Watery Vision

I hold a song in my hand and touch new birth.

Watery though my vision may be, it is true.

Flowing. Flowing. Flowing...

Light rising through me.

Watery though my vision may be, it is true.

Grounded in love,

Light rising through me,

I create. Lead. Inspire.

Grounded in love,

Flowing. Flowing. Flowing...

I create. Lead. Inspire...

As I hold a song in my hand and touch new birth.

© Kayce Stevens Hughlett, March 2012

Collage and words inspired while leading Exploring Archetypal Energies through the Expressive Arts on the Hood Canal, March 2012.

Mary Oliver's Inspiration

“Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

What a task

to ask

of anything, or anyone...”

Mary Oliver excerpt from Snow Geese

It was an iconic moment that didn’t register on any paparazzi’s meter. But, I was there to record it in my memory. Less than five feet from where I sat poised to hear an inspirational talk, my curiosity and awe were tuned to high gear as I witnessed my two favorite poets in the entire world—Mary Oliver and David Whyte—meet for the first time. Surreal and amazing I watched the creator of Why I Wake Early nod and clasp hands with the author of What to Remember When Waking. It was a dreamlike moment and I invited myself to pause and consider if indeed I might still be sleeping.

Mary Oliver arrived as keynote guest for Seattle University’s Search for Meaning book festival. The jam-packed audience had high expectations for her appearance... certain that she would entertain and enlighten us with her sage wisdom and poetic words. She would inspire. We would connect. Oh, I pause and shake my head when I read those words of “expectation.” They are always a set up for disappointment. We put our heroes on a mountaintop and then dare them to reach the trembling heights. It is a daunting task.

Several weeks earlier, I spent an entire day mesmerized by the charisma and talent of David Whyte and for some comical reason I expected the same level of engagement from Mary Oliver. How audacious of me to make such a comparison! While she is a Pulitzer prize winner and world-renowned author, she is nonetheless a private woman who prefers spending hours in the woods scratching notes out with a pencil over sitting at her typewriter composing or reading to a room full of adoring fans. David Whyte thrives on sharing with corporate environments and regaling his audiences with hair-raising tales and adventures with the late John O’Donohue. He recites poetry (his and others) from memory in multiple languages with ne’er a note nearby.

Ms. Oliver offers deadpan humor and acquires a twinkle in her voice when she speaks of her departed and beloved dog, Percy. She is humble and mumbles to herself while shuffling through misnumbered pages to read her poetry rather than recite it. Her poems are wondrous and she delivered them to us one after another without pause. I found myself wanting more... perhaps a result of left-over comparisons to Whyte who offers the gift of verse repetition which allows his words to sink in and meld deeply into our bones. Mary unceremoniously tossed them into the air and swiftly moved onto the next as if the previous was of slight significance. She left us hanging and desiring more.

What did I expect or want? I wanted to be immersed in her words and presence. She offered the words and in the literal sense she was present. Was it my own demanding thoughts that left me wanting more? The practice of Buddhism invites us to consider whether our motives are pure as we encounter others and also to want what we get. As I ponder that day’s encounter and my potential disappointment that my hero didn’t quite reach my mountaintop as she shuffled from poem to poem, I realize my motive in observing her wasn’t pure. It was for me and my entertainment. In this way of being, I threatened to miss what was lovely. And as I consider the second premise—to want what we get—I find myself applauding for the humbly, mumbly award-winning woman. Did she inspire? Absolutely! Was it entertaining? No doubt! Her way was just not the way I expected. She delivered something even better—a lasting impression that gave me volumes to ponder... much like her poetry. Who could ask for anything more? Well done, Ms. O and Thank You for being you! You inspire us each to do the same.

sunrise on Mt. Sinai © KSH 2010

Twas the Month before Publishing or...

... all I want for Christmas is my brand new book.

Twas the month before publishing and all through my head
visions of marketing filled me with dread.
The edits were flowing and input with care,
in hopes that my Pondering soon would be here.

The entries were nestled all snug in their months,
while thoughts of last details induced great goose bumps.
With pre-release launched and orders begun,
my brain marched steadily at a low-grade run.

When others exclaimed, “You’ve finished the book!”
My heart skipped a beat and I froze with a look...
It’s nearing the end, but details, my dear—
There’s much to be done before it is here.

