,
to carry me upward and
liberate me radially,
from my inner world
to all outer worlds.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Camera stellata: A Place of Creativity

The Star Chamber. This was a special judicial council in England, from the late middle ages to the end of Henry VIII’s reign. The term has become a pejorative to describe secret meetings, where illegal or unfair decisions are made, against which there is no recourse. This information is neither here nor there, as far as this post is concerned.

Apparently, in some text dating from the 16^th century, the Star Chamber was described as a room with a vaulted ceiling of azure, with golden stars. There are many such, throughout Europe, and even a few here in the United States, in cathedrals and churches. Have you ever been in one?

Starry, starry night.  The depiction of earth as an eye, open to the cosmos.

The star chamber is my metaphorical place of creativity.

I can enter this chamber at any time of day; frequently, this happens between 2 and 4 a.m., but also during daylight hours. I can enter this chamber at home, at sea, across borders and boundaries, and in any weather.

What is in this metaphorical chamber? How exactly do I get there? What is in the chamber? And what happens next?

I’m afraid I don’t have precise answers to these questions, but I will venture toward something necessarily imprecise.

There is an invitation made to me. From whence, I know not. This comes in the form of a twinge at the forehead, a series of words that drift into my mind and don’t drift away. There could be a tug at my sleeve, an itch on the sole of one foot or a breeze blowing across my forehead. Whatever the invitation, it will not allow me to avoid giving it due attention.  Come on, it says—in no uncertain terms.

Then, something like this happens. My conscious mind and my unconscious mind join hands. My right-brain and left-brain join hands. My heart and mind join hands. And then, in words somewhat like Dogen’s description of meditation, body and mind drop off, leaving the rest of me free to enter.

And there I am. What is in the chamber? I could not describe exactly what is in there for you or tell you what it is like, but I can say that Divine Genesis resides there, and the chamber is full, indeed.

What happens next? Mmmm. Difficult to say, for the circumstances are different each time. There is a meeting, and a spark sets the proceedings alight. Is it a conversation? Perhaps. Yes, it could well be a conversation. It could also be an exploration. A flow and mix of ideas.

And then I return to mind and body.

But the very elements that made the invitation arrive back with me, transformed into something else.

Is the result by my hand? Hmmm, I would have to say partly.  Yes—as filtered through my being—yes, it is by my hand. But, there is something more there than me. An alchemy, a music, a melding, a grace bestowed by Divine Genesis.

While I am not sure what to call this something more, it is a definite meeting.

All art, I am convinced, is derived from such meeting.