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.

Time to Pause

This is my first post for maybe five months.

It has been a wonderful time to pause, centre and immerse into contemplative practice, private discourse and growth.

Please find below a celebration of a shared experience of pausing last week.

Pausing together.

I sit next to James’ glassy eyed breath

slurring in grief and quiet disconnect to

witness stressed footfalls pass swift his lament

brown staining duvet and cardboard cement

changeless frayed fingering in woollen damp thread

cap churning suchness through fear fuelling dread.

To follow, I swallow guilt filled regret

bus fares, fast food and dead father non-sleep

sick discharge of mother and sore bloated feet

crazings on paving, stunned cracks in shared ground

oozed out un-sparing, unseen yet, profound

re-rememberings of something beyond

so still to relax I sit side by side

still breathing with James, still leaning, we Three

for grace-filled unknowings to let this time be.

 

Sculpting the river of my week

Kierkegaard

If anxiety takes a firm grip, then look down at the wild flower at your feet and up into the heavens at the birds flitting joyfully in the air

Robert Besson
Translate the invisible winds by the water it sculpts in passing

So to my week:

• On a silent walking retreat my soft heal crushes a snail into a shocking brown-greenness.
• In a mindfulness class I arrange spider plant (with babies attached) and a succulently small money tree so they are both at the centre of our shared circle of intent. While holding in my hands the third natural teacher (a dead fungus filled stump that was once a verdant Kalenchoa), we all sit and count our breath.
• I iron my orange shirt for todays marriage of a seventy-year-old guide leader to her scouting sweetheart. The creases eventually cannot resist the heat.
• I practice songs for next weeks cremation of a vibrant local boxer until the mechanical call of an NHS text reminds me of my own hospital visit. Smiling I realise that I will check in for signs of cancer on the same day I sing as he checks out for and from the same.
• Encouraging the fly, I flap my arms while he, or she, repeatedly hits the glass and belligerently misses his or her freedom to vomit over the grassy dog poo just outside the counselling front door.
• I spend many evening hours, over four days, crafting a poem evidently too pious, too repetitively derivative and self-conscious to share. Celebrating unfixing myself from insecurity and fixed view-point I post the poem on my blog regardless.
• Closing the door to the dog poo, I listen to confusion and hurt within relationship.
• I listen to withdrawal and concrete thinking.
• I listen to anxiety and lowness, anxiety and slowness, and forms of anxiety that meet unknowing complexity with palpitations and screams from inside.
• I listen to sexual and intimate delicacies.
• I read emails of thanks and connection, direction and guff.
• I listen and read and listen and learn and listen and interject maybe too much, certainly, this is too much, I say, too much, too much, and after its done I call all this stuff, my exhausting, thoughtful, heart expanding, working, contracting, intimately searching and ultimately, at the end of three days, I breathe with release and relief from another instalment of these fee paying weeks
• and yet
• Today I meet friends and family who too are sharing, who are struggling, who are marrying, who are dying and mourning, rejoicing and worrying too hard and too long, who are avoiding and connecting and flourishing, rejoicing and sharing their joy in fellowship and song, who are quietly anxious, depressed, or just happy, gregarious and maybe withdrawn, stressing to futures, regretful, forlorn and for each and all of this wonderful otherness, I call them my life, my riches, my home.