I sit facing the window to the West.
I watch the sun drop into the Pacific,
just beyond my ken,
lighting San Francisco as it falls,
its last rays lighting the towering eucalyptus that frame my view.
Suddenly, on a wave of grief,
I return to a balmy summer night
on the shore of Lake Michigan,
brown summer arms
swinging from the top arc of a Ferris Wheel,
sniffing languid air,
floating above the beat of music,
young people dancing at my feet.
Suddenly,
I return to the darkened room
in which I sit.
The memory, gone.
The grief, remaining.
Mary Elyn Bahlert 05/2020
The tree is empty, except for red berries and full, green leaves, until you come, bringing a friend, your partner, one Saturday morning. You chirp, check out the territory, dancing together, on and off the branches, one inside, then out, the other outside, then in. Must be nesting time! (Is that what you’re thinking?) Will this be home? Are the berries good? Are we safe here?
I sit, still as a plant, afraid to move, watching you, scared you’ll fly away.
If the world hadn’t stopped its incessant orbit, its frantic motion – one day to the next – if all the people hadn’t halted their wars, their value counted in barrels of oil, I expect I wouldn’t have seen the sun brightening, blue by blue, or known the smell of the morning air, fresh, as I go sniffing like a cat to catch a whiff of what has gone before. I would not have opened my window, grateful, or wondered at the sound of humans calling into the night to give thanks.
I expect I wouldn’t have stopped midday to pray, my arms lifted beside the lonely tree, its branches lifted, also, in gratitude for the magic of the sun, the sky, the dusk and dawn. We would not have murmured together at the light of the lilies at dusk, at the quiet that hangs over the morning air, at the call of the crow hoarding its bounty, all of us inhabitants of this magnificent earth.
“Opening Your Heart, Intimacy with the Divine,” an online retreat with Imam Jamal Rahman, “Brother”
Silence is the language of God. Everything else is a poor translation. Be silent so that the Lord who gave you language may speak. – Rumi
Practices for Self Compassion
*Build your schedule around silence.
*Give yourself a “sacred name.” For example, “I am Mary Elyn, the Beloved.” Call yourself by that name to yourself.
*When you’re angry at yourself, be angry at that smaller self, not Who You Are.
*Practice “sacred holding:” embrace your sorrows with gentleness.
*Tell your heart, “I love You.”
*”Would you have the courage to kiss the dragon within you?” – Carl Jung
*Accept your feelings: “Where in my body do I feel this?” Ask the feeling/sensation: “Do you have a message for me?” Ask: “How may I love you?”
*Be aware of when you are living in the past or the future: “Beloved, you are worrying about the future. Go ahead, worry for ten minutes.” “Beloved, spend five minutes in the past.” Give yourself permission.
*”I am my smaller self. But I am also my Larger Self.”
*Switch on the Self-Witnessing at the end of the day. Ask: When was I my small self? Ask: When was I living from my Divine Self?
*”Keep your tongue forever filled with the name of God.” In other words, say your name for God, again and again, and again, as a mantra, in every moment.
*Do good deeds according to your capacity.
*Build a community of Love/Trust/Truth – a Circle of Love.
