Its true that the greatest journey we can make is the inner journey of the heart. Like those cavers in Derbyshire UK who discovered the biggest cave in Europe from an old 200 year old map, we can be amazed at what we find. #soulexplorers. #newhorizens
The journey from mind
to heart is oh such a journey,
from mind to heart a journey it is.
Its like those cavers
tunnelling through honeycombed hills,
digging shifting rocks and stone
and slowly going deeper.
Seven years of bloody sweat,
and then that day- breakthrough.
By rope descend deep down
Into the unknown blackness.
Hanging there above abyss
till lights flicker and reveal
A cathedral, a sculptured cavern.
Majestic vast breathtaking space.
The journey from mind
To heart is oh such a journey.
From mind to heart a journey it is.
There are days when the morning mist lifts over the East and its like the opening of eyes and ears long closed. Today its a new way of seeing…………
The Singing Bowl of Alhaurin
and there’s orange gardens, ragged
Patchwork of olive groves
spread before me.
And behind? The rim of Sierra Nevada.
Encircled by misty blue
Creates this singing bowl.
Bark of distant dogs, bullfrogs
In these pastures of heaven.
Fragrance of jasmine,
chatter of chaffinch.
As faintest breathe of breeze
softly wraps around my skin.
And light pours through these hills.
Multi -layered mountains ripple back
as far as eye can see to sea.
In early morning light
flash of swift wing.
At last this singing bowl
Begins to sing.
dawn chorus just
to bless this
Sometimes its good to walk beneath the stars and gaze into the heavens on a clear night. I remember walking under the Southern Cross and the Milky Way so seemingly close in New Zealand. Such majesty brings such a sense of awe as the radio telescopes and observatories scan the skies. Out there is a story waiting to be told………….
It’s like those domed eyes to the skies
in the soaring mountain peaks
where eagles fly.
Beneath those dark clear skies .
Those eyes that search the night.
They survey infinite tide patterns
and snow blizzard galaxies.
Deep space, distant worlds.
And now I too lift my face
to heavens above, heart so alert
to a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Waiting, looking, searching
I interrogate the silence.
Eyes now trained and ears attuned
always listening, always waiting.
Earth and sky star gazing.
So we scramble across this rough, bleak lonely hillside. Here we find these three small streams. Who would imagine that from these three springs come three of the greatest rivers of the nation
And so in us, That which appears so insignificant can in future days become the most valuable of all. Sometimes it’s good to go back to the place of the source of smallness and insignificance and so often that’s where we find the solutions and the keys that we are searching for.
BACK TO THE SOURCE
Springing up from this cold earth
That clod wet ground.
Sounds of icy waters flow
on singing dancing stones.
And from this source
wide rivers flood
shaping distant shores.
So now we come to fresh heart springs
of streams that rise today
And who’s to know there’s not dreams in us
That won’t flow to distant seas?
From source to spring to stream to shore.
Its back to the source for me.
The Journey Home
Early that morning we set out
from the Great North West.
Signs in the sky as
wings of wild geese beat high above.
The journey home begins for them as us.
They fly away to safe havens
catching their trade winds.
They’re going home. Ah journey home.
I too feel that pull, that prompt
that inner radar, calling me home.
That place of heart belonging.
Place of beginnings
place of roots
place of likeness
mosaic of presence….
…… Then turn oh heart
and walk towards the open door.
It’s always in these places where new grace is found for the next stage of the journey. Out on the estuary for me that night……
Stars, Tides and Breath
Above me, distant constellations
Beside me waves roll in
turning, crashing on the shore.
Within me the heart beats.
I breathe in and out.
Pulse beats to heart rhythm.
I know yes!!
As the stars, so the tides,
so the breath, so the pulse.
So the patterns, colours, rhythms of life.
And so the silence.
The life I live.
The life that lives in me.
I watch the star patterned sky
listening to tide turning sea.
Touching the silence.
Then silence touches me.
Sometimes as we walk through these pine trees we learn to listen again, breathe and stand tall………
Wisdom Of Trees
So I’m told that
trees breath through their leaves.
Walking through these tall
Stately majestic pine,
Their rich canopy spreading
To the heavens above. Autumn
Leaves falling like golden rain.
Inexhaustible beauty of design.
Flash of blue jay early dawn and
Everywhere the sound of silver singing streams.
Shadows penetrated by light
like some ancient cathedral.
Breathing trees stand serene.
These immense silent firs.
Breathing trees fragrant pine.
Deeply rooted standing tall
Stretching to the heavens,
Teaching me to breathe again
Teaching me to stand
Teaching me to live.
