seeing&unseen SOUL

I am but waiting for you, for an interval…

Thoughts on the “Decade of Loss”

We had the most unusual and the best of times here on Sunday, remembering Glenn… just a small (but mighty), intimate group… and Glenn. It was all so natural, so Glenn, so connected – funny, sad, ridiculous, sublime, filled with the love and laughter in the brand of Glenn. This poem puts it perfectly:

Death is nothing at all. 
It does not count. 
I have only slipped away into the next room. 
Nothing has happened. 

Everything remains exactly as it was. 
I am I, and you are you, 
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. 
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. 

Call me by the old familiar name. 
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. 
Put no difference into your tone. 
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. 

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. 
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. 
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. 

Life means all that it ever meant. 
It is the same as it ever was. 
There is absolute and unbroken continuity. 
What is this death but a negligible accident? 

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? 
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, 
somewhere very near, 
just round the corner. 

All is well. 
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. 
One brief moment and all will be as it was before. 
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Henry Scott-Holland…. Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/death-is-nothing-at-all-by-henry-scott-holland

We thank all friends who sent us loving, supportive wishes!


happy thanksgiving from Canada



some John O’Donohue Thoughts on the Soul:

THE HUMAN HEART IS NEVER COMPLETELY BORN:

Everything that happens to you has the potential to deepen you.

Once the soul awakens, the search begins and you can never go back; from then on, you are inflamed with a special longing that will never again let you linger in the lowlands of complacency and partial fulfilment.

There seems to be an uncanny appropriateness between the soul and the shape and physical presence of the body… a secret relationship between our physical being and the rhythm of our soul.

The body is the angel of the soul… it expresses and minds the soul; we should always pay loving attention to our bodies.


from Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey

… and from the shore
At distance not the third part of a mile
Was a blue chasm; a fracture in the vapour,
A deep and gloomy breathing-place, through which
Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, streams
Innumerable, roaring with one voice.
The universal spectacle throughout
Was shaped for admiration and delight,
Grand in itself alone, but in that breach
Through which the homeless voice of waters rose,
That dark deep thoroughfare, had Nature lodged.

The Soul,
the imagination of the whole.


the white hydrangea is the starburst giving
birth to a new galaxy –
light and design overriding
darkness on the Horsehead
Nebula, and looking, breathing closely
like
the brain
or
perhaps the soul


along the Sidney Harbour walk, Vancouver Island
I am a child of the Milky Way. The night is my mother. I am made of the dust of stars. Every atom in my body was forged in a star. When the universe exploded into being, already the bird longed for the wood and the fish for the pool. When the first galaxies fell into luminous clumps, already matter was struggling toward consciousness. The star clouds of Sagittarius are a burning bush. If there is a voice in Sagittarius, I’d be a fool not to listen. If God’s voice in the night is a scrawny cry, then I’ll prick up my ears. If night’s faint lights fail to knock me off my feet, then I’ll sit back on a dark hillside and wait and watch. A hint here and a trait there. Listening and watching. Waiting, always waiting, for the tingle in the spine. [Chet Raymo, The Soul of the Night: An Astronomical Pilgrimage]


f-light of the soul!


the truth of the rose

 the truth of the rose 
I gaze at your beauty and I’m numb
I cannot describe it… I stare and I notice
the innumerable folds, circles, softness, colours,
fragrance and am spellbound until
I am drawn again to the epicenter of your
gaze. “I am obsessed with completions” he
once said… the one I lost and must find.

And I know
this is vital – I play with
something fundamental, Platonic… I have always let
the truth of the rose prevail, while I flee from the invitation
she offers… “come with me, into my gaze” she smiles, “and I will
take you to the machine shop of truth, beauty, goodness,
where the great master of the universe demonstrates his
carpentry of souls, new and damaged, until they shine and fly to
their rightful place. And, all the while, the fathermother
from some nearby room sings the truth of the
universe and blesses, while the spirit, the holiest spirit
soars – goes and comes, comes and goes to the machine
shop, releasing souls to the brotherson’s carpentry for
repair and delivery to new homes.

“Oh, do come,” the beautytruth urges, “you do not have to
stay. Come for a vision. There have been few since John and
Hildegard. You’ll see so much you can’t put into your words (all
words are understood here). It will live wordless in your soul,
sustaining you.”

She sings songs hymns in praise of the absolutes of the universe –
O come and see your home of many mansions…
starsborn, infinity, black holes
eclipses, full moons, setting suns
meteors in verdant greens and fullblooded reds
sprinkling this milkyway
O come and kneel…
and fades away…

I step to that dark abyss, the centre, and
dive.

[from my book, orchids and neurons, molecular poetry]

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