Holes in the Floor of Heaven

Stars are holes in the floor of Heaven

through which its light shines through.

She dreamed, she wrote the song.

Then, in a bookstore, a book fell open

at her feet, and she read:

Stars are holes in the floor of Heaven

through which its light shines through.

The name of an African shaman, 

Credo Mutwa, was on the page,

and she knew this was a message.

In Africa, she met him, sang him her song,

told him of her dream of an old wise woman

whom he recognized as his mother.

She traveled deep into the heart of the Sangoma,

riding on a wave of connecting synchronicities

to complete the journey of transformation

begun by a falling book, its open page.

Some years back I wrote a prose piece about this story in Into the Heart of the Sangoma..a truly breathtaking true story. The Sangoma is a journey of transformation. 

Ella's prompt at Real Toads is to take books at random and select any phrase or word that jumps out at us, and write about it. 

I thought of this story - a Vancouver singer, Ann Mortifee, was in a bookstore when a book fell off the shelf in front of her, as I described in my poem. This led her on a fantastical journey, from one apparent synchronicity and impossible connection to another. If you like such stories, check out my Sangoma link. This story really took my breath away. There are mysteries we cannot fathom.

Proof of Heaven

 

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When a scientist dies, and visits Heaven,

he wipes the slate of all he knew.
From facts and proofs he now must stretch
his brain to hold a bigger view.

When he returns his soul has changed,
all his theories rearranged, incorporating the divine.
He knows now how the whole world shines.

He returns with a brand new path to trod,
after he dies and visits God.

for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motif: science

I have written before  about Dr Eben Alexander's book Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife, before. He was a scientifically trained doctor who formerly believed in nothing that could not be scientifically proved. He believed near death experiences were impossible. 

During the seven days his body lay in coma, the doctor was accompanied by an angelic being, who guided him into the deepest realms of supra-physical existence. He met and spoke with the Divine Source of the universe itself, and returned to his body forever changed.

A Little Cup of Grace

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In the teapot of life,

I am old grounds,

most of my flavor spent,

almost ready to be 

scuttled into the compost

to nurture new growth.

But while I am still here,

Great Teapot,

tip your spout one more time.

Fill just one more vessel for me

with a little cup of grace.

Earthlings II

Upon your lap, my Mother Earth, 

I listen to the river's song,

of renewal and rebirth,

that calls me home where I belong.

Like a tree, my roots go down,

deeply where there is no sound,

only earthworms burrowing,

through hallowed ground.

.

Like a tree, when harsh winds blow,

 that assault me, then grow still,

the  fickle weather helps me grow,

changing me, as weather will.

Like a tree, my center lies

  where human folly is forsaken.

Your heartbeat says:

Endure. Just wait,

These earthlings one day

will awaken.

.

Silent Movies

Childhood was a silent movie:
"Children should be seen and not heard."
"Go to your room and dont come out 
till you have a smile on your face."
Silent movie: the bedroom, 
children shaking with fear in their beds,
at the bumps and crashes and shrieks 
in the Big Peoples' Room,
the sound track of childhood.

A silent movie: following my mother out
behind my father's coffin.
"We have a long row to hoe."
Then the movie became really silent:
her locked in her loneliness,
me mute with so much pain inside,
and no way to figure it out,
no one to talk to.

Pain is anger turned inwards.
It took decades to work it all out,
let it all go.
Just in time for my children's anger
to begin to surface,
making me long for
the days of
silent movies.

Collectibles

I'm collecting wolves and memories,

as I walk this earth-walk......

forest trails and long sandy beaches,

the sound of the waves

forever advancing and retreating

on the shores of my heart.

Inland, I once collected seagulls,

and longed to fly

over the mountains

to the shore.

Once there, I gave away the ceramic birds.

Walking in awe, in outtakes 

from Jonathan Livingston Seagull,

along the shore,

 I needed them no more.

I began this beach odyssey in 1972,

when I watched Jonathan fly

and understood

I belonged heart and soul

to the sea.

My life has been a series

of beginnings,

starting over with nothing,

collecting a nest around me,

then flitting to the next place,

the next refuge,

the next home.

I perch on the edge, now, waiting

for the call that will spring me

across the mountaintops

and back home to the sea.

I will take only the barest necessities

with me:

wolves and elephants and books,

and enough gratitude and joy

to keep me

flying.

for Ella's prompt at Real Toads: Collections I live in one big sunny room, its walls covered with wolves and elephants, its shelves awash with books, Tibetan singing bowls, windows decked in prisms and prayer flags. Everywhere my eyes fall, I see something I love, something that says "one who loves nature lives here". 

Days That are Holy

for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motif : 
holy days, and what makes them holy.

Easter Sunday, 1960

My little sister has long blonde ringlets,
a pale yellow dress with crinolines,
and a pinafore.
New shoes, hers patent leather,
mine my first Princess heels.
I have a tan fuzzy sailor hat with a wide round brim,
under which my blue eyes ask:
am I good enough?
I wear immaculate white gloves, to the wrist,
my first lipstick,
and a permanent, which transforms my hair
from straight and lanky
to something bouncier,
with curls.
I feel reborn, and hopeful;
it is a time of transformation.

We gather out front to see and be seen,

then we file through the heavy doors 

into the vestry,

dip fingertips

into the holy water font,

genuflect respectfully

towards the tabernacle,

and climb the creaking stairs to the choir loft.

The sun is shining through the stained glass
and it feels like
Resurrection morning.
All my life, it has been cloudy on Good Friday
and sunny on Easter morning.

The priest and altar boys file out,

incense in the censer 

swinging on chains,

and all is hushed reverence,

rustling, pages turning,

muffled coughs.

The Apostles Creed rings out,

and all are on bended knee

as the Agnus Dei sounds.

And then, from the choir loft,

magnificently,

our hearts swelling,

voices blending and soaring,
bass, alto, soprano,

the Hallelujah Chorus rings out,

above the bowed heads of the faithful,

hearts rise,

angels bend near to hear

the joy of Easter

rising

in all hearts.

That Easter, we were housed in the small old Church like the one in the picture above. A bigger, newer church was built soon after. But I preferred the old one, which felt holy with all of the years of prayers, of praise and supplication,  that had been uttered there.

Blessings to all who celebrate, whatever your beliefs, the great wonder of this time of renewal.