Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Day 4 Dog Barking in the Temple

A Bridge of Light Over the Turbulent Yuba River

The Dog Next Door Barked Again and Again

Dog barked all day.
Then he barked all night.
Boring when you analyze it.
Sad when you feel it.
Background noise when you set it down.
Like a thought or a compulsion.

From my upcoming book Simple Life

This place has been a refuge from consternation and blaring static, with one exception. My seeming nemesis, the barking dog, is here.

I have pretty bad tinnitus, or ringing in the head. Something about the pitch of certain dogs actually hurts my brain. It’s not uncommon for people with nerve damage in their ears to experience this sort of jolt from certain noises. For me, it’s the ubiquitous barking dog. It’s noise that actually sends the shock of my ears into my veins. This jolt too often foments agitation and stories about neglectful dog owners. The barking neglected dogs seem to be everywhere for me, including here in the supposed silence. 

A hundred yards from the trailer a dog is penned in and alone. The dog shouts like the person coughing in a church meeting or a screaming baby in the coffee shop.

I went for a walking meditation on our third day. Then back to the trailer after morning meditation sadnha and asanas (Yoga postures) I am peaceful for moments. That’s when the barking dog begins his disruptive teaching. Why would they allow such a disruptive barker to annoy ME in this place of tranquility?

I went to find the source of the barking. In a cabin around the corner from us a dog was yelling from behind the windows. With each cry the curtains shook. My heart leapt. Why had I come closer to the noise that bothers me? Though I walked away, I was tempted to stay and just face my fears with the dog.

I decided to meditate instead. Not running away. Not going deeper into the illogical thing that vexes me so often. I went to the forest meditation structure. I sat. What can I do Father Mother? How do I manifest the fear and loneliness (barking) of this world inside of myself?

I sat until I felt a semblance of clarity. The dog continued to bark nearby. But the shivers had left my body along the rigidity in my shoulders and neck. Then I listed all the things I could do with vexation of feeling afraid in the world.

-          Shake it off like an animal shakes off the rain and fear after being chased.
-          Yell
-          Be the dog without asking the whys about the owner and circumstances
-          Be empty space, which carries no ordinary sound.
-          Sit with the moans and yips without absorbing its cuts and punches.
-          Gird myself with my practice
-          Confront the owner if I can or at least find out about the welfare of the one barking and crying.
-          Give up and become a victim
-          Avoid by obsessively doing something
-          Name it. Go deeper inside and say what the real issue is.
-          Bark and bark myself
-          Fix it
-          Blame myself for being too sensitive.
-          Hate dogs.
-          Love dogs.

The point became clearer. I have freedom to choose. There are a hundred options in this bag of curiosity. The other point is to pause and begin any action with non-action. Am I centered and truly more ready to be in the world that confronts one with sensory assaults at every turn?

The world was not meant to be lost in or be afraid in. I remember that the ways of the world are not a personal affront to me, unless I make it that way. An experience is neither good or bad, kind nor debilitating unless I react from a place mirroring those attributes. All of this is simple to say. But difficult to do.

I’m reminded of the poem by Basho:

The temple bell stops.
But the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers.

What I focus upon becomes the very thing I hear in my own thoughts and dreams.

Dear Reader: What is your barking dog in this world?
What seems to be so outside of you that it feels victimizing to experience it?
It could be the evening news, or a teenage son’s petulance.
It could be the rain that continues for days or a lover who has not returned your call.

I found some ideas to transform my barking dog issue. The first idea is that I have choices. My first choice is to pause and feel myself, not my stories. This is the practice of yoga.

What is your barking dog? What are your choices, right now and here?


(c) Copyright Richard Sievers, December 2012, All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Day 3 Transmutation of Faith

Day three at the ashram and I begin a new habit of being a scribe. I write down a verse or line that has meaning to me. The act of writing it again makes it a part of the body’s memory.

Today it was a particularly succulent translation of Psalm 19. These words rose up from the page and then seeped into my heart:

“God’s universe is perfect
awing the mind.
God’s truth is subtle,
baffling the intellect.
God’s law is complete,
quickening he breath.
God’s compassion is fathomless,
refreshing the soul.
God’s justice is absolute,
lighting up the eyes.
God’s love is radiance,
rejoicing the heart,
more precious than fine gold,
sweeter than honey from the comb.