Wisdom of trees
So I climb steadily high up on the hillside on a late spring evening , and sit watching the movement of the tides, tasting the salt in the breeze. Just these few moments of real stillness, and a new way of seeing. New vision. Now I can breathe again.
ISLAND OF MOVING TIDES
There is an ocean of colour
From turquoise blue, deep green
and mercury grey.
Shafts of silver through dark cloud
And dazzling white light dances sparkles,
A tapestry, a patchwork of light
Ever changes, moving sea before me.
Below hard rock, grasses
And guillemots cry.
There are moments when
New ways of looking when
Sight becomes insight and
With a new sense of wonder.
Island of Moving Tides.
…..I love to meet those who have walked the Borderland trails and returned with stories to tell, and recently its been a privilege to sit and listen to some of their stories. Stories of hope in the midst of the storms. Stories of failures and broken dreams, yet transformation. A place of longing, and crossing over. Welcome to these trails………
We’re learning to walk
Softly along these borderland trails,
And even lived there for a while.
These rugged places between
The known and the unknown.
The reality and the dream.
Between success and failure,
Light and darkness.
Earth and Heaven.
Word and song.
Head and heart.
These new frontiers on the edge.
A wide place. No maps here.
To have crossed the borderlands
And returned with stories to tell?
What stories to tell!
Wild places, these borderlands.
Again they call.
And then sometimes there are moments when everything becomes clear. The fog lifts and we can see, sometimes for the first time. When we can glimpse beyond ourselves to the greater reality, and then new doors swing open. We treasure moments like these………….
And that river of glory
that flows cascading full of
passion, presence, beauty, joy.
That twisting, dancing river
through and out beyond me flows.
That song rising.
That great dance, rhythm of life
flowing, swirling, flowing life.
My Father, Son and Spirit
Circle of love enfolding
through and out beyond me flows.
Circle of life extending.
And you come again to me
lifting, weaving fragments, parts
streams of my life.
Joining me to your laughing
Great, joyful, triumphant dance.
Your story is unique, totally unique!! I read an article once that asked the question ”Who knows your story?” Nobody really really knows your story- except you. As I was reflecting about this I realised that not one person on the planet knew the story behind the scar on my hand. Only me. And I went on to reflect on the story my hands held. What’s the story in your hands? And what seeds of destiny are held there?
I’ve met those
Who read destiny
By gazing at lines
Engraved on the palms of hands.
I read history in mine.
Look at these hands!
So uniquely finger printed.
And who knows their story?
Eight fingers, two thumbs
Two ragged scars
Now one torn
One golden ring.
One hand held stone that stayed
That night on cliffs when all else
Turned to clay.
I’m told that skin holds memories?
In hands now marked by history
We find new seeds of destiny.
Come blow new winds of destiny
Upon these seeds now blow.
New seasons, new rhythm, new dreams, new hope. Its Spring! And so the year moves on. For ten years we lived in a house in Wales where I was amazed every March of seeing the yearly miracle explosion of colour in an old seemingly dead bush. I wrote this five years ago after a particularly cold winter.
Its been a long cold winter
Bitter winds blown across the estuary.
Looking from my window I’ve watched that bush
That shrivelled-dead bleak barren bush
Battered by winter winds.
March comes and brings early promise.
Flecks of gold on branch appears.
Hints of hope spring upward and
Become vibrant lemon-yellow flakes.
Forsythia sings spring!
This morning from my window
sunshine streams down
Upon that bush
Blaze afire with life.
Luminous fire-bright bush
At last you have my attention.
I come again and listen.
In 2009 we flew into Darwin in Northern Australia, then drove down to near Katherine, out in the Bush. For many miles we saw burning scrub by the side of the road. Here we visited an aboriginal community and what a privilege to sit and hear hear their stories!!. Later we went on to Sydney and visited Botany Bay where Captain Cook’s first ship arrived. What a contrast to what we had experienced with the Aboriginal community, what a sense of history! And so the poem:
Kaman – Botany Bay
Today I’m standing on the edge
of this ragged bay, towards the sea.
The ache, the air, the wind and trees.
And eight days that changed everything.
What was seen by watching eyes
From where I stand today?
What plague ships came on evening tide.
From distant shores to wound the land?
What death winds blew
To scatter life and seed?
An ache, a groan, a sigh, a cry.
And this ……
The birthplace of a nation?
I return again
Again I return
To that amazing inner sanctuary
That cathedral of Spirit
That spacious place
That dwelling of light
Chambers of heart
Place of His voice
Place of His presence.
To this place I come
There is a secret pool
Where gentle breezes ripple
Across from distant mountains.
To this place
I return again.