I have spied that secret place from time to time, usually as through a glass darkly, but now and again with blazing clarity. One time it glowed from a red carnation, incandescent in a florist’s window. Once it shimmered in drifting pollen, once in a sky needled with ice. I have seen it wound in a scarf of dust around a whirling pony. I have seen it glinting from a pebble on the slate bed of a creek. I have slipped into the secret place while watching hawks, while staring down the throat of a lily, while brushing my wife’s hair. Metaphors are inexact. The experience is not a glimpsing of realms beyond, nor of becoming someone new, but of acknowledging, briefly and utterly, who I am…..Scott Russell Sanders

that space in between is where we really live…..where our hearts are reborn again and again…where we write love letters to the ancient soul……where secrets vanish into wings and stars and the beloved’s twinkling eyes…..

In my search to see reality in myself, I may come to the door of perception. But it will not open, truth will not be revealed, so long as I cling to what I know. I need to have empty hands to approach the unknown…..Jeanne De Salzmann

may our timelessness ooze into kite flying, surrendering to rain,

& sugar kissed dreams……

The bride says in the Book of Love, ‘I have crossed all the mountains, aye, even my own powers, and have reached the dark power of the Father. There heard I without sound, then saw I without light, there breathed I without motion: there did I taste what savoured not, there did I touch what touched not back. Then my heart was bottomless, my soul loveless, my mind formless and my nature natureless’……Meister Echhart

Pink Winter
these delicate paper dreams bring me home
to that sweet She-God stillness.
(wild places and holy skies and soft stones)
I was born with a shimmery heart.
(the gift of wild and enigmatic hope)
a million layers of nuance find me moonstruck in prayer.
(the wonderment of toes touching toes)
…but the bright dawn of snow calms
and warms the cold…
(a broken heart is an open heart)
this pink winter softens the edge of despair,
fine and warm like a pocket shell
and I remember to lift to the sky at dusk.
(these delicate paper dreams bring me home)

…..In Blue