Help me be aware of my selfishness
without undue shame or self judgment.
Let me always feel you present
in every atom of my life.
Let me keep surrendering myself
until I am utterly transparent.
Let my words be rooted in honesty
and my thoughts be lost in your light,
Unnamable God,
my essence,
my origin,
my life blood.”

From Ladinsky’s book Love Poems From God

I am in the temple meditating and the words and tune from an old Christian hymn drift inside of me

“Holy Holy Holy Lord God Almighty.
early in the morning I shall raise my song to thee.”

This verse and this song rose from the memory of a church I'd been part of decades ago. It was a place where many would have thought this ashram experience blasphemous, or at least dangerous. I let those thoughts pass. For the song was beautiful inside my chest. I recited the next verse softly:

“Only thou art holy.
There are none beside the.
Which wert and art
and evermore shall be.”

In the temple, beside me, a disciple of Yogananda begins the low slung tones of

OM… OM. 

I am filled with joy.

I join in with his rhythmical chant.

It is not only melding of beliefs here but also a transmutation of faiths I've experienced in earlier parts of my life. The duality thinking that this is bad that is good melted away for long moments in the meditation hall.

Am I crazy, singing evangelical songs and reciting old testament poems in an ashram? Yes, to the world perhaps, crazy. Probably crazy just for being here. Perhaps not.

The separation between sects and faiths falls apart like a brittle wall in an earthquake of devotion. None of that matters now. God is everywhere, even in church, even in the memory of an old song I thought I’d forgotten.

Between the Old and the New

Copyright Richard Sievers, December 201, All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Day 2 Habits of Body, Mind and Spirit.

 Manly Development

I cried
reading a poem.
That is a good sign
for my development,
both the reading and
the tears.

From my upcoming book of Poems Simple Life

Our breakfasts in the community are always taken in silence. The silence is broken later with a devotional reading and prayer. I remember my first breakfast over oatmeal. Sitting with new people. Sitting with my wife and with wonderings about the coming two weeks. Thinking I should be calming and quiet. But that is not what my body had in its mind.

At the table with sun speckled leaves all around me I read Rilke’s Ninth Eulogy. He is describing how the angels are already experts on the miraculous and the wonderful. They long to connect with us in something that they cannot know: They want to know more about simple miracles of the ordinary life.

"...And the things, even as they pass,
understand that we praise them.
Transient, they are trusting us
to save them--us, the most transient of all.
As if they wanted in our invisible hearts
to be transformed
into-- oh endlessly-- into us..."

Rilke's poem ends with

Abundance of being floods my heart.

Quote from marvelous book Rilke's In Praise of Mortality
Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

When I read the word Abundance I break into a sob. It is spontaneous and even jolting. I sat over my bowl of oatmeal and weep, not just cry, but weep. It's embarrassing to say this out in the world where people trample what they fear. Yet my pride about being strong was not so stony in the shelter of community. I wanted to feel safe. My spirit must have informed my body that it was safe here. So I cry. Head bent and then held up.
I was fully a man and I felt everything!
For moments a poem sang in my body.

I cried in a way that might have been mocked in my own family, out in the world or even here in cyber space. But here on this retreat, my wife looks on with compassion. And the other people don’t seem to even notice. Like it’s normal to feel like this and even to show it out loud. (It is normal!!)

I felt like my whole body let out the storage of the strongman. The armor of being in the matrix of the world.

I look out over the field and see our little trailer up on the crest of the hill. I recite the Rilke lines “Praise the world to the angel: leave the unsayable aside”

I write in my journal

"These trees, my parishioners.
This meadow, my church.
This stone, my pulpit.
These grasses, my holy parchment.
This wind, my song.
This trailer, my hermit’s cave.
This being still, the light of the sun
This pen, my traveling heart,
moving from god into God."

Then I named the spirits that I have known and who have loved me deeply over the years. I recited their names, like doorways to God. This practice of seeing, reflecting and naming would become the habit of my stay here in the church of sky and people.

For long drafts of time I felt unafraid of tears and worship. I thought: Perhaps this is the way we are built, under the armor of survival and comparison.


Copyright Richard Sievers, December 2012

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Day 1 We are Stardust. We are Golden

Yuba River, Nevada City, California
We are stardust. We are golden. And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.
Stills and Nash form Woodstock Era.

