Storm of Possibility

It snowed twice already here in Minnesota. My first thought was of the garden. Last Saturday we went out and did more harvesting at 6 a.m. because the temperature was still dropping. Back inside seemed warmer after that work, and the light now showed new beauty. Ah, the season for poets. This morning, warm in bed and cuddling till demands of day, it started pouring through.

Storm of Possibility

We are blest
in this perfect convergence
of nuance at Winter's beginning
starts early this season of change —
a prod to creativity
in Light and Sound
the chill outside my bed.
Forces pull from floating in that peace
or vortex back to unconsciousness
more clear than morning light.

It's a hard choice
but spirits wait
some more patiently than others
for Masters live
in the hearts of dreamers
at that point between
events of relative knowing.

At this cusp of night
as morning calls to winter
a chill warms my place of true attempt.
I love an early snow.
It is a season for poets
to smooth complaints of cold
and crawling thoughts.
Quarantine the old
and clear the mind for Light.
A storm of possibility approaches.

.

On Becoming

The tests of survival in today’s state of economy, culture and employ seem ever more challenging than in the past. When I was young I used to think I was born in the wrong age and longed for a simpler, more basic existence of life closer to the earth. Then after I got married we bought a farm. Life did not ease up. Working a full time job, raising a family and living by the earth was more than my sanity could reconcile at times.

There were lots of new directions since then, but every one was a choice of intent with the goal of understanding better true meaning in life. And I have come to find that life on this planet never gets simpler without the realization that true life is one of a higher bearing.

Yesterday in a meeting at work, in discussion of managing our workload during a twice-yearly, pre-conference ramp-up, our manger said, “It is time to act in a more masterful way in all we do.” I see some ease from that level—a stepping back to a place of balance, peace, and being.


Still, we continue in our stride, perhaps more consciously.


A poem:

On Becoming


A song of soul predominates this being.

The fabric of past -- rich,

vibrant,

and worn.

Yet now –

so much to complete,

re-weave,

And in its review -- an overtone

as a summer wind

a forest awakening.

How many years? How many weeks?

In which hour

is the turning?

New pages of cloth,

bleached by the sun,

renewed in autumn’s blessing

and bound in a book of becoming.

The seasons of life try each soul

by the song of divine intent

I am becoming.

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