All find what they truly seek.              – C.S. Lewis

Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven,
and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.
—Matthew 18.18

Maybe not:

“whatever you do, God will agree with.”

Maybe: “whatever” means whatever sins.
The hurts you hang onto you’re stuck with.
The hurts you forgive open you to divine healing.

Maybe: “whatever” means whatever relationship.
The relationship in which you stay connected,
despite conflict, is rooted in God.
The relationship you break loses its divine energy.

Maybe: “whatever” means whoever.
Whoever you oppress truly experiences oppression;
whoever you set free is truly free.

Maybe: “whatever” means yourself.
You can set yourself free, or bind yourself up.
God doesn’t do it; you do it to yourself.

Maybe: live in harmony with the divine energy of liberation
and the divine energy of faithful connection.

Maybe: let go of what God doesn’t care about
and hang onto what leads you to God.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net

will I ever find it?

this answer of living I seek?

or is the journey the important part?

keeping me on the path of learning, of searching,

of flowing, swelling, like a river

keeping my head on straight,

my hands open to receive the gifts freely given,

my feet pointed ever onward towards the western setting sun

will I ever settle in?

forget what I am longing for?

or is all this passionate, enthusiastic seeking the manna of my preservation?

keeping me connected to the earth,

to others,

to the greater cause of beauty

Could it be that keeping my eyes open to see with new vision

my heart grounded into the clay of my imperfect humanity

my never-ending curiosity about every little thing

about every single soul-in-a-body

which all seem to keep killing me softly over and over

the very key to my own unique, invaluable life?

will I ever stop questioning –

this questioning of the questioning?

or is that the answer to the very question of me?

❤

Amy Lloyd

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

❤

London by William Blake

Ask and it will be given
Seek and you will find
Knock and it will open
Guaranteed
Motivations are key to this*
It’s not about surface talk,
sometimes, it’s not even
what you THINK your seeking
but under all
within all
is what you truly seek
and that is what you will find.
Really it is what will find you,
Be careful of your choices
You will always find this to be true…
what you seek
is seeking you

❤

Amy Lloyd

(*go back up and re-read the “whatever’ poem)

will you try?

What about waiting?
How about going with the flow?
If all the stars burned out
where would we go?
would we fly to a new world?
Would you take me to heaven?
When the stars fall
Will you find me?
Will you live with me for a thousand years,
beyond the sun?
Where the wildflowers smell like cinnamon
and diamonds line all the pathways
to the Milky Way.
If I wait for you,
will you sing me the song
that call the angels
from their posts in glory
holding their breath
to catch this love?
Will you write me a poem
that stops time,
clocks gathering rust,
because we are suspended
in a miraculous raindrop?
Why are we ever in a hurry?
The best things always take their
own time
Like watermelon growing sweeter on the vine
and your touch moving down my spine
Grant me patience to live
with you
in this delicious moment
for all eternity

❤

Amy Lloyd

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

❤

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert

{memes and photos above found on Pinterest / al513}

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.

❤

Flying at Night by Ted Kooser

Charlie Doane Photography / Facebook

http://www.charliedoane.com/

what do you want?

Whoever wants music instead of noise,
joy instead of pleasure,
soul instead of gold,
creative work instead of business,
passion instead of foolery,
finds no home in this trivial world of ours.

—  Herman Hesse

THE ROAD

 ============

I was afraid

that the road was too narrow.

That myself and my load

could not together pass.

 =========

Then I was afraid 

it might in fact be too wide.

That I would turn in circles

and miss the landmarks.

==========

I was afraid

it might at times give out.

That what I believed was a road

was instead a track to naught.

 =========

I was afraid to walk.

Afraid to point others 

to this road or that,

as right.

 ========

Had I not thought that roads 

were a path to follow?

That they needed strict observance

to a map.

–

But then in relief

I felt my heart held,

in hands that were

both loose and tight.

 ❤

My gracious guide 

revealed the road was not

a maze that we must in earnest

navigate.