The first things that strike me are the pictures and carvings and poems of the master and his lineage. All over this land. No matter where I walk or stop, a reminder is emblazoned on the wall or in the garden stone. A quote. A sacred symbol. Photographs. Why all the images of men and women? I am judgmental and afraid, at first, because I have been let down and disappointed by people over and over. But is that really the reason I recoil? I also am curious.

For years I’ve pontificated that The time for the guru is over. We have enough experts and parishioners worshiping books more than love. I repeat the well worn phrases of my reticence out loud as I gaze at Yogananda’s carved face resting on the garden altar. You are just a person, like me.

"Then why do I continue to be drawn to gazing at you?" I ask Yogananda? Like a memory in stone… me being the stone in my rigidity and him being like a memory that surfaces in my body and mind.

So I sit back and recognize how I feel stirred up, resistant to the statues and songs floating in the air. The sun light falls through the burning leaves of the autumn maple. I think “I can look at these images from any angle I choose.” 

The sun is tranquil and so quiet in its mighty fire. It is always there, burning, seemingly eternal. But do I really see the sun for what it is? Do I feel it, sense it, thank it? Or is it just a metaphorical bridge in a poem or thought (like here?) And what’s so wrong or right about a bridge into seeing deeper into life? Is that what the statues are? Bridges? Or distractions? Or tools and prompts to remember our divinity?

Then I stop the queries for a moment. I am here to re inhabit my body, to reinvigorate my health and to feel safe with other people. I long to do these things so that when I return to the outside world I can be the memory of the sun, too. I can be the stone, filled with mid-day fire. Warm, even in the cold nights to come. Ah, more metaphors. Perhaps that all human language has. Metaphors of what is holy.

Finally I rest back against the statue, the stony heat warming in the sun. I commit to be present as I can, for a long period of silences like the sun is silent, like Yogananda’s statue, silent.

I want to emanate light.
Light that is not afraid to grieve the losses that bring me closer to breaking through the stony surfaces. I want to b less drugged by my thoughts. Not thoughtless. But freer to catch the judgments as they wisp by in the wind. Just to be here for moments, until I am everywhere in the sun.


Copyright Richard Sievers, November 2012

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Two Weeks in an American Ashram: An Invitation

On the road with our trailer near Mt. Shasta.

This is the first entry describing two weeks that my wife and I spent in a community of people devoted to yoga as a path love, service and becoming more conscious. My wife was completing her certification as a certified yoga instructor. I was deepening my meditation practice.

I went with the intention to experience a loving community where I could be myself and feel safe. I also went to meet other men who desire to be open to their hearts and spirits as well as their intellect. I also wanted to grow in my understanding of how to proceed in my life as a young elder.
Our 1972 Compact Jr. Trailer

Along the way I found healing, challenge of my perceptions, judgments and peace. I hope to tell you the heart of my experience without doing any harm to the community that took us in and shared their particular path with us. I hope to share experiences that will be helpful and healing to you in your life on earth. Thanks for riding along with me on this spiritual road trip.

Over the next weeks I will use the term God a lot. I understand that this can elicit reactions and stories about one's own experiences, some happy, some hurtful. This term is used because it is the word I use in my devotional life. It is meant to be ultra inclusive in its use. I hope that you can see this name in terms of whatever is holy or inspiring or loving or cosmic or pure to you.

The Hermitage
I will also refer to Yogananda, a man who came from India in the early-mid 20th century to relay ancient and enduring, spiritual practices to the west. I see these practices as scientific in that they can aid one in being closer to be truly present and aware of life with less judgement and fear. I asked to meet men who are diligently exploring their spiritual path. I got even more than I asked for. I met a Master who is loving, wise and a beloved friend of my spirit.

I never wish to imply that this is the only way to enlightenment or truth. Yogananda and  communal faith are the reasons for the community that I visited. So I relate the information I have harvested there in hopes that it is inspiring to you in your life.

One of my callings as a writer is to
Make What is Universally Private Intimately Public
May this two week journal help me and you to not feel alone in our personal paths.

If you wish to come along with me on this brief dive into the life on an American Ashram check back here in the next three or four days. 
Or subscribe to this blog (see the box on the middle right). 

