YES

 When I am open,

there are consequences.

~~~~

Is it worth the pain

to know the joy?

Yes

Is it worth the feedback

from the fearful

to be fully myself?

Yes

Is it worth the work

of planting these words

within my hungry spirit,

hoping for a harvest

of connection and beauty?

Yes

Is the health of my soul

worth the effort

of being free?

Yes. Yes Yes

Rick

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

Copyright Richard Sievers July, 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,
Rick

Copyright Richard Sievers, June 2012

Hounds

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.

Rick

(c) Copyright Richard Sievers, June 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

chorus.

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.

Blood,

what is holy to God.

Blood,

the manna from my mother.

Blood,

the transmission of my father.

~~~
Peace to you today.
Rick

(c) Rick Sievers, May 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? 

Me!

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.

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

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?

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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

A Hundred Winged Praises

 In the Meditation Hut 

Under a Skylight Filled With Starlings.

Waves of starlings
land on the shingled roof.
I sit and present
myself for meditation.
But I cannot keep
from looking up.

The flock lifts
off of the gable.
The birds are
a great roaring engine
of air and will.

The rumbling
wheel of flight
spins through
the morning mist,
only to land
on the peak
again and again.

Is it joy
the starlings know?
Or is it just
what they were
born to do...
circling within
hidden labyrinths,
a shudder of wind
upon God's spine.

I bow to the altar.
My heart flutters,
and opens wide.
I breathe within
my Beloved's breath.
We rise in a hundred
winged praises
across the morning sky.

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(c) Copyright Rick Sievers, 12/2011 on text and images, All rights reserved.