^^

It is a way of life.

A relaxing into arms that bear us up.

Where-ever the road takes me,

He is at my feet and side.

 ——

Ana Lisa de Jong

Living Tree Poetry

August 2018

I AM AFRAID THAT prayer is really not for the wise. The wise avoid it on two bases, at least two. In the first place, if there really is a God who has this power to heal, to make whole, then it is wise to be very cautious indeed because if you go to him for healing, healing may be exactly what you will receive, and are you entirely sure that you want to be healed? By all accounts, after all, the process is not necessarily either quick or easy. And in the meanwhile, things could be a great deal worse. “Lord, take my sin from me—but not yet,” Saint Augustine is said to have prayed. It is a wise man who bewares of God bearing gifts. In the second place, the wise look at twentieth-century man—civilized, rational, and at great cost emancipated from the dark superstitions of the past—and suggest that to petition some unseen power for special favors is a very childish procedure indeed. 

In a way, “childish” is the very word to describe it. A child has not made up his mind yet about what is and what is not possible. He has no fixed preconceptions about what reality is; and if someone tells him that the mossy place under the lilac bush is a magic place, he may wait until he thinks that no one is watching him, but then he will very probably crawl in under the lilac bush to see for himself. A child also knows how to accept a gift. He does not worry about losing his dignity or becoming indebted if he accepts it. His conscience does not bother him because the gift is free and he has not earned it and therefore really has no right to it. He just takes it, with joy. In fact, if it is something that he wants very much, he may even ask for it. And lastly, a child knows how to trust. It is late at night and very dark and there is the sound of sirens as his father wakes him. He does not explain anything but just takes him by the hand and gets him up, and the child is scared out of his wits and has no idea what is going on, but he takes his father’s hand anyway and lets his father lead him wherever he chooses into the darkness. 

In honesty you have to admit to a wise man that prayer is not for the wise, not for the prudent, not for the sophisticated. Instead it is for those who recognize that in face of their deepest needs, all their wisdom is quite helpless. It is for those who are willing to persist in doing something that is both childish and crucial. 

– Frederick Buechner Originally published in The Magnificent Defeat

turn this fool into gold
turn this broken heart into a whole vessel
turn this weak voice into an instrument of authority
turn this messy life into a picture of healing grace
turn these eyes to see the holy heart of the other
turn this mourning into laughing
turn these wandering feet to the roads of peace
turn this sorrow into pure joy
keep me from turning from the work that is mine
keep me passionate and keep me focused
this is my prayer
turn my fear into courage
turn my self will into a puddle of love
as I choose to lay down each day
as I choose to pray each day
turn death into resurrection
resurrection
into
celebration
light up the whole world
❤

Amy Lloyd

i am…which is to say

Now cosmos in bloom and snow-in-summer

opening along the garden’s stone borders,

a moment toward a little good fortune,

water from the watering can,

to blossom, so natural, it seems, and still

the oldest blooms outside my door are flourishing

according to their seedtime.

They have lived as in trust

of tended ground, not of many seasons

as the lingering bud in late summer,

when leaves have reached their greenest,

when a chill enters the nights,

when a star I’ve turned to, night after night,

vanished in the shift of constellations.

But when on a bare branch,

even in August, a sprig starts,

sprig to stem—as if to say, See,

there’s kinship with the perennials

you think so hardy—voice

the moment among the oaks, toast

the spring in summer, as once each May

a shot of vodka is poured on bare dirt

among gravestones to quench the dead,

among the first stars of this new evening.

⭐️

Late Summer by James Brasfield

Sometimes when there is silence, if you listen really closely you can hear your self talk, not actually talking, but talking. Poetry is the forethought of an afterthought, and sometimes those afterthoughts form lines of poetry, or a story even a short story. And other times the insanity of every noise, literally every noise, beats in your ears and a poem is bashed to pieces and then slowed down to a beat; once the feet of your hands lead you along. Poetry is music in words, it is rhythm in verse. That is why I write.