Thank You for Reading
I'll be publishing a new entry on this spiritual journey every three days until Christmas.


Copyright Richard Sievers November 2012, All Rights Reserved

Monday, July 2, 2012


 When I am open,
there are consequences.
Is it worth the pain
to know the joy?


Is it worth the feedback
from the fearful
to be fully myself?


Is it worth the work
of planting these words
within my hungry spirit,
hoping for a harvest
of connection and beauty?


Is the health of my soul
worth the effort
of being free?

Yes. Yes Yes


* This sculpture is in The Vietnam War Memorial on the highway between Mt Shasta, CA. and Klamath Falls, OR.

Copyright Richard Sievers July, 2012

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

The Spiritual Light of Depression

It's drizzling again, like it has been through the whole growing season. While the rest of the country seems to burn, our area is locked in winter. I sit and watch out my window. The farm is heavy with the sky. Slugs are moving in from all directions. Berries rot. The growth of our livelihood is at a standstill, at least on the surface.

Yet the roots continue to dive into the clay. Flowers blossom deep in the soil where voles and moles seek to devour them, churning the crop rows in their feeding.  Life pushes ahead anyway.

I could be disappointed in what nature has dealt us this season. But I'm free to choose another way besides disappointment. All I can do today is what I've really have wanted to do all along: Write. Watch. Allow my spirit to wander. Then come here and tell you about the experience. Then, listen to your response.

Like so many people today, I've been cyclically depressed much of my life. It's as if a cool mist continues to fall, even in the summer season of my work.

Today I choose to go deep, even as the naysayers and doomsdayers approach from all sides. The challenges seem to come from every which way but from my spirit. Because there's a  central part of me (and I think all of us) that is totally healed. It may be very hard to find and see. But I cling to that holy place deep within.

So, what can I do now? Tend the garden anyway. Wait patiently for the words. Protect the tender blossoms. Be as free as I can in the drizzle. Be free while all around tamed expectations are burning in a climate change of forgetfulness.

A wildfire of inattention wants to claim me and all of us. Yet here, at this moment, the green crops and wild weeds are still reaching up into the grey.

Depression can be a great teacher or a boring  en-slaver. Depression can be a doorway into a joy which has little to do with superficial happiness. We, the clouded and damp, need the support of each other and the light that dwells deep in the heart of the Sacred Earth. Our souls have longings that can be touched down deep.

We are not alone and we are free, even in the rain.

What do you really want today?
Who are you down deep inside?

Here are a few links on the soulful aspects of depression:

Article: The Spiritual Side of Depression

Speaking of Faith Podcast on the Soul and Depression

Peace of the Mist Be Yours,

Copyright Richard Sievers, June 2012

Wednesday, June 6, 2012


Remembering my Friend Tom, my Once Upon a Time Celtic Circle and the Wild Hunt
The Oran Mor: An ancient Celtic phrase for Song of the Universe.

This is a true experience while recently working on our farm, reminding me of the Song of the Universe… the One singing inside everything.

In the gloaming woodland I snaked over fallen logs and waded through heavy headed ferns. The reflection of the sun was asleep everywhere except for the very top of the ancient cedars and fir. Two hounds ran wildly, following their noses, plowing the humus and duff, charging into thickets of blackberry’s thorns, joined shoulder to shoulder.  They ran in frenzied flip fops of chaos, following a scent I could never know.

I had gone past the wood’s tangled boundary, high wired on a log over our rumbling creek. I had arrived in an open cathedral of wild vespers.

I was drowned out of my tilling and sowing by the reckless howling and braying that rose and fell from their wild tour of the borderlands. My curiosity pulled me into the forest that surrounds our land. I went inward without concern for the pain the loud noise had caused to my once silent reverie of mud and pipe and tines. 

I arrived in the near dark in an arc of limb and needles. I stood, wet and shivering, on a stump as the dogs ranged all through the field of vision. Their tails high and wagging. Tongues lolling. Shoulders hunched even as they ranged with a raucous swagger.

They ran all around me. The forest and me and the stump being the still points. They never saw me, never cared for anything beyond their wild task. They were intent on prey or joy or some hidden heart they'd smelled beating rapidly in the dander. They were pure in their mysterious purpose and their abandonment to joy.

It seemed like this was what the dogs came to earth for. This was their call and response of ecstasy. This wild hunt.

