open the pores of my heart

‘Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, Open the eyes of my heart, I want to see you…..’
In recent weeks have been singing and humming this songs refrain over and over and slowly have realised there is more to be expressed, hence

Open to pause in Your heart Lord

Open the pores of my heart

Coming to Be, through me

Oneing to Be, wholly.

Hoping to pause in Your heart Lord

So open the pores of my heart

Coming to Be, through me

Oneing to Be, wholly.

Exchanging Light for burning up

I’m dancing in the flames of Your glory

Consumed in Your vulnerable Love

As we cry

Holy Holy Holy

Holy Holy Holy

As we sing

Holy Holy Holy

Submerge in

Holy Holy Holy.

Tiredness

June 07

‘The path is to empty ourselves of false divinity, to deny ourselves, to give up being the centre of the world, to discern that all points in the world are equally centres.’ Simone Weil quoted in S G Reynolds Living within the mind of Christ, p206

And so with this tiredness comes fuzzy thought, aching eye sockets and another urge to close in on myself forever. The day was perfectly mellow, three counselling sessions; recovery from depression, living with chronic conditions and Aspergic anxiety, all held within the context of loving relationship suspended in a cool, quiet and highly polished room overlooking a spectacular garden and light grey lake once owned by an importantly busy 17th century general practitioner.

And now, after a night of fitful spare bed room sleep, I am too tired for speech, I can only immerse in the silent scratch of you, my most fountainous, most forgivingly favourite pad and pen………….

before each word

Silence

within silence
still these chattering noises.

how come?

how can these bedding down of desires still circulate
however much I meditate?
how can this resistance to wrest thoughts into Nothingness
be so beyond this mortal’s reach?
where are the rest of these roads to self-forgiveness
this richness to silence I so often seek?
this portal-less absence
these city curbs to this course over thinking
and throwing of verbs into the gutter all

searching for answers
to co-here and now to be
truly within a This-ness
fully beyond this heart and flesh,this body
this dirt ridden spleen of regret.

to coalesce, yes, to immerse I guess
in Breaths own breathing
in the orange and yellowings and driftings of
green as this vessel of vessels
these blood-lit pores, wait for
for wholeness to appear within the weightless of time.

for mists to swirl and fulfil in-between
flesh full narrations and this body most slain
to refresh into chanting enchantments again
to yearn for the Deepest of Breath.

‘do your breathing most breathing most breathing most best’

but
oh oh yes,

of course, off course I am surrounded again
succumbed once more to this thinking most brain.

Oh silence
soothe these aching taught abs
freed from these needs for solution

oh

Maaa-Raaaa-Naaaa-Thaaa

You distanced dream valley
with softening tones
whisper Loves balm
to these hum-drumming drums
born of a presence that never quite comes.

‘The action of grace in our hearts is silent and secret.’ Simone Weil Waiting on God page. 7

Rain

31 May

Refreshed or flinching into the mid-afternoon rain this is the choice of right now. Hunched while waiting I am reminded to stand upright, to remove my misting glasses, my damp leather shoes, open my chest and breathe into this ponderous dank odour, these re-infused leaves, these sweet perfumes. Toes rehydrating within the green and the softening transformation of sun drenched cracks. Wetness is earthed and electric.
As rain jumps upwards from this steaming manmade lake of Tetley tea, as my shirt darkens to mimic the flag stones, wooden benches silently sponge and seagulls swirl upon speeding wafts of invisible uppermost, weathering most, while at my side black shining ferns offer brushes of jazz percussion as they wrestle the drops to a smooth flow towards softer drips of reformation with the soil below. Children laugh, as I imagine their fights and falls into the sporadic backdrop of insistent sirens and the sedate melancholia of woodpigeon ponderings upon an a spindle of branch within this tree lined city centre refuge.
And now, I smile as beyond this rain, within and through this misting walkway a familiar if sunken torso appears. I replace my heal within my shoe. First the left, and then tottering slightly the right.
‘You ok?’ he asks
‘Yes great, you?’
And so to warmth of the hermetically sealed room and to my next jumper wearing, rain denying client. And so to the dance, the anticipatory anxiety relaxed by recounting of moments passed, relationship restored upon souls rehydrated within the connection of another 50 minute hour.