With layouts and chapters, so lovely and thick,
I wavered a moment—this must be a trick.
More rapid than turtles, this dream true has come,
And I whistled, and shouted, “I can’t wait to be done!”

Now January, February, March through September,
Onward October, November and December!
To the top of the print line! To the edge of my risk!
Write away! Sell away! Celebrate this!!!


With love and blessings to you and yours during this holiday season!!!

My Advent Prayer

Allow me to see the face of this day
Let me enter into each space with intention
Crossing the Holy thresholds
Touching the Ancient stones

Let me enter into each space with intention
Do not allow me to cloud my own vision
Touching the Ancient stones
I will be the face of this day

Do not allow me to cloud my own vision
Crossing the Holy thresholds
I will be the face of this day
Allow me to see the precious face of this day

© Kayce Stevens Hughlett

Blessed are you...

Blessed are you, O Lord, the God of our fathers,
praiseworthy and exalted above all forever;
And blessed is your holy and glorious name,
praiseworthy and exalted above all for all ages.
Blessed are you in the temple of your holy glory,
praiseworthy and exalted above all forever.
Blessed are you on the throne of your kingdom,
praiseworthy and exalted above all forever.
Blessed are you who look into the depths
from your throne upon the cherubim;
praiseworthy and exalted above all forever.
Blessed are you in the firmament of heaven,
praiseworthy and glorious forever.

-Daniel 3:52-56

This is the passage that greeted me this morning in preparation for my morning Lenten worship. Below are the words that spilled out as I closed my eyes and considered what is moving in me this season in regard to this God of blessed be.

Blessed are you who meets me where I am,
in the quiet moments and hectic days.
Blessed are you who comes like a whisper in my breath
and spreads images of majesty before me.
Blessed are you who comes incarnate through the smile
of another, the touch of a hand or a kind word.
Blessed are you who shines in the light of the candle
and sings through the song of the sparrow.
Blessed are you who meets me where I am -
wretched, unholy, empty & longing to be filled.
Blessed are you who greets me with a belly full
of laughter under a starlit sky.
Blessed are you who remains faithful through
my questions and storms.
Blessed are you who stands as sentinel in the night
throughout my slumbering dreams or restless tossing.
Blessed are you I could name for an eternity
and never be complete.
Blessed are you who simply says, I AM,
and this is enough.
Amen. Amen. Amen.

Maui road © h3images.com- used with permission

a few new beatitudes...

blessed is the broken self,
for she shall find rest.

blessed is the one who rests,
for she will find self-love.

blessed are the ones who seek God,
for they will be held & upheld.

art & words inspired
during 3/11/10
soul care supervision group

What station are you tuned to?

“Prayer is actually setting out a tuning fork. All you can really do in the spiritual life is get tuned to receive the always-present message. Once you are tuned, you will receive, and it has nothing to do with worthiness or the group you belong to, but only inner resonance and a capacity for mutuality. The Sender is absolutely and always present and broadcasting; the only change is with the receiver station.” -- Richard Rohr

In my Celtic spirituality class this week, our assignment was to write a prayer in the way of the Celtic Christians and compose it out of the stuff of our own life. I knew the assignment was coming up, I didn’t feel particularly anxious about it, but when the time came to actually write, I froze. All I could think of were the examples we had been reading over the last two weeks. Vast experiences of the Trinitarian God in rhyme and rhythm; poetic use of meter and repetition. My mind went blank. My tuning fork shut down and my head filled with the pressure of performance.

Taking a few deep breaths (one of my favorite forms of self-care), I hit my reset button and began to simply journal. I drew myself back into the present – into the “stuff of my life” and Voila! there was the Sender – broadcasting loud and clear.

While the end result still feels a little clunky to me – not much rhyme or meter – I realize it is indeed a prayer of my own with hints of the Celtic Christians. It is also a wonderful reminder (as my days continue to rise and swell and dip and sink like the vast ocean) that the present moment is all I really have. If I can find myself there, I have hope to ride the crest of the wave and emerge outside the trough. Sensing the resonance and knowing there is One who rides the waves with me, lets me know I am tuned to a sustainable frequency.

Arising Presence

Breaking through the dreams of night,
slowly I awaken.
Rain falls softly on the lawn and
in my heart I hear the call,
Listen. Listen. Listen.

I stretch and feel my sinewy limbs
gently come alive.
Golden softness brushes my palm,
The breath of God caresses my face.
Listen. Listen. Listen.

Spirit prompts and says, Arise.
Come greet the day that lies before.
Listen. Listen. Listen.

Holy friend, you walk beside.
My feet caressed in lamb’s soft wool,
we step 'cross solid ground of oak.
I feel your touch and once again hear,
Listen. Listen. Listen.

Father God, Creator Soul you meet me
through breath & touch & sound.
Rain falling. Breath purring.
Wool caressing. Ground holding.
Speaking to the dreams of day,
Listen. Listen. Listen.

© Kayce S. Hughlett 2010

Gift

Pinned.
I can’t move.
His purr vibrates against my chest.
The rise and fall of breath beneath my palm.
Soft golden fur caresses my fingertips.
Warm breath, steamy on my wrist.

We rise and fall together.
Breathing.
Only this moment exists.
His wisdom says,
“This is enough.”

He shows me what it’s like
To push your way into love & care.
“This is what I need right now.
This is what you need, too,"
I hear the gentle murmur.

No need to rush
Or hurry
Or read
Or think
Just…

Feel the rise and fall
The beating of our hearts
The rhythm of two connected as one
In the gentle breaking dawn

My gift for the day.
Take it with you and
Hold this place of rest
Calm
Stillness
God.

Learn from the wisdom of
This one
Who knows only now
Who knows the embrace of
The one who loves

Lady Wisdom

Ancient wisdom greets me with bright eyes and wrinkled skin.
She comes with grayed hair, radiating golden light
like sunflowers on a bright summer day.
Wisdom comes in the platinum locks of a precious child,
In the single tear of a caged young man.
She sits on my heart until I feel her weight;
Until it sprouts wings and takes flight, leaving me lighter than air.

Wisdom has roots that reach deep into the ground,
wrapping around the stones of my heart.
She is blue sky and flowing water –
streams mingling with tears of sorrow and joy –
pouring into an ocean of emotion
where one drop cannot be distinguished from another.

She greets me with her kind eyes – her warm heart.
She holds me with her gaze and promises she will never leave.
I’m always here, she says.
I am in the bloom of a single white blossom shared by a friend;
In the candle flames throwing light into the darkness;
The song carried in the air sings my tune.
I feel her within the chill of my bare toes;
the warmth and taste of coffee through my lips;
The brilliant pink and gold splashed across a raw canvas.

Wisdom greets me everywhere I be.
The ticking of a clock; the whisper of the breeze; the sounds of silence.
She is there when I open my eyes; focus with my ears;
touch with my hand; inhale through my nose;
know in my heart.
My soul cries out for her and she meets me – unfailingly.
Always there. Always present.
Wisdom greets me with hair of gray and crown of golden sunflowers.
Child. Maiden. Mother. Crone. Lady that she is.

I Reach and...

“I stretch out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land.”
--Psalm 143:6

Rolling waves of parched land spread out before me.
Dry. Thirsty. Barren.
My soul connects.
Spirit is present in the midst of my own desert.
Thirst and longing.
I stretch my hand.
I lift my eyes.
I feel your presence.

I see it through the window of a plane.
The photo of a tree.
The creating of a card.
The quiet of my heart.
I engage with the mystery.
Perhaps only I can name it.
Perhaps.
Still, I know I am connected.
Blue sky.
Clouds drifting over.
Those who have gone before?
Yes, I am connected,
even in my desolation.

I close my eyes and see the barren landscape.
It is magnificent in its beauty.
I hear your name in the sky and
see it written across the lands.
I am created in your image.
Earth. Fire. Water. Air.
All right there.
Beside me and around me.
The fullness of your majesty.
The fullness of my life.
I stretch out my hands for you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land.

I reach…
and you are there.

photo taken just before landing in Walla Walla 11.24.09

Stone in My Heart

On a quiet day in Glendolough, I curled up in an abandoned room filled with extra chairs, tables and a perfect crimson loveseat by the window. For the first time in the trip, I placed my i-pod earphones into my ears, set the music to shuffle and listened to the conversation that played out between the Universe, the still small voice, God and me.


