Thursday, February 11, 2016
It is hard to wait. No matter if it is waiting for marmalade to set or someone to come out of surgery. We have such hard time just being where we are.
I heard the phrase recently “waiting for the peace”. I cannot remember where I heard it, but the sense of it, the feel of it struck me and rippled into me. It was something like hearing a distant church bell in the countryside, a fog horn in the bay, certainly one of those sounds that you hear long after it has stopped changing the air waves around you.
But a sound that stays with you, making its own movements inside of us.
Our mind wants to immediately ask “For what?”, but the heart wants to lean into that place of quiet rest. I wrote the following poem out of this meditation.
Waiting for the peace
the rain and the cloud,
cloud and rainbow.
That place that we are allowed to wait
Without the question.
nothing needs to be answered when we lean into the doorframe and watch the rain.
We are at once sound,
Moist opening of spirit,
Patterns of veiled
Below the waterline,
Below the blurring of thought, we are flushed with knowing.
And only then,
In life’s dry days,
We cannot remember
Our own ability to wait.
To wait for the peace.
If we could keep our minds by the open door,
Leaning into the heavier air
as it Slides down the windowpane,
we would have no war,
but only the gratitude
that the world has forgiven us everything.
Blessings. Misty February 11, 2016