Where I'm From

Where I’m From
By Mira Kuhar

I am from dance shoes,
from Ben & Jerry’s and flip-flops.
I am from the bright colors of tie-dye.
(Bold, flashy, and in every room of our house)
I am from the berry bushes out back,
the patchouli my mom always wore.
I’m from Omega and blue eyes,
from Mark and Michele.
I’m from the she-did-it and its-not-my-fault,
from say what’s on your mind and think for yourself.
I’m from ‘the world is my church, and my religion is to do good’,
as my parents always told us.
I’m from Medina and Holland,
daddy’s toast and oval-tine shakes
From the time long ago, when I was mad at dad,
and told him to ‘go to his work’,
and grandpas unforgettable major baseball obsession.
But the memory box on the top shelf of the closet,
will forever hold memories of my childhood,
good and bad,
to look back upon and smile at.

You Are Seen by Sark

Were I God

WERE I GOD... Musings of a psychotherapist


Were I God
I would dive
into the darkest shadows
of being human,
into profound pain,
outrageous loss,
unbearable suffering,
and I would swim
towards Light
taking with me
as much of the brokenness
everywhere and of all time
as I could gather.
Were I God I would live
in despair and in hope.
I would be
the inspiration of a poem,
the rainbow, the dew on the grass,
the color of fall, the gentle breeze,
the kind word, the tender touch,
the laughter of children.
I would abide in every flower,
every seed,
every cry and sigh,
I would be
the possibility of
each new moment.
I would be weakness
finding strength,
never lording it over others,
but in every humble service,
pitching my tent
among the poor,
preferring the outsiders.
I would nestle in vulnerability:
risking and giving Self.
Were I God I would hide
so subtly within all creation
that I could never be caught.
I would be so unutterable
as to resist being talked about,
and hate the name "God"
remembering the oppression
done in my name.
I would exist beyond any word
any symbol,
any possible expression,
but I would dwell
in every human groan.
I would avoid expected places:
some pulpits, rituals, churches.
I would never be snared
by theology, religion
or even prayer.
I would exist solely
to be given away,
never to be comprehended or
held by safe orthodoxy:
far more verb than noun.
I would be yearning for freedom,
passion for justice,
thirsting for peace,
searching for truth,
craving for affirmation,
ardor for sharing,
the making of love,
and the ecstasy of surrender.
I would be in
every form of hurting
and its transcendence.
I would be gleamed
in lowly favors, generosity,
courage, simplicity, compassion
but especially
in forgiveness.
I would be aborning ever new
in the bruised and lonely heart.
I would be found more
in doubt than in certainty
more in questioning than
in righteousness.
I would need to be
intimately concealed
because the human ego
is so ready to use Me
to elevate itself
by judging others.
Were I God I would enjoy
leaving clues, riddles
and traces everywhere,
being tracked only
by valiant searchers.
I would let myself be glimpsed
in sunrises and sunsets
in the wonders of nature
in human loving
in quiet stillness and
becoming little
in EVERY human story.

Christmas, 1991, Paschal Bernard Baute

---

Enough

Letting Go

The ego is a monkey catapulting through the jungle:
Totally fascinated by the realm of the senses,
it swings from one desire to the next,
one conflict to the next,
one self-centered idea to the next.
If you threaten it, it actually fears for its life.
Let this monkey go.
Let the sense go.
Let desires go.
Let conflicts go.
Let ideas go.
Let the fiction of life and death go.
Just remain in the center watching.

And then forget that you are there.

--Lao Tzu

BE STILL By Sark

The Well of Grief

David Whyte grew up in Yorkshire, England. He studied Marine Zoology in Wales and trained as a naturalist in the Galapagos Islands. He has also worked as a naturalist guide, leading anthropological and natural history expeditions in various parts of the world, including treks among the mountains of Nepal.

Whyte's poetry reflects a living spirituality and a deep connection to the natural world.

He is one of the few poets to take his perspectives on creativity into the field of organizational development, conducting workshops with many American and international companies.

David Whyte currently lives in the Pacific Northwest of the United States.

for more poems by David....check out this awesome site:

AWESOME SITE

Letters to a young poet

It is hard to believe that this was written by Rilke in 1904 because it speaks to me today in 2007!!!!
Perhaps all the dragons in our life are opening us to grow to the next level!!!! How else would we grow??? OR perhaps that dragon is someone so hurt and confused and just needs our unconditional love. I believe that unconditonal love is what we ALL seek. I guess the biggest thing is to trust that there is a higher plan in all of this......sometimes hard to do that though. I like the last sentence....It will not let you fall!!!

