Dromedary Dreams

 

Journey of the Magi, James Tissot, c. 1894

Silent footfalls belie big burdens
—traces of feet will be gone by morning,
shrouded by wind-sifted curtains.

God is completely present, even
in these evening breezes;
every desert is wholly a part of Eden.

With all the planets aligned
to the fullness of ascended moon,
light is abundantly consigned,

Accompanied by comet and star
—all is made bright and visible;
no matter where you stand, there you are,

seen. Yet, onward we ply and plod,
destination unknown,
as they say in the Land of Nod.

Being—to be—good, by deed,
word and thought, is to lodge in a place
so full of goodness, there is no need

to be elsewhere; such is the goal.
To find, there within goodness, a refuge,
where to coalesce and be whole,

in spirit, mind and body,
this is what the dromedary dreams of,
while traversing the ancient wadi.

12/23/2021

For Epiphany

© Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Notes/Commentary: 

* Genesis 3:8-9, some translations suggest the Divine Being enjoys a walk in the cool evening breezes.
* Moon, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus to aligned around (Dec. 10), joined by the moon.

* Comet C/2021 A1 (Comet Leonard) will be visible throughout December 2021 and into early January 2022

* The mythobiblical Land of Nod is located east of Eden, from which Cain was banished for murdering Abel. But this is less about a story and more about a language. Nod is the root of the Hebrew verb “to wander.” Related words reflect meanings ranging from vagabond and fugitive to being disturbed, agitated or moved. To “live in the land of Nod” can mean “to live a wandering life.”

My friend Bajun R. Mavalwalla posted Tissot’s work on his Facebook page, along with some thoughts on the magi, from the traditions of his family. I woke up a week later with the words “dromedary dreams” in my mind. Since the words showed up, I thought I’d better work with them!

This poem is meant to be lighthearted and from the point of view of dromedaries, the common pack animal of the middle eastern deserts. Humans (with their baggage) run all over the place, trying to find the person, place or thing that will make existence perfect (“destination unknown”). The dromedaries in this poem rather think you don’t have to run around to find that—well, perhaps they would prefer to find, stay and experience the goodness of a single place, any place that is illumined by Divine light. (This would certainly save wear and tear of the desert sands on dromedary feet!). 

Ultimately, this is a story of immanence, the holiness of the seen and unseen. People run all over, looking for holiness, when in truth they are surrounded by it, if only they could see and be illumined/informed by the signs, and act in accordance with them--that is, with responsible stewardship and benevolence. Rather than make this a story about astronomers from Persia with three gifts for a baby messiah, my rendering is intended to honor the traces of Zoroastrian monotheism that come to us through the Hellenist Judaism of Philo and Christianity—the transformative threefold ethical path of good thoughts, good words and good deeds.

E.T.E.

Blue Moon Blood Moon Eclipse

Wearing a shadow for a covering,
in the coolness of a morning that is not—
for night and day are but a seeming,
guiding that rarest of miracles: vision

—Over this silent music presides the moon,
calling all divine light to rise and water to lie,
and quickening every frozen seed to song
from all measures of waiting slumber.

Such mathematical and unseasonal observances,
of celestial bodies hurtling forward through space,
should swerve and realign misguided churnings
that might trouble a perfect harmonic turn.

In this here and now, wearing a shadow for a covering,
water lies in hushed witness to what eternal moment,
seemingly, is reflected on this still and tensile Bay,

unaware of any unseemly ripple over the fabric of time.

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Another Sun

Another sun rises
over the dark zone,
light warming, informing
by casting shadows
that define moment.

Another sun rises
moving to mark one
more passage of longing
for resolution,
for healing content.

Another sun rises,
teasing leaves, none
of which will be lasting
much longer; indeed,
the season is spent.

Another sun rises,
declaring all be done
that is not inviting
of newness, of life,
of seeking advent.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Today marks a terrible anniversary. We cannot forget all that happened, where we were when it happened, or what we felt. We cannot forget the tragic loss of life, the families torn apart, the fear in our hearts in the hours and days that followed.

I take much satisfaction in knowing that my children have no memories about this horror--they were toddlers. It makes me happy to know that children born after this day have little knowledge or understanding of what this day means to us, the old-timers.

These young people are growing, living with the nearly carefree abandon we all should be feeling, each day, as we rise from our sleep to a new morning. We should celebrate each morning, even this one. 

We should not retain this day as a time to mourn; our mornings should celebrate every new beginning, each new life, those actions that bring about change, all moments of beauty that fly in the face of tragedy and death. 

Morning returns, the sun rises, the shadows define the dimensions of all that appears to us, all that we must negotiate. But we must remember that day lights the way to newness and possibility, to the opportunity presented in each moment. 

My prayer for you and for me, and for us all, is that we rise, like the sun each morning, in search of making the day better, safer, kinder and more generous for every life.

Amen.

I and Thou

So slow, aye, so slow, I,
plodding the repetition of my path;
nearly weightless, you wait much less,
zipping from branch to branch,
calling with a flick and a click,
until, at this very moment, that
until now, you slowed to hover,
level with my eyes, to gaze,
level, within our space.

