to that which i cannot see

dorinacostras_harboringdreams

Image: Harboring Dreams by Dorina Costras

08-12-16
dear that which I cannot see, but can only feel,
it has been a long wild ride with thee
some long in fact
my body is tired
my mind exhausted
and i feel fucking flat
my mind has been busy running in circles
while my life stands completely still
in rapid-paced stagnation
i feel things grinding
bumping
sliding
winding
whirring
in the back back back ground
and when i listen to my heart
it sings only its song of silence
sweet
sweet silence
hold me
sweet sweet
silence
release me
sweet sweet
silence
undo me
break me from these
chains,
undo
it all.

 

 

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The Winter Of My Soul

Having the urge to write, so here we are. Here I am.

I have spent the better part of a week and a half procrastinating study for the final two exams of my undergraduate degree. Time I have spent pouring over anatomy and kinesiology textbooks, laughing at how the sacral bones look like a stingray from one point of view, wondering when to begin a 40-day practice of intense core working kriya, applying for a full time job and undergoing two interviews, wondering why my soul is so silent.

My soul is so silent, and my eyes so tired. Sing me to sleep, for the silence I used to hear what couldn’t be heard but now I just hear white noise. Tugs of my soul going in every direction – this is it. The point I’ve fantasised about for a couple of years… If I do not pass these two exams then I will simply have an unfinished bachelor degree because I cannot physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually put myself through it again – the undertaking of something that I lost passion for.

I feel like crying, like dying, like giving up all my trying. The pressure of finances, of path and purpose and passion and possibility – I feel it all collpasing in on me. The pressure coming from within to be special, to offer something unique, or to offer something so socially accepted. The pressure to find a time to teach that wouldn’t step on anyones toes. The overwhelming emotions I feel when I think about that.

The desire I have to ask my family if I can practice teaching them meditation, and maybe a bit of yoga, so that I won’t freak out teaching my practicum in a few months time. The pressure of studying two whole subjects in little over a week for two exams to pass a degree my heart gave up on several years ago. The tears and hatred at myself for not up and leaving and giving myself space when I needed it the most. The distress I feel at finding out the results of the interview… On one hand I would love to work there; the four women I know that work there have been wonderful… It would provide the basis for me to be able to financially support myself, to save toward my (ill-defined) goals… A welcome daily structure… The ability to move out of my family home… On the other hand… A full-time 9-5 office job sitting at a desk has been the epitome of what I have always said I didn’t want – at least since high school. Working for someone else. Four weeks of holidays a year. Office clothes. The extreme distress I felt before the interview yesterday – was that just pre-interview nerves or a deeper knowing? What if they call and offer me the job right now? What would I say?

If they do… then that would lead to one path. If they didn’t… I’m not sure what I’d do. Go camping for a few weeks if my boyfriend could make it work with me. In truth I’d love to go to Bali for an extended amount of time and just work out the next steps. Write. Yoga. Eat. Live. Give myself space to breathe.

But what if? What if? What if?

Does that mean leaving this man behind? A potential great source of income for future travels? Is it dishonest to accept work somewhere when your intentions are to only work there for 6-12 months, perhaps only up to 24? What do you do when you have no idea what to do? What do you do when you dream of an inner animal, the epitome of the wisdom of your own soul, toiling away at a desk, writing. Writing. Warm. Cosy. Solitary. Studious.

Something is going on. My energy elsewhere in the ether.

Silence fell like snow on my soul
my ears
loud
with
white
noise.

I cannot pray,
ask for guidance,
or connect –
there is something within
akin to a deep
disconect
still –
I trust
if my energy is
elsewhere
then i shall remain
Here
to lovingly &
patiently
await its
return.

Yanada

Spirits of this land

To the east I feel you

Sacred circle

Burning fire

All around

I feel you

Let this atomic love bomb

Ripple across time

From me and

We

To you

 

Spirits of this land

Darkinjung

Dharung

Aadays tisai aadays

I bow

Rock people

Earth people

Forgotten valley of sun and bells

Let your tale through the wind be sung

 

To the land

The land

The land

To the trees

Rooted, still and ancient

Here they sing

Beckoning me to

Presence

To the sound of no sound

And the movement within

Stillness

 

Walks under the dark carpet

Of a new moon

The Gemini within me

Listens

To the soul within

Contracting and harvesting

Inner voice

To be stopped

In tracks

By presence

 

Ruffled feathers

And wise old eyes

We share a moment

Til you fly off into the sky

All left behind

A small gasp

And a small note

Reading

Trust your own

Wisdom

 

22 times I have circled

this fire

and the trees

sing in silence

whilst my nerves

become

roots

 

mother mother

pachamama

I want to sink

Into your soil

Your embrace

The soil the soil

Its yours I do taste

 

To gravity

I do surrender

I’m so sick of

Trying to remember

 

I give up all of my

Resistance

All of my

Searching

Sink into

Loving

Persistence

 

