All the water below me came from above.

All the clouds living in the mountains

gave it to the rivers,

who gave it to the sea,

which was their dying.

And so I float on cloud become water,

central sea surrounded by white mountains,

the water salt, once fresh,

cloud fall and stream rush,

tree roots and tide bank

leading to the rivers’ mouths

and the mouths of the rivers sing into the sea,

the stories buried in the montains

give out into the sea

and the sea remembers

and sings back,

from the depths,

where nothing is forgotten.

~David Whyte

these dark times in the coming winter allow us to nurture any self-rooted misgivings…..align with what is emerging……smell the deep pine and root…….

It’s the Muse-Beloved- or the Anima or Animus, the Wanderer, the Magician, the Guide to Soul, by these or any other names or images- it’s this West facet of the Self, that most desires to descend to Soul- when, that is, the Ego is ready for the journey. But your Guide to Soul doesn’t merely carry your desire to descend; this facet of Self also possesses the knowledge and the skills to do so. Your Guide to Soul has an innate understanding of what the underworld is and how to maneuver in it, like a seasoned wilderness guide prepared for the constantly unexpected- indeed, one who lives for it- and has the instincts to adapt to almost anything that shows up. Your Guide to Soul comprehends what is being sought- the largest conversation you’re capable of having with the world- and how to track such a treasure in the wilderness of Soul. Your West Self will not be appalled or repelled should you stumble into one of your core wounds, or personal demons (disowned Shadow figures), or unacknowledged addictions, or inner critics. These are all welcome and honored guests in its world, grist for the mill of Soul encounter. In short, when you’re venturing down, the Dark Muse-Beoved is your most indispensable facet of the Self.  ~Bill Plotkin

where we live in our values

I glanced at her and took my glasses

off- they were still singing. They buzzed like a locust on the coffee table and then ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the

sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and

knew that nails up there took a new grip

on whatever they touched. “I am your own

way of looking at things,” she said. “When

you allow me to live with you, every

glance at the world around you will be

a sort of salvation.” And I took her hand.

~William Stafford