Locking eyes, at this moment,
‘tis a case of I and Thou;
but so briefly synchronous,
then quickly out of phase, once more;
a moment of unexpected depth.

What you saw in me,
I hope you could enjoy;
I so liked what I saw in you!

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Note to readers: Have you ever locked eyes with a hummingbird?

Well, this happened in my life, on June 29^th of this year, and I have been trying to find a way to write about it, ever since. Such a small happening, fleeting. But it was unexpectedly profound. I may write more about it, but this is what comes to me now.

It reminded me of the work of Martin Buber, of his book, "I and Thou", which has had such an influence in the growth of my philosophical self-- hence, the poem's title.

Meditations in Fast Times: 30. There is a time for building

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.

                30.

There is a time for building,
a time for collapse,
a time of reckoning,
a time for remembering,
a time of forgetting,
a time for forgiving
a time of returning;
all these times are the same time,
past, present and future,
all apparent in the blooming eglantine,
all apparent in the salt clinging to each blossom,
all apparent in everything awaiting its due season.

We rise, we fall, we crumble;
Our old wood burns quick, hot
cinders into ash; we return to earth
and the wind carries us, like seeds,
to every corner, every place—
we are the song on the wind
as sunlight fills the empty pool;
neither shadow, nor light,
but we are there, in due season.

We are in the running rivers,
we are in the waving grain,
we are in the slowness of trees,
in the speed of the hummingbird,
we are the cries, smiles, laughter and dance
that turn to mourning and remembrance,
we are silence and sound, which together are music,
we are the songs of sadness or rejoicing—
we are the time and seasons,
and we await our due,
our return.

We are quietness at rest,
if we could be content so to be.

We are the dream,
if we could be content so to be.

The house of mirth and the house of mourning
are one and the same dream;
the clinging salt does not harm the beauty of the rose,
and the rose does not rebuke the embrace of the salty spray—
they are content to be thrown together,
for it is grand to be;
being is the grandest dream of all.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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

Borrowing

Spring cleaning:
an exercise in wiping away
the dust and tears,
the petty futilities
of talk that says nothing
and acts that do nothing;
so many things
you pay someone to do
you end up doing yourself--
so why pay?

Borrowing time,
always borrowing,
to think, to dream, to write, to sing,
to watch the children grow
(they won't be small for long);
I don't want to miss
my second childhood,
to feel again the growing pains
and all the other hurts
of being in a new world.

Borrowing youth--
time away from
dishes and dusting,
cooking and cleaning,
sweeping and sifting,
folding and scolding;
the sun and breeze
feel different now
than the first time
I sneezed my way through.

All borrowed,
all of this life,
this incomparable,
incomprehensible life,
this experiential being,
hopefully not interest-free;
we can only hope
to reduce our debt
by loving each day,
at peril of dust and tears.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

To Free The Soul

Open wide the gates,
filling the vast interior
with whatever inspirations
are eager to be
and be beyond.

Embrace equally the visible
as well as the invisible,
so the song of You
that loves to fly
will be multidimensional.

Digest every lesson
in your composition,
reaching for what is good
of all available beauty;
this makes harmony inevitable.

They say "leave no trace",
but I say "carry your song,
deliver it often and long";
transition once complete,
dawn will glow of your smiling face.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Endless Now

Mindful footfalls on the shore
sift the sands of time and trial,
shifting thoughts from forward back,
then forward again
to beyond the scope,
where time may bend
and slow, to revel as
endless now.

Counting breaths,
like grains of sand,
like counting glittering music
as it dances away in the wind,
a less than linear movement
that finds completion
glorying in new pathways
to trace endless now.

Thoughts flitter, flutter and flow,
flowering as freely as the wind;
even as thought is tied to form
within all repetitive motions
that construct the sentient world
and feed the conscious flesh,
this free flight is full autonomy
in endless now.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditation

In the dream that opens
from inward out
the heat of the day
cools all possibility of thought
like a sudden rain in the garden
falls upon the printed page
rendering the imprinted characters
a sodden and murky pulp mural
that tells me nothing now
if ever it did

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Witness

Points of light play on water;
jewels and precious gems, they are,
dazzling the eyes.

Orderly lines of birds fly,
evolving via ascension,
involuting via descension,
skimming the ablutive waters.

Breath stands, lightly poised,
free to choose silence or song.

Silence in points of light,
bodies flowing through water,
song of joy rising from nothingness:

Perfect love offerings to eternal Witness.

© 20011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Twelfth Night Gift

Quiet night—delight!

Winter cold—so bold!
Mother sighs—baby cries;
On earth—another birth.

Bless, oh bless this sacred event!

Every child is born
to become the anonymous
and unknowing,
yet infinitely compassionate
savior of at least one other.

Celebrate, oh celebrate
the arrival of new presence!

Wæs hæil, little one;
wæs hæil and fare thee well
on thy holy journey!

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Presence

      Mornings of Perpetual motion
      roll and swi Rl about me

         without h Esitation—
    time will not Stand still;
             but h Ere I am,
      preserving a N island, of sorts,
       within an o Cean of motion,
         close, pr Ecious and warm.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen