Quietness

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into colour.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.

RUMI

Placeless, Traceless

The final chapter of Nicholas Shrady's book Sacred Roads describes his pilgrimage to the tomb of Rumi in Konya, Turkey. After recent events in Europe this inclusive poem by Rumi is particularly resonant. He strips away superficial, artificial divisions to reveal what we all are:

Only Breath

Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu,

Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion

or cultural system. I am not from the East

or the West, not out of the ocean or up

from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not

composed of elements at all. I do not exist,

am not an entity in this world or the next,

did not descend from Adam and Eve or any

origin story. My place is placeless, a trace

of the traceless. Neither body or soul.

I belong to the beloved, have seen the two

worlds as one and that one call to and know,

first, last, outer, inner, only that

breath breathing human beings.

Rumi also wrote this:

Cross and Christians, end to end, I examined. He was not on the Cross. I went to the Hindu temple, to the ancient pagoda. In neither was there any sign. To the heights of Herat I went, and Kandahar. I looked. He was not on height or lowland. Resolutely, I went to the top of the Mountain of Kaf. There only was the place of the Anqa bird. I went to the Kaaba. He was not there. I asked of his state from Ibn Sina: he was beyond the limits of the philosopher Avicenna . . . I looked into my own heart. In that place I saw him. He was in no other place . . .

Endless Renewal And Other Things

It's November 1st. Last night was the Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-een), marking the end of one year and the beginning of the next, a time for settling affairs in preparation for the period of darkness and renewal ahead according to The Book Of Wicca by Lucy Summers. On a supernatural level, it is the time when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest and spirits, elementals, and divine beings are able to walk upon the earth unsummoned.

Outside the weather's wild and wet. But mild. I remember when Novembers used to be bone-chillingly cold with freezing fog. We'd huddle round the bonfire on November 5th in balaclavas and warm coats, looking forward to a feast of roast chestnuts and butter-drenched baked potatoes after the firework display.

Yes, its blustery but mild today, and the wind is whistling round our ornamental cherry tree, shaking leaves of deep burgundy onto the driveway (see pic). After a hard week's work it's nice to stay indoors, relax and curl up with a good book or two. In fact two books arrived from Amazon last week (I'm an Amazon addict. After resisting for months, I've caved in yet again.)

I think I have a treat in store with Rumi's Selected Poems (I've enjoyed so many poems by Rumi on various blogs that I just had to read more) and John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain - somewhat of a landmark book for me. It was one of the first books to inspire my walking adventures. I had a hardback copy once before - which I've either lost, sold or given away.

(Like most other things, books come and go. The whole of my professional life I've been involved with books - buying them, selling them, collecting them, lending them, donating them, just falling short of stealing them, Joe Orton-style. My collection of books is constantly changing. Changing as the seasons themselves. Changing like Samhain following Lughnasadh. Changing as the colours of a flowering cherry tree.)

Back to John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain. I want to reread it. I have half a notion to retrace his journey, then try and write a book about it. We all need these dreams and aspirations. Personally speaking, I find I have more and more dreams and aspirations the older I get. The less time I have, the more I seem to want and need to do. I no longer have the luxury of youth's carefree idleness and enviable procrastination.

I love life! And I want to live and experience and read about and thrill to more and more things with each passing year.