Joie De Vivre at The Art of Being you posted I Need to see Home in your Eyes. It reminded me of something I wrote a long time ago about Home. So I went and dug it out. I have longed for something most of my life that I think can best be described as Home. It is a major theme in most deep spirituality. It has been associated with people and places and things. I think there are a few people we can share it with because they seek that too. But in the end I think it is about discovering that the answer is not out there somewhere but in finding Home in ourselves. Seek out these rare people who understand the Romance of the Beloved.
Someone asked me recently what “Home” referred to in the Michael Buble’ song. They asked me “Where is Home?”
To me the answer was apparent and came as easily as remembering my own name.
I said, “Home is wherever She is.” Geography, space, time, and circumstance is irrelevant.
Wherever He may wander, whatever His circumstance, His heart will forever turn toward Her.
Just as the compass will seek the North so too will He be drawn to Her.
She is Home. She is rest. She is the answer to the question of his spirit.
So when Michael sings of Home he sings of Her and to Her and from a place in Him that will only and can only be whole when He is with Her.
This is a short clip of Mr. Chuck King. He is one of the most gracious souls I know. He is philosophical, yet likes to laugh. He is profoundly talented yet remains a student. He is helping me find my groove. Thank you Chuck!
Perhaps it is that when one feels washed overboard, afraid, exhausted, and without a raft there is something in the depths of grace for us there. Perhaps the raft is what keeps us from knowing. Blessings, sweetness, and understanding that you are not alone.
Whatever flavor of spirituality that you may tend toward there is a depth and beauty in this. All poetry is metaphor anyway. Hold them lightly or risk their death. Where there is beauty there is the perfume of truth. It resonated with my soul from that place in me that is too deep for words. It allowed me to weep. That is a good gift for a hardened sometimes stupid man like me. 🙂 Maybe my chakra thingy is better for it. Blessings on your quest for the One who is beyond all metaphor.
I had not looked at Her in a while. I did this evening. She was still there. Nothing had changed though. I felt Her pull. Guess its there whether I look or not. As I gazed at Her I remembered my favorite moon song. I will play it for Her. It is perfect. It is magic. Makes me wish I could write. Be Groovy!
I had a crazy idea. It was connected to my soul somehow. It has been at the periphery of me for some time. It is funny how crazy dreams will manifest and change over time. I have a musician’s heart but I can neither sing nor play anything other than a few chords on a guitar and the CD player in my truck. But the crazy idea which was birthed a long time ago has persisted. I had no idea that it could ever become real. Sunday I decided to get way out of my comfort zone. I contacted some friends who are some of the best jazz musicians there are. We are going to do some experimental jazz improv along with my poetry readings. I figured that I can’t sing but I can talk. I have realized that the spoken word can be very powerful. It was and is still somewhat intimidating to think about but crazy might just be my path.
What follows is something that I wrote three or four years ago. Last January my sons were helping me start this blog and we did this one night after a couple glasses of wine. Now I’m thinking we can take this thing on the road. Or not. It don’t really matter. What matters is that we cast the seeds into frightening and new places. But I do have at least one place lined up that wants us.
The clock ticks.
It fades in and out of my awareness.
The clock ticks.
Marking Time as It winds down to finally rest in Eternity.
The clock ticks.
Independent, without regard It plucks the very strings of the Cosmos.
The clock ticks.
Time now divided makes meter possible and cadence contingent.
The clock ticks.
The fabric of possibility is woven, lining the womb that is time.
The clock ticks.
Sacred Space emerges between the beats of past and future. Seeds can only be sown in the Now.
The clock ticks.
Slumbering Soul, never at rest, seeks completion of Its’ chord unresolved.
The clock ticks.
All existence is in motion, potential, moving toward harmony or dissonance, creativity or chaos, Life or death.
The clock ticks.
The metronome beats out the call to choose or not to choose. Both require a choice.
The clock ticks.
Whether background or fore, whether conscious or dreaming, It makes possible the awareness of Plato’s Groove.
The clock ticks.
Out of the shadows Life calls to life. There is underlying order within the chaos. The pilgrim seeks that which has always been hidden within view.
The clock ticks.
The artist’s heart does not create ex nihilo but rather chooses one and not the other, manifesting particular harmonies that resonate and call them into Being.
The clock ticks.
To act or refrain from motion is the artist’s prerogative. Variation ads pigment, or not, to the evolving tapestry.
The clock ticks.
Soul becomes more harmonious; at rest in the body, powerful its resonance with the Real. Dissonance no longer a mystery to be feared but rather consciously strummed to accentuate and more clearly articulate the Soul’s growing chorus.
The clock ticks.
Oh, Traveler strain through the dissonance to hear the notes which resonate with the pattern of your soul. Choose it at the cost of all others.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
Each Soul’s resolution is to cultivate and balance It’s own polytonic sound in preparation for joining the romp with all other pure souls in harmony, dance, in art, in mathematics, and all other lenses through which we glimpse the mystery of the Eternal celebration that is Life.