I paused until the darkness became deep. Then I meandered back, out of the forest. Crossed the swollen creek on the thread of arching wood. I walked into my field, heavy with dew, fingers of mist rising from the clay. I came back into the tailings and seedlings I had tended.

I thought about desire and passion, work and wonder. I had sweat and toiled all day. I wondered if my toil had brought the world more joy and freedom. Or, had I only distracted myself from the things I love?

I bent down and reached my hand into the sweet sacred soil of my home. I lifted the cold wet earth to my face and breathed in. I smelled spring and the sun. I felt the rains of winter drain from between my fingers. I smiled and sang a little tune recalled from my childhood summers. Then I dropped the scrutiny of my labors and my yearnings.

I was just another animal in the gloaming.

The two hounds brayed as the sun ran further into the night. Then their voices faded away. These beings had sung their own song of wilderness and joy. I heard them. I touched the mystery of my own happiness for moments in my home’s soil. And the field sighed. I breathed deep and then made my way toward the warmth of my home and my particular life… a wild memory in my heart.

Where is your home? 
What do you hear singing within you today?   
Who ranges the wild wood on the borderlands of your world?
Can I meet you there?

Song of the Wildwood be yours.

(c) Copyright Richard Sievers, June 2012

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Having a Completed Experience

On Mount Neahkahnie, Oregon Coast 
I want to be more present in my life. Perhaps this is true for you too. Lately I've been considering the all encompassing way life events seem to blur together and loose their vitality when I am fretting or over analyzing. Time flies, we hear over and over again. Or is it that we fly from experience to experience without being present?

I've lived about 19,000 days. How many of those days have I really been here? How many moments have I inhabited? How many inhabit me?

Lately I've been playing with two ideas about life. One is that I want to rescue one memory a day, to really dwell with it and let it pass within and through me. To really see my friend across the table and feel their presence. To feel the cold rain on my face without resistance. To sit with pain, mine or yours. And then to present this experience to God, the Beloved presence coursing within me.

The second idea is that a great role of living is to allow the experiences to move through me. Not just the ephemeral aspects of "me", like spirit and soul, but through my blood and bones. I've been  wondering if enlightenment might be as simple as having a completed experience in this particular body. It's a simple idea, but not an easy idea.

The body is a transmitter of pleasure and challenge. Perhaps the body is more than we think. I had a beloved teacher who said that the body is the horse we ride to enlightenment. The body may seem incomplete or flawed or like just a vehicle to cart around our brains. But what if it was really the doorway to knowing what is sacred in my life? How to live in this body with less judgement or fear?

How do I not just accept the physicality of me but inhabit it? What practices lead me into the wisdom beyond what is surmised or analyzed? Living, really living, is simple, but not easy.

So, for me, I do my little practice in the morning. I watch the field. I write. I pray. I do these not because of strong discipline or special insights. And self improvement only goes so far. No, I do these things to live!  As Rilke says "I have begun to listen to the lessons my blood whispers to me."

What truth is your body presenting to you today? Will that experience get locked into the vicissitudes of reaction and fear? Or will you trust yourself enough to feel what's really going on inside?

Dharma of Blood
Follow the blood,
the streams,
the rivers,
the great ocean
of heart and brain.
Moving silence
into the throbbing

Blood, the synthesis
of four elements:
air enriched,
water based,
metal in filled,
fire of soul.
Salty as the ocean.
Blue as the topaz.
Turbulent as the wind.

what is holy to God.
the manna from my mother.
the transmission of my father.

Peace to you today.

(c) Rick Sievers, May 2012

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

The Angry Man Staring

This is the setting: I am at a coffee shop hunched over my journal while writing out my internal world. I was discreetly mouthing some of the words that appeared from my pen. A man, wearing a perfect suit  that looked like armor, sits in the booth across from me. He appeared confident and competent. His eyes were upon me. And I felt embarrassed.  I looked at him not as another human being. I saw him like he was a puppet of the oppressors, and a hater of those that appear to be different. 

Here’s what I was thinking as I rehearsed talking to that man.

Our world is twisting apart.
The very fabric of compassion or truth or integrity is ripped and shredded.
No more loving nature.
No shelters for the poor.
No food for the hungry.
No justice for those under the pall of hatred, war and pollution.
The pontificators live in big houses
with blazing hearths of electrons beaming with empty truths.
The pundits say that there is no global warming,
that there is a recovery,
that the rich will provide all that is needed,
that non-technical education is pointless and
that kindness is a curse of the sentimental.