Letters to a Young Poet

How should we be able

to forget those ancient myths that are at the

beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons

that at the last moment turn into princesses;

perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses

who are only waiting to see us once so beautiful and

brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest

being something helpless that wants help from us.

So you must not be frightened; if a sadness

rises up before you larger than you have ever seen; if a

restiveness, like light and cloud

shadows, passes over your hands and over all you

do. You must think that something is happening

with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it

holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall...


By~Rainer Maria Rilke

The NFL and God

The NFL and God

By Michael Dwinell

Today, I saw you in a thousand faces.
Foxbow Stadium
The New England Patriots
versus the Houston Oilers
A sell-out crowd
Men
Men
Everywhere men
Eating
Cheering
Rooting
Drinking
Especially drinking
Beer after beer after beer
By the end of the first quarter,
many of the men were unsteady on their feet
Eyes glazed
Voices louder
Language cruder and cruder
By halftime,
most of the men were substantially dulled.

It was unpleasant, unattractive,
sometimes crude and offensive, stupid.
I have seen too many men that way before.
I had been that way too many times before.
I was increasingly revolted.
Intelligence and awareness
is won at too high a price.
But regardless of how revolted
or offended I was,
at the same time,
in every face, in every pair of eyes,
I saw you.
I saw the pain.
I saw the longing.
I saw the beauty.
I saw the vulnerability.
I saw your becoming,
pressing out and through in every face.
Every face led directly to you.

The contest on the field
was really about you, wasn't it?
Two teams
Opposing
Dark and white
Opposite ends of the field
Both striving to dominate
And nobody knowing the outcome
ahead of time
And the cheering
The screaming
The yelling
The booing
The fanaticism
Really all about you, isn't it?
Cheering your awful becoming.
I saw a thousand faces today.
Ugly and offensive
and filled with your presence.
All that longing leads to you
All that pain leads to your pain.
Really you were the only one there.

I would have fewer imaginary troubles too!

I'd Pick More Daisies
By Nadine Stair, age 85

If I had my life to live over, I'd try to make more mistakes next time. I would relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have on this trip. I would be crazier. I would be less hygienic. I would take more chances, I would take more trips. I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers, and watch more sunsets. I would burn more gasoline. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would have more actual troubles and fewer imaginary ones. You see, I am one of those people who lives prophylactically and sensibly and sanely, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I have had my moments And if I had it to do over again, I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to have nothing else. Just moments,one after another. Instead of living so many years ahead each day. I have been one of those people who never go anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a gargle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had to do it over again, I would go places and do things. I'd travel lighter than I have. If I had my life to live over, I would start barefooted earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would play hooky more. I wouldn't make such good grades except by accident. I would ride on merry-go-rounds. I'd pick more daisies!

Amazement

Below is a poem by Mary Oliver. She is actually from Cleveland, but doesn't like to admit it. I highlighted my favorite parts of the poem in green below.

She reminds me to be as authentic and real as I can which sometimes takes a lot of courage. I don't intend to be just a "visitor" here.....I want to fully engage and connect with others. Happy Ground Hog's Day. -Michele

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

The Dance

The Dance
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

I have sent you my invitation,
the note inscribed on the palm of my hand by the fire of living.
Don't jump up and shout, "Yes, this is what I want! Let's do it!"
Just stand up quietly and dance with me.

Show me how you follow your deepest desires,
spiralling down into the ache within the ache.
And I will show you how I reach inward and open outward
to feel the kiss of the Mystery, sweet lips on my own, everyday.

Don't tell me you want to hold the whole world in your heart.
Show me how you turn away from making another wrong without abandoning yourself when you are hurt and afraid of being unloved.

Tell me a story of who you are,
And see who I am in the stories I am living.
And together we will remember that each of us always has a choice.

Don't tell me how wonderful things will be . . . some day.
Show me you can risk being completely at peace,
truly OK with the way things are right now in this moment,
and again in the next and the next and the next. . .

I have heard enough warrior stories of heroic daring.
Tell me how you crumble when you hit the wall,
the place you cannot go beyond by the strength of your own will.
What carries you to the other side of that wall,
to the fragile beauty of your own humanness?

And after we have shown each other how we have set and kept the clear, healthy boundaries that help us live side by side with each other, let us risk remembering that we never stop silently loving those we once loved out loud.

Take me to the places on the earth that teach you how to dance, the places where you can risk letting the world break your heart.
And I will take you to the places where the earth beneath my feet and the stars overhead make my heart whole again and again.

