What I can observe is that in the distant depth of the night, there in the profundity of the nocturnal sky where the night and the silence are perennial and identical, the stars shiver silent and distant, allowing me to perceive through the immense void the vibrations of silence.
She comes to me naked, in the purity of her presence, without the garments of light, sounds, life and thought.
I’ve known her longer than myself. I’ve known her before I, before time, before the memory of her.
I have seemed to forget her, and in the dark dungeons of forgetfulness, in that mindless chaos of existence, I looked for her.
She was there, always, hidden in every desire and every which pain.
Behind every corner of thought, peeking or waiting at the periphery of the horizon of time and experience, she shines eternally in relentless and unwavering wait.
She weaves and undoes the endless tapestry of existence phenomenal, waiting for the beloved to come to her as vagabond, worthless suitor, with his only claim in the secret chamber of his heart–an arrow certain and true.
She comes to me naked, silent, and I am blinded and deafened by her all consuming touch.
Clear waters shinning
sun, stars, and moon from within;
for my eyes to drink.
In the past few months, my dear friend, Jenny Gotts, came to visit me a couple of times. We would discuss her birth chart, her path of destiny, and in those talks she came to see how her life had unfolded in such a beautiful expression of her pure will.
She came to see in her present life a true fulfillment of her destiny, where the deeper and unknown parts of herself were manifesting effortlessly, and helping so many guests who would come to her home, where she and Harry would graciously host inspiring events, and where so many souls found healing, inspiration, guidance, and joy.
“I don’t know how it happens,” she’d say to me, “I don’t really do anything, but everything seems to confabulate to make a difference for people that come to my house.”
Whether it was the labyrinth, a weekend at the cabin, a vision quest, a sweat lodge, or her beloved Tuesday Group, countless journeys were made easier and more joyful because Jenny was there for them.
In one of these talks, just a few weeks before her crossing over, I wrote this haiku for her. I can’t help but look at it over and over as I contemplate her happy smile and loving presence in her last weeks, as she was saying her good byes. I’m showing her haiku here against the background of her beautiful stained glass pieces, with the sweet rose of her loving heart.
Slowly glides the star
across a rushing heaven,
going whence I came.
Whose child is that soul,
staring back at me at night
behind mirror’s eyes?
always swaying with the wind.
Open to the sky.
The writer is an author creating the flow and rhythm of speech. Any time we translate a manuscript from one language to another, however, we reinvent it. We create it again, and when we read the written word we must translate the meaning, and in doing that, we reinvent it, recreate it, and give it form. We can’t help but be the co-authors of everything we read, everything we understand, and everything we perceive.
A breath of light robed
with shy dance of endless flames
comes to form my eye.
Wide eyes on a child
open in fear as they hold
the world in brave faith.
Orange puny child
always scared to be seen true,
makes brown children cry.