For the better part of a week I have been struggling to state how I learned to enter my wounds honestly and let the grace, silence, and light of God lead me towards a more embodied and tender way of being. It has been a slow journey - one of humiliation, humility and humor - but my written reflection still feels too labored to share. So, I am taking it back to the drawing and editing board trusting that when the student is ready, the Buddha will appear. For the time being, in between the fits and starts, I'll be watering the plants, walking the dog, sharing some music, and participating in Cynthia Bourgeault's on-line study course re: wisdom, silence and renewal at the Center for Action and Contemplation. After hitting another rhetorical brick wall with my morning writing, I sat on the deck with my lover and came upon this poem by the late Jane Kenyon that became my balm in Gilead: "Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer." The wetlands behind our house is already morphing into a dry green/yellow/red tone that was once lush and verdant. Late summer is coming, indeed.
We turned into the drive,
and gravel flew up from the tires
like sparks from a fire. So much
to be done––the unpacking, the mail
and papers…the grass needed mowing…
We climbed stiffly out of the car.
The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled.
And then we noticed the pear tree,
the limbs so heavy with fruit
they nearly touched the ground.
We went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass;
and we each took a pear,
and ate, and were grateful.
Tonight I will make foule medames, couscous as well as fresh native corn and leave the writing for tomorrow. I am already grateful...
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