Show me how you take care of business
without letting business determine who you are.
When the children are fed but still the voices within and around us shout that soul's desires have too high a price,
let us remind each other that it is never about the money.

Show me how you offer to your people and the world
the stories and the songs you want our children's children to remember, and I will show you how I struggle
not to change the world, but to love it.

Sit beside me in long moments of shared solitude,
knowing both our absolute aloneness and our undeniable belonging. Dance with me in the silence and in the sound of small daily words, holding neither against me at the end of the day.

And when the sound of all the declarations of our sincerest
intentions has died away on the wind, dance with me in the infinite pause before the next great inhale of the breath that is breathing us all into being, not filling the emptiness from the outside or from within.

Don't say, "Yes!"
Just take my hand and dance with me.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer



By the author of the book THE INVITATION. Excerpted with permission from THE DANCE (to be published September 2001). Copyright (c) 2001 by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 10 E. 53 St., New York NY 10022

Life

So much of what we do in life is insignificant.
So many things that we think are so important,
End up being meaningless when we step back and look.
So step forward and look into the microscope;
Examine your life and your intentions.

If you feel that things are out of sync
Then change them, change something.
Often, change is what we fear the most
When in reality, it is the best thing for us.

Don’t ask life to come to you,
Ask life to catch up with you.
Don’t wait for miracles,
Create and design your own.

Don’t hold out for other people’s approval,
March right past them.
Knowing that as long as you do what is right for you, for your heart,
No one else’s approval matters.

Don’t sit on the sidelines and be a spectator,
Get in the game and participate.
And if you lose, you will have learned something,
Even if it was at the expense of your pride.

Don’t allow anyone to judge you,
Harsher then you would judge yourself.
For negative criticism has a nasty way of
Picking at your soul and damaging your self-worth.

Don’t wait around for things to happen,
But don’t rush them either.
Push the world at a pace,
That makes you comfortable.

Remember the saying,
Sometimes when you hold out for everything,
You end up with nothing.
Don’t permit that to happen to you.

And most of all, remind yourself,
That this life was given to you on a blank piece of expensive canvas.
It is up to you to paint your picture,
As bright and as colorful as possible, or as muted and quiet as you desire.

Do with it what you want,
Compromise only when you feel necessary,
And be proud of what you have painted.
It will be your greatest legacy.

-Unknown author-

The Guest House

This lifts my spirits when I am down.
I love this interactive poem.
click on the guest house below
The Guest House

Poem about Macy

Melanie Uttech took this picture at the Hessler Street Fair last year.....it was the last street fair there will ever be.


poem about macy macy (on the first day of school)
By Markk

i drop macy off on the first day of school.
she looks over where the tree used to be.
i’m still mad they cut down that tree, she says,
but she smiles again,
for it is the first day of school.


i hear the bright lines
of a grateful dead song:
“ah, child of countless trees,
ah, child of boundless seas.”

she dances down the driveway
& dances right back. asks me to
make her spaghetti (just butter,
no sauce). tells me there is a
spider in bathroom, begs me to
take it outside, not kill it. wonders
out loud if she would like it in
new york, tells me she’s mad that
mira gets to go to the movies & not her.

macy talks about skunks like
they are her pets. calls them
her “fellow friends.” sits for
an hour practicing a cello
in squeaks & melodious notes
without ever having a lesson.

macy –

asks me to help her find her shoes,
her ipod, her pencil case, loses
everything, cries, and finds it again.
cries when her guinea pig needs more food,
laughs like a maniac about a line
in some song. cries when she sees
a homeless man on cleveland’s
bleak streets, laughs again when
she sees the face of a tiny dog.

macy & cassie take pictures
of each other, backflips on the
lawn, making ridiculous faces,
hanging upside down from
the swing set. they sit in the
grass, planning to save all the
animals, & i’m certain they will.

it is the first day of school. macy races
up the sidewalk, always looks back &
waves a second time just to be sure.

macy calls me on my cell phone
as i sit in a hotel near chicago,
tells me i have to get carry out
for dinner, & eat it in the room,
because it makes her sad to think
of me in a restaurant eating alone.

macy says if she meets george bush
she will tell him a thing or two.

a family of five & macy is the conscience,
in many ways, she is older than anyone,
an indigo child in a world of dark shadows.

all five of us in the car heading off
somewhere. macy is barefoot, says
she doesn’t need to wear shoes.

but she wears her dance shoes
tight on her feet, dressed in taffeta
& lace, smiling as the song comes to
end, smiling with wide eyes. all of
the animals are there in front row,
& clap their paws with a beautiful thud.

first day of school & the world belongs to macy

Mira's Poem