Lento

Slowing to a halt,
though not a screeching one;
a quiet release
from the burdens and ties
of a driven life
into the arms of silence,
only for the sake of contemplation.

From within an apprehended softness and serenity,
the elements wait to cherish
and to be cherished by
this bit of earth,

embellished, molded and emboldened
into such glory of motion,
as can carry a beating heart that sings
— all nights and mornings meted —

during this most singular unfolding.

Chosen into silence,
more than choosing,
this respite from heedless racing
toward no-end-in-sight
is a mindful pause,
a backward glance,
a look 'round —
in light and dark,
at twilight and dawn
— to see that what there is
truly is there to be and be seen,
changing the yet unchanged,
unbidden and unrestrained.

This time is liminal,
a bathing in the spa of
all possibility,
a training and preparation for
that peace that will visit
when yet a greater silence invades,
enveloping comprehension
like a shroud.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Slipping Along

Paddles dip softly,
fanning circles out,
canoe slips along
over lily pads
through silken waters.

Draw in, hold steady,
let the ducks float by;
the rings and ripples
of your movement
will fade in the mirror.

Centered in quiet,
centered in peace,
away from words
pressing in torrents,
begging for shallow response—

Here is respite from noise,
a place of reflection
on no mere surface tensions,
but inviting greater depth,
welcome, if unfamiliar.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

On a Bridge, Overlooking an Endless River

Evening digresses, as it will, into sleep and rest and dreaming. And in those moments before sleep overtakes me, I wonder, both at the life I have known, and the one I have yet to meet.

For the most part, I know that what has been, what is, and what will be is a continuous celebration, one whose venues and themes shift to match whatever moment passes through a window called now. The situations are all the same, but the current that runs through them is very like a river flowing under a bridge—the bridge may stay the same from one moment to the next, but the water flowing under it is always new.

I suppose that what astonishes me the most, as I look over my shoulder, standing on my bridge as a bundle of sensations and experiences collected through that portal called now—at least the now that stretches from this moment back beyond 50 years to those moments when my body formed and waited for my soul to enter—is how much my life has been dedicated to the various arts that have washed over me and sifted through my hands, my heart, my soul, and through my expressions of being and doing.

For so it is that I have been, for as long as I can remember, held tightly in the web of the Muses. I know that this is so because whenever I have tried to venture away, it was only to be firmly led back to that consciousness or source that persists in the realm of audiovisual sensation, thought and action that I know to flow within a river of muses. The only choice is to engage with this river of expression, and yet the river offers endless choice.

Perhaps this realization only means that the living of life is a river through which all actions and sensations, all waking thoughts and dreams flow all expressions are indeed art, whether they result in form or are “successful” experiments or not.

As I fade into the refreshment of sleep this day, I know that I will dream about something that will touch my life, or yours, as the river flows on, carrying everything onward in celebration.

Flow on in beauty, sweet river.

Flow through the songs of my soul and the work of my hands. And when it is my time, carry me into the onward.

Through A Looking-Glass

Reflection,

beyond reflected image,
to a world apart?
Not at all,
            no, not at all.

If one could truly reach out
from the mirrored soul chamber,
among and through the atoms
of material dimension,
the truth would be known,
            more softly,
                        more constantly,
                                    in the shadows of our soul-gleaming.

For that is all we are,
            all there is,
                        and ever would be,
were it not for wondering,
            were it not for wandering,
                        were it not for seeking
                                    something else.

Creation, ever evolving
            beyond itself and possibility,
is but the reflection of our soul-gleaming,
            beyond reflected image,
                        to a world apart
—though not a world apart, at all.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen