Elements

Elements (c) Rick Sievers 2010

Last week a Google manager on Public Radio said that he has found that about 130 million distinct books have ever been written. All of these are made up of a small number of vowels, consonants and symbols. In our society only 26 letters have blossomed into tens of millions of books and billions of poems. Each one of these works is a literary universe in itself.

When I feel a lack of resources at hand, when I'm scared, I remember the miracle of words. Only 26 letters and 10 numbers make up anything I can write on this earthly plane. Zeros and Ones make up every pixel you now see flickering on this screen filled with news of the universe and songs from every mind connected on the web.

The elements of life are precious and mostly unrecognized miracles because they appear so ordinary. Yet the possibilities and unique combinations are infinite.

Is your bank account ebbing? Is your love tank drying up? There is still enough remaining to create from. One alphabet, one vision, one spark of hope can create a whole new universe... or even healing in your particular world.

I try to remember the basics of creation when I write from the heart, when my longing seems thwarted or when my world is crying for relief from suffering.

A few elements can join and make a miracle. You have a unique combination of building blocks that make up your essence... and your gift to life.

I remember today that who I am and what I do is adequate and miraculous in the ordinariness of everyday living. It's a privilege to play within the letters and songs that well up from the deep ocean of our world.

The act of creation,
not necessarily the outcome,
is what's important to me.

Creation is happening all around us,
even on this very screen.
We're made to be ourselves...
elemental and unique.

RS

(c) Richard Sievers, August 2010

Letters to Kali

Junior 10/2008 - 8/2010

Four days after putting the cat down:

Junior was an innocent and trusting soul, and very sweet. He was happy until last Thursday when he suddenly began great suffering physically. I had a choice of either allowing the suffering to continue, fruitless surgery or to euthanize him. I made am impossible decision. I held him as he died. I found myself aware of his simple presence still within me even after I cradled his little lifeless body and wept. I have thought about Kali, a goddess that strips away illusion, one who is fierce and ruthless with an intention of creating harmony and enlightenment.

Kali,

Why must destruction come with creation? I am speechless as a corpse, yet angry and demanding like a newborn child. The world is shoving at the light of love with pitchforks and sickles. Must I love the destroyers as much as the creators? Why does life take such a push and tug to make anything beautiful? I sit and write to you from the Zen garden we created as a peaceful retreat. The moles tear up the yard beneath your statue in our sanctuary.

Can’t there be place that is a refuge? You answer “Yes, but it is not a place.” You push back my hair gently before you sever my head. Why must you kill to enlighten?

~~

Kali,

I have become death for my little friend who was suffering. Now I suffer remembering my kitty's cry and plaintiff shudders. He knew death was coming at the end. Our prized golden cat knew no real danger during the life he shared with us. He knew no fear until the final moments of a life I tended… then ended. The vision of the needle became my recompense. I became you, Kali.

Now you hover beside me and ask: “What else must die little one?” Must I give up everything I bought so dearly to save my flowing life from becoming the sea? A shudder surges in and out of my flesh. I am the one who has hardly known anything But fear.

A ruthless truth wells up from deep within me: I must become a truer aspect of myself now or my soul will shrivel and die.

Inside I hold Junior and cry, remembering the happiness of love even in the severance.

RS

(c) Rick Sievers, 8-2010

Why I Write

I watch the cat out by the edge of the wild field of poppies. She sits and waits and watches with her whole body. Usually she'll catch a vole, or if she's lucky a mole. When she scents the prey she stiffens and quivers and leans into her hunt. Her ears taught, body firm, she has one hundred percent attention upon her quarry. To some this attention might be akin to love.

If a poet does not seduce a poem, s/he lives lonely.

I wait at the window's edge. I see the cat and her work and my own death scampering about in the tall grasses.

For a moment a breeze ruffles the green sea prairie. And I am floating upon this very page, crossing to an island full of voices in caves and eternal twilight forests. Then the moment passes. The winds fall back to calm earth. A still small whisper says: "Good. That is a beginning. Now wait. Soon enough, I'll be in your arms."

I write now because it's all I really can do as work that's worth much to me. I've prepared my whole life to create poems and colors for my field of earth. Everything I love has revolved around the blank page... solitude, Spirit, surprise that life ends and begins again, beauty everywhere.

I notice these things with my whole being.

I'm ready to begin falling into this page. I put the pen upon the paper. I wait, and then hear a rustle in the grasses. My whole body becomes alert.

RS

(c) Rick Sievers, August 2010.