Sure, the world is flat and the true believers are the prize of God’s universe along with all the other religionists. Right?

I say that the world is round.
I say that I am poor but alive.
I say I want peace in a time of war.

Then I stepped back 
from my internal rehearsal at life.
I was grateful that I kept my arguments to myself.

I am free, aren’t I?
What will I recall when it’s over, 
the warring or the aliveness?

The man across the coffee shop stared at me with a downward curl to his lips.
He sipped his long cold coffee as if it still had steam and heat.
He never let his eyes flicker or fall off from the drilling scrutiny of my flying pen.

I think most of us live like we’re alone.
We live alone in our thoughts and fears.
And the end is near…
And the world is a circle.
So is my heart.

I go back to the moment in the coffee shop and look at the man again.

The man is really staring right through me.
It’s like I’m not even there.
He appears lost in his some reverie or perhaps indifference.
He may or may not be judging me.
He is not radiating hate like I thought.
Rather he seems to be blank as a page unwritten.

Who’s scrutinizing here?
And who is crazy and afraid with judgment? 

My experience is that I write and dream while people seem to look right through me.
I sometimes feel like the awful stranger, like the traveler in a gypsy wagon, a person who dreams and gives his life away to spirits that other fear. I feel like the one who is chided in the market place for muttering to his hallucinations.

My hallucination is that I am alone and need phantoms of thought to keep me company.

Alienation is our world’s disease right now.
The bible relates how the curse of Adam and Eve is a sense of separation from the divine. What a loss this is for all of us. And yet we have free will to choose another way.

O Great One, let me remember who I am and who that man is. Let me be aware of where these words are coming from and what effect they may have before the end really does come like an angel with his scythe.


(c) Copyright on words and image Rick Sievers, 2/2012

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Being Seen

My Brittney Spaniel, Shannon, in our field in 1972

I had a beautiful dream last night. My faithful childhood dog sat in a field that is bright with silence and vibrant with clarity. I was with her. We were both childlike and yet old and wise. Every feeling and experience I'd had seemed to be distilled into one experience. 

This morning, the frost was shining like a heavy blanket of stars in our field and orchard. A subtle shimmering hovered over the bent grasses and limbs. Yet something else was out there too. In the dark wood, at the edge of our pasture, our neighbor's dog was moaning from his pen. 

Still, the dream lingered in my own eyes. I did not see my dog again in this reality. But I remembered her. And I felt her living inside my body,  just below my left shoulder.

I needed to come here to this desk and write to you. I felt the need to tell you that you are not alone. Whoever you are, whatever the circumstance that grabs at your attention, whatever grief you have, you are not alone. Those moments that seem to be gone or thwarted or unseen by others live right here in the body.

I've lived almost all my life feeling the pang of being unseen, unheard. It's a universal human experience to feel this way. Perhaps you feel this way. Though I don't know who you are I was thinking about you. I wanted to reflect to you something that David Whyte wrote in his poem Sweet Darkness:

"...The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.
You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you." *

For me feeling lonely has been a captivating story, a nearly constant barking from the edges of my view of my life. It's not true like I thought. It's an ancestral story which is also stored in my body. And it lives right beside the shimmering field in my chest. It's a dark and dank dead woodland with a lonely animal kept penned and hungry. 

Perhaps I cannot choose what memory or energy lives in my body. But I can still be free. I can choose compassion. I can choose to be present with whatever has been living there inside.

The dream last night is beyond a smallness that needs to make sense. My sweet little dog  taught me by example how to see with eyes that are light and open as the shimmering sky. 

I will not shun that lonely one in the dark woodland any more. And I will not forget the clarity and vibrancy of wonder either. I live between the two. Seeing them.

There, in the field is a gentle companion that loves you without prejudice or even history. She sees you as if for the first time. She is beyond making sense of all that has passed or figuring all that will come. There is a companion with eyes that see you and know you. Where does that one live in you?


Copyright of words (except quotation) and image Richard Sievers, January 2012

* Excerpt from David Whyte's book: River Flow, New and Selected Poems, published in 2007. p. 348