Powerful words on poetry from AllPoetry fan Kayla!

https://allpoetry.com/poems

20 years since I stood beneath that wedding arbor

Covered with fake white flowers as real as your love for me

I was full of hope that you could learn to love someone who loved you so completely

I was so desperate

to stay alive

to help you

to wake up whole

to be loved

to touch the world

to sing my songs

to make things right

to know my children

to believe in magic

to think that everything would work out

that karma meant quick resolutions

that God gave those who believe extra credit and special stars

20 years since I stood in dread and trusted that it would be enough for me to be your ‘consolation prize’

that fairytales come true and you would see my inner princess

that abuse has no long shadows

20 years of bleeding

of dying

of rising

20 years of healing

of crying

of letting go

20 years of learning

of living

of finding ground

20 years of breaking

of losing

of gaining again

20 years of giving

of receiving

of lessons profound

20 years from there to here

from here to there

20 years ago

I stood hopeful

in things I didn’t know

how could I know?

wrapped in illusion

hostage of pain

20 years later

I stand filled with a new and better hope

Hope rooted in real

in the healing work I have done

in knowing hearts are made to break

and made to heal

20 years, and I can say,

I am here

I am…

Hope

🦋

Amy Lloyd

I am a woman,

which is to say,

part girl and part suffering.

The first half of my life

has been utterly absorbed

by other people

and by my own demons.

The second half

I will spend laughing.

– Roseanne Cash

NOTHING IS LOST

All through your life, the most precious experiences seem to vanish. Transience turns everything to air. You look behind and see no sign even of a yesterday that was so intense. Yet in truth, nothing ever disappears, nothing is lost. Everything that happens to us in the world passes into us. It all becomes part of the inner temple of the soul and it can never be lost. This is the art of the soul: to harvest your deeper life from all the seasons of your experience. This is probably why the soul never surfaces fully. The intimacy and tenderness of its light would blind us. We continue in our days to wander between the shadowing and the brightening, while all the time a more subtle brightness sustains us. If we could but realize the sureness around us, we would be much more courageous in our lives. The frames of anxiety that keep us caged would dissolve. We would live the life we love and in that way, day by day, free our future from the weight of regret.

John O’Donohue Excerpt from BEAUTY

first things first

When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world.

I found it was difficult to change the world,

so I tried to change my nation.

When I found I couldn’t change the nation,

I began to focus on my town.

I couldn’t change the town and as an older man,

I tried to change my family.

Now, as an old man,

I realize the only thing I can change is myself,

and suddenly I realize that if long ago I had changed myself,

I could have made an impact on my family.

My family and I could have made an impact on our town.

Their impact could have changed the nation

and I could indeed have changed the world.

❤️

Author: Unknown Monk 1100 A.D.

Speaking of marvels, I am alive
together with you, when I might have been
alive with anyone under the sun,
when I might have been Abelard’s woman
or the whore of a Renaissance pope
or a peasant wife with not enough food
and not enough love, with my children
dead of the plague. I might have slept
in an alcove next to the man
with the golden nose, who poked it
into the business of stars,
or sewn a starry flag
for a general with wooden teeth.
I might have been the exemplary Pocahontas
or a woman without a name
weeping in Master’s bed
for my husband, exchanged for a mule,
my daughter, lost in a drunken bet.
I might have been stretched on a totem pole
to appease a vindictive god
or left, a useless girl-child,
to die on a cliff. I like to think
I might have been Mary Shelley
in love with a wrongheaded angel,
or Mary’s friend, I might have been you.
This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless,
our chances of being alive together
statistically nonexistent;
still we have made it, alive in a time
when rationalists in square hats
and hatless Jehovah’s Witnesses
agree it is almost over,
alive with our lively children
who–but for endless ifs–
might have missed out on being alive
together with marvels and follies
and longings and lies and wishes
and error and humor and mercy
and journeys and voices and faces
and colors and summers and mornings
and knowledge and tears and chance.

