If I were to stop in the middle of a day A day when all morning was busy hurried muddled fast paced and the afternoon will surely be tiring. Conflicts arising over who said what and how are we going to solve this problem or that, if I were to stop and say to myself calmate How different would be each moment.
When nothing feels sturdy and strong and I begin to believe I must fight to make things happen to go forward in battle thinking that all is lost if we are not pushing pushing pushing – to just BE would indeed be a sensation worth fighting for. Worth the struggle and the courage because courage is‚ I believe‚ what it would take.
Courage and trust. Trust that all is perfect as it is and yet and yet Can’t we DO something Which would be what, to make perfection More perfect?
This is my conundrum. I’m of two minds. My hopeful mind believes everything is as it should be, that there is a divine plan, a cosmic motion that keeps us in perfect balance whether we participate or not. My doubtful mind believes Nothing will be in balance if each of us is not actively participating and we must do our part because if we don’t do it, who will?
I fall back on the earth, our mother, our selves. Reconciling our relationship with her, with our sustainer our nourisher. what other relationship could be more important, deserve more time more work, more respect. And yet we go about cursing the storm, escaping the rain, seeking the shade, harnessing the energy, her energy, but is it possible to separate her energy from our own? Like those biblical tales about ripping the child asunder because the parents can’t agree. How we humans rip at her veins, Strangle her muscles Wrench the cartilage Drain the blood Of our own lifesource which somehow we believe is separate from us.
Calmate, I tell myself, calm down Do what you do with the greatest love Each day every day and only the greatest love Because really What else is there?
-Lena Bartula, 2009
ENIGMAS
Obsessed with image making,
Seduced by language,
my soul consumed with the search
for meaning through pictures,
meaning through sight, sound, words, feelings.
For truth beyond relative truth,
for significance of symbols,
and symbols of significance,
of legends and myths told and retold,
of secrets concealed and exposed.
The written word harbors love and loathing.
Words draw us in, initiate a dialogue, communicate
almost tangibly, but like corners they conspire to hide feelings
wisdom, magic, intent.
Betray written word for woven word, painted word
imagined word, whispered
if not altogether unspoken.
-San Miguel de Allende, 2008
THIS OTHER LAND
Here in this new land
This fertile land
This other land
I watch myself give birth to myself
Gentle waves ocean push
Daily gradually I am becoming
It isn’t that I know
what I am becoming
Just that I am
A process as slow and soft
As rhythmic and pulsing
Gentle waves ocean push
As I both mother and daughter
Find myself awake alive
With each step on this new land
This fertile land
This other land.
-Puerto Vallarta, 2008
OAXACA WITNESS
Los hijos de violencia are on the streets
Curled weapon-hands
Boots swift and angry
Repeat repeat repeat their contact
With back, ribs, head, legs of
Another child of violence.
Un otro hijo de violencia
Lies broken on ancient stones
Un rio de sangre forming running flowing freely
Vengeful curses barely whispered
Glide softly on night air
To other children of violence.
Otros hijos de violencia
Stand together with pocketed hands
Are they frozen with fear
Afraid of reprisal
Whose side are they on
These children of violence.
These children of violence
Turn away, walk towards la iglesia
Blend with tourists and vendadores
Or search for darkened streets
Take to the walls with their own anger
Scrawl and paint their helplessness
In living color and rants against the system.