Milestones

Field of Sky (c) Rick Sievers, 2009

In yoga last night we contemplated the mid line of our body. A key to health is the act of coming back to the center of gravity and back to the fulcrum of movements. Everything, muscle and gristle, blood and bone, moves back to the center of the body as a pause between movements. I suppose this is true for endeavors of the spirit and psyche too. There is a thin red line from the ultimate dimension that runs through our lives, bodies and spirit.

Yesterday, I sent my first published book of poems off to the publisher for review and a proof copy. I wrote my first humble book. And another is on the way. But before I start another process of doing and spiraling in the creative process I pause. I come back to the mid line of my breath and vision.

This morning I sit with the cat purring. I do the work of observing the trees flocked in mist. I see the garden bent with dew. The sun is polishing the granite of sky, turning it soon into pure lapis and shining gold. I am a cloudy day full of words and colors. Soon I will be a poem. Soon I will shine.

This morning is a reset for my creative life.
I rest my back upon the milestone of my yearnings.

After you put in the fire of effort where do you return to?
Is there a sustainable cycle of burn and rain, growth and production, fallow time and reflection in your life?

R

PS The book is called Earth, My Body. I'll let you know when it is ready for the public.

A Year to Live

Me, before the towers fell.

I've been rereading a book by Steven Levine: A Year to Live: How to Live This Year as If It Were Your Last. He quotes his friend who said that: "Survival is overrated." That was a shocking quote when I first read it. Then it made me laugh at the fussing I create over the details of daily survival.

What would life look like if it was not centered around fear and survival?
What destiny do you want to commit to in this embodied life?

Clinging to control and smallness is a way of living that is not serving compassion in this world. Mr. Levine suggests that there are important aspects of becoming aware in this process of living and ultimately dying. One is a non judgmental review and healing of one's psychological and spiritual past. The other is being present in the here and now. For me that comes through simply noticing what is.

Right now I feel more life energy leaving me than is generated within me. That leads back to the question: What would you do if this year were your last? What would I do? For one thing I'd be here talking with you. I'd also write and paint the story that only I can tell. And I'd make changes in how I view myself and my destiny.

How's your life, right now? Is there something important or seemingly small that you've put off for someday soon? What are the consequences and insights gained from the putting off? What would your life look like if you said "Yes!" to something that calls to you from a deep and loving place?

This is a photo of my brother, so happy, on the eve before his death.

I love you Robbie.
I miss you my sweetheart brother... beloved.
How do you feel about my life?
What can you tell me about living from your place of wisdom?

Dear reader, what are your ancestors saying about living life more fully? What would happen if you named and expressed the song in your heart?

R


(c) Rick Sievers, July 2010

Garden Prayer

Garden Prayer

Walk with me Beloved.

Make this garden like the first.

Let me hold your hand and kiss your face.

Let the animals lay beside us as we ponder rain drops.

Let us share the sweet fruits of the happily laden tree.

Let us laugh with a joyous joke that only we understand.

Be with me in the garden Beloved.

Let us be lovers unashamed.

Let me wipe your tears away.

Let me name the deer you have raised in the woodland.

Let me sow in the same clay from which you made me.

Let us worship love as we look into each other's eyes.

Walk with me in the sunlit garden…

this innocence like the first.

(c) Rick Sievers, July 2010

Summer Snow

I've been in a creative funk this past month. I show up to my desk nearly every day only to stare out the window. Finally I breathe in and remember that the Great Creator is my source. Then I accept that my soul is working on other things that are deeper than the jumble of scribbles left on the page. I wrote a poem about the process:

Here I am again,

staring out the window,

sitting at this tattered desk.

The coffee cup is empty.

A soft cloud is hovering over the field.

Mist is mourning the sun.

The day is spread out before me.

I have a calling to create something beautiful.

Yet here I am, waiting, again,

creating only a jumble of thoughts,

catching empty space after

the memories and schemes have fled skyward.

Mist rises eventually.

The sun is coming, someday,

out there, in here.

The blazing sun will burn into Autumn.

Then comes the end of thought.

Then comes winter.

How can I make beauty

from the shrugging silence?

I have become the ghost writer,

the one who sits here behind the glass,

day after day wanting to be seen.

It feels like it’s only me

seeing the world rise and fall,

day after day, season after season.

I’m still here.

All the good people are working out there,

making contact with impermanence

and thinking that their solid lives are real.

Me, here, an idiot watching the mist

rise and fall in the middle of July,

feeling winter drifting all around me.

It’s the same pattern here

as in the whole of my life:

Be the a nature boy who dreams a world

back into orbit while the busy people rush by

so importantly on their errands,

while I am lost in the silence

of a rare summer mist shimmering

with the beautiful impossibilities of snow.

(c) Rick Sievers, July 2010