❤️

Alive Together by Lisel Mueller

The Main Task

There’s always a distraction

among the clover

A fine place to stop and smell the roses

for the discovery of new words

I stand beside the ocean listening to eternity flow

blending with the beauty of those brilliant intelligent arguments inside my own brain

the reasoned scientific analysis of my own practical mind

against the passionate classically romantic poet of some other-mystical dimension

I smile at them both

Intrigued by their genius at their knowledge of how to win me over

How they can become champions of this moment

and defeat me so instantly

How each of them know how to hold the golden title belt aloft

Over my unconscious body

Today I wink at them

praise them for their wisdom

then I tell them the competition is over…

we are now on the same side

working together

as a new elite team of super heroes

Avenger-like, in some respects,

tho all our masks,

and colorful costumes, are gone

and we stand here in the sand

barefoot and nearly naked

soaking up each others sin

breaking bread as friends

with our seagull handlers

who tell us our new names

and give us the secret mission directives

The Main Mission is actually so deceptively simple –

1. heal your own wounds

2. smile with your eyes-laugh from your belly

3. pay attention to everything beautiful

4. share your love

5. enjoy the journey

6. keep listening to every story

7. tell people everything you know

8. never stop the music

9. live every minute with gusto

10. just keep breathing evenly

instructions

Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

-Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver reminds me
to let go of any need that might linger in me
to try, even a little, to impress anyone.
Instead to stay alert to the extravagant impressiveness around me,
puddling at my feet,
drowning my life with goodness.
To be easily astonished,
easily filled with wonder,
to let life boggle my mind.
To stay a child of joy and nature,
a collector of miracles.
To stay in awe of sunsets
and dandelions, butterflies,
coffee shops
and grasshoppers.
To gasp every time I get a view of the ocean,
and be breathless at the view from a mountaintop road at sunset.
To thrill when I see a  leaf change color.
To crane my neck, every single time, to catch a glimpse of sunlight on water,
and the curve of a babies cheek.
To get a chill of macabre delight
at gnarly, old toenails,
and bats hanging upside down
in a dark damp cave,
or flying around a street light as darkness falls slowly,
softly through the air.
Such things keep me alive.
Even on the dark days, the days of great trouble.
These are the true riches of my living.
Extreme miracles everywhere around me.
We are here to witness,
here to share descriptions of such beauty,
even our feeble attempts are so amazing
they boggle the mind.
Thank you, Mary Oliver, for your reminder,
with your every beautiful, glorious word.
For knowing we are each here to do our part,
to record our miracles
in our own voices,
pens,
paints,
dances,
lyrics,
artistry,
we make up the great tapestry,
recording the blazing glory,
of this astonishing, mind-blowing masterpiece.
We each add unique notes to the grand symphony,
allowing the rocks to stay silent
{ at least for those who
don’t care to hear their exquisite, out-of-this-world music,
playing with such brilliance, light and passion,
everywhere we go }

❤

Amy Lloyd

“Proceed as the way opens…”

is a Quaker axiom which is defined as:
“To undertake a service or course of action
without prior clarity about all the details but with confidence that divine guidance will make these apparent, and assure an appropriate outcome.”

1.

Something came up

out of the dark.

It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.

It wasn’t an animal

or a flower,

unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,

a head the size of a cat

but muddy and without ears.

I don’t know what God is.

I don’t know what death is.

But I believe they have between them

some fervent and necessary arrangement.

2.

Sometime

melancholy leaves me breathless…

3.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!

Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower.

The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

5.

Two or three times in my life I discovered love.

Each time it seemed to solve everything.

Each time it solved a great many things

but not everything.

Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and

thoroughly, solved everything.

6.

God, rest in  my heart

and fortify me,

take away my hunger for answers,

let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved.

Let the cathead appear again-

the smallest of your mysteries,

some wild cousin of my own blood probably-

some cousin of my own wild blood probably,

in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

7.

Death waits for me, I know it, around

one corner or another.

This doesn’t amuse me.

Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.

It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.

I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

❤

Sometimes by Mary Oliver