I want to be born again but I want to be born
exactly the self same way, with both feet
on ground I know, seeing a purple line of moor
edging my father’s Yorkshire; or standing there,
dumbstruck and dumbfounded on the edge
of my mother’s turf, looking out
from Thoor Anu, to the boiling surf of Aran.

I want to be born again, but I want to be born exactly
as I was, almost between things, as I was in this life,
and as I want to be in the next: Mary Teresa O’Sullivan,
nine months gone, carrying me back to England,
her pains sharp in Waterford, sharper in Dublin,
the hard rolling bench of the ferry almost my midwife.

I want to be born again so that I can hear
the familiar sounds again, but this time
know what I am hearing from the inside out,
that first beckoning roar of the sea,
then the firmness of footsteps on land,
and after, in that hidden, hill-bound house,
my mother’s singing voice, my sisters’ first words
and my fathers voice at the lighted door.

I want to be young and start it all again
but this time I want to deserve my youth,
to study generosity, to watch my mind
grow supple, to conjugate the verbs
that mark the body’s joyful round
and anticipate even heart break
by thinking of the love ahead.

I want to be born again,
in exactly the self same life,
aware this time from the inside out,
but to stand this time
as a beautiful un-worrying witness,
living beyond the need for this or that;
some memory always with me
of a ship making its way through lifting water,
the song of the wind, the song of my mother,
my father’s disbelieving, expectant face,
and the crowding, merciful voice of the sea at my birth.

~David Whyte

I searched for God and found only myself.
I searched for myself and found only God.

~ Sufi Proverb

I remember the night
Leaves fell all around
Waves of geese passed overhead
Just before sunset
Honking
Then the silence
Just before the coyote moon.
~Roderick MacIver