I feel the spirits

Of these lands

Whisper on the wind

Sacred circle

Sacred ceremony

Blazing fire

And the blooming love of

Presence

 

No words can say

So much more

Than a ramble

Life is so much more

Than a hazy gamble

 

Open your heart

You are here

The shivers down your spine

They tell you

Truth

Is Here

 

No encounter is an accident

The blood orange beings sing to me

Of how they love

The moss and the leaves

And I turn only to see

The food that feeds the singing trees

Blood orange berries

Tiny blue wrens

The bellbirds

They sing they sing

Til days end

 

I love you

My heart

I love you

My breath

I love you

This earth

Let me tell you

How much it hurts

 

Crack me open

As a pomegranate

Let the blackened tar within my womb

The pain of all my women

Let it sink into your soil

Let it be transmuted

Loving

Death

Loving

Birth

Rebirth

Yanada

Yanada

Yanada

To the east

My back against

My eyes to the hearth

 

I feel you I see you I love you I breathe you

O mother earth

(                                                                                                                      )

 

Sat nam.

 

 

 

Little Angel Girl

There once was a little angel who fell to earth
on a clap of thunder
she walked all her days
wondering why she felt broken asunder.

Little darling angel girl
she loved to sing with the birds
but someone (her mother) once told her
‘children should be seen and not heard’.

So as the years went by
her voice she learnt to withhold,
her wings quietly folded away
and she stopped being quite so bold.

Poor little angel girl,
many years she wandered the earth in a daze
she wondered why she felt lost, misplaced
why she felt she was going round and round in a maze.

One day the angel looked back on her life
and discovered she’d become a woman
yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that
something in her soul was still brewing.

To the hills, angel took herself
finding her wings through foot-flight
and she found herself howling and
crying to the moon at night.

Grandmother moon, angel cried
I have lost my path, my purpose, the drive in my days
and wise woman moon, she did reply
darling child, it is you only who knows your way.

The way of the fallen angel can be lonely,
she was fast to learn
and so many times
by the heat of this fire she had been burnt.

The grown-up angel had been burnt so much,
in fact
that come the end of summer
she was nought but ash.

It was during this period of angel dust that she heard a whisper,
a call that rode of the waves of the wind,
it wrapped itself around her and told her
it is now that your journey must begin.

“Find your voice little angel girl
we are the choir that surrounds you
don’t give others the chance
to burn you.

Come back to us, little angel
your voice is important
(they warned) if you let it whither
you’ll become more despondant.

Follow the whispers
of the wind through the hills
there you’ll find a circle
and women who brew potions, not pills.

you belong to the sound of wind
and the heat of the hearth
you were born with a song in your heart
you are bound to this earth.”

And so little angel,
over the hills she did climb
and one day she found
she’d created space
in her spine.

Sacred space,
it was holy
she found she was here to sing for love,
and love only.

Years she wandered the earth and
to the rivers she wept, she sang and she danced
and forever she said,
she’d kept herself a victim of circumstance.

Til one day
over mountain crest
she rose
and she went to the lookout
and saw
hedges
of rows (it was the maze).

and she laughed
and she cried
and she asked of the wind
what would my life have been like
if I hadn’t’ve tried?

and wind mother showed her
a life of bleakness and dark
a land that was barren
and a harvest so stark.

so angel, she stood at the top
and knew she’d reached the end
she looked to the heaven above
and found she was there all along
to sing with her friends.

 

 

Love This {poem}

“Love this,” she whispers
as her voice twangs the strings
that run from my
forehead
to the
sky.

“Love this,” she whispers
as the mosquitoes find their way
between
my fingers
longing to suck me dry –
(Become the desert).

“Love this,” she whispers
as my ligaments stretch
to open old pathways.

“Did you forget,” she questions,
“did you forget that you saw
your old wounds
come alive?”

She tells me
“I am with you always”
and yet I yearn for the
cooling space
provided in the
perception
of her absence.

She grabs ahold of my shoulders,
and redirects me
from North
to West –
Her whisper comes, close to my ear;
“Love this.”

Weaving her tale on
beams of delectable orange light
she gifts me the knowledge
of path (present and future),
and days later speaks to me
via one of her sons;
“Your confusion is not pathology.
It is path.”
(Love this).

I feel her deep in my brain,
stirring my big, black cauldron pot.
“Sexual alchemy,” she says,
and I think of the
lilac robes
of that which came to bed with me
in the night.

She held me close,
protecting and allowing
and she, grandmother,
she was not quite crone
but nonetheless
here to guide me on.

“Love this,” she had said with her eyes
as I struggled to find my words;
“Love this,” she whispered,
and I poured myself into her –
baring my beating, raw and tender heart
to another
through her
because,
(I thank God)
she has come for me.

“Love this,” you whisper
as piece by piece
you dissapate
and I find solace
in the rhythm of the tides –
for it is through them
that I shall
Create.

Love, this.