Much of the poem here is made from lyrics that showed up “randomly” that day. I journaled as I listened, and the result turned into the conversation I call “Stone in My Heart.”

Abbey of the Arts gives us a great invitation this week to engage in poetry and gratitude. I am grateful for so much – including the stone in my heart. ☺ So, pop on over to the Abbey and share your version of gratitude. Here's mine:

She gets unruly with things she don’t wanna do.
Stuck believing her dreams will never come true.
So, Baby, how’d you sleep last night?
Stop hanging on. It’ll be alright.
Let go of the stone in your heart.

But I don’t understand the touch of your hand.
You might think it’s easy being me.
Just stand still and look pretty.
Don’t wanna hurt anymore.
Can’t let go of the stone in my heart.

In every moment there’s a reason to carry on.
Sweet love flowing almost every night,
I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight.
Life is more than memories.
Let go of the stone in your heart.

Sweet surrender’s all I have to give.
Stop hanging on. It’s time to let go.
Dance, Baby, dance – child, wild & free –
Unruly one, come dance with me.
Embracing the stone in your heart.

photos taken at NewGrange, Ireland 10.09 ©lucy

Sacred Sunday

Still. Numb. Quiet.
I absorb the light.
Shadow of hand upon paper,
Music of monks drifting through air,
greeting me from centuries past.
Am I alone, or surrounded by saints –
a cloud of witnesses to guide and protect?

Am I alone – or is every hurt of every generation
wrapped inside my body?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

The pen is heavy, but I cannot release it –
Running out of ink, I pause and pick up another –
Another sorrow? Another pen?
Trading – sorrows & shame.
Am I allowed? Are they welcomed?
Does the Cross exist?

Created in the image of Creator,
Can I write a new story – or
will it always be a continuation of the old?
There is no escaping –
the sorrows run deep,
but what of the joy?

Am I alone – or is the joy of every generation
wrapped inside my body?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

It is a massive excavation for the
spark lies deep within –
Covered with graves of sorrow and pain –
still the seed is there.
It is Eden before shame
before the covering layered on,
Layer upon heavy layer.

The mustard seed of hope is eternally there –
Waiting to take root.
Waiting for me, alone, to release it.
No one else can write this story –
Or live it –
Or tell it –
Or feel it.

Am I alone – or is every feeling of every generation
wrapped inside my body?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

glendolough celtic cross ©lucy
remembrance of soil ceremony ©lucy

Saturated

Like a sponge…

Soaking up the luscious green of Ireland
Feeling the presence of ancestors
Creating poetry with addicts and alcoholics
Holding space for compassionate listeners

Snuggling with my kitty
Listening to the thunderstorm of night
Stretching my weary body
Birthing the dreams of my soul

...I am saturated.

glendolough waterfall 10.09 © lucy

Invitation to Poetry

My senses overflowing - saturated, really - after almost two weeks in Ireland, followed by a retreat to honor the ancestors. I was grateful this morning for Christine's Invitation to Poetry. It is a welcome entry point to "step across the threshold" back into my blogging world. The invitation made easier since I have a poem already created from this past weekend. It came out of an intuitive process where we poets were asked to include a given word line by line in our poems. It never ceases to amaze me what pops out when I choose to get out of my own way.

Titled, Healing Women, this creation turned into a tribute to my mother and two grandmothers. Our history is not one where loving care is the first thing that always comes to mind. However, something shifted this weekend as I honored the women - the girls - they were. The pictured shrine came later in the weekend as more pieces fell into place. The young girl is my mother, Daisy Ernestine. The top photo, her mother, Myrtice; and my father, "the sailor", holds the arm of his mother, Anne.

Stepping over the threshold,
what story wants to be told?

Shafts of silver light illumine my world,
spreading bare the winter of my soul.

Anne, Myrtice, Daisy step into the dance
as we let go of the stone in our hearts.
Je t'aime, mes amis.

The breath of God has washed us clean &
Jubilation rings the bell
as we return Home together.

I hope you'll join in the fun and join this week's poetry party. To get you started, here are the 10 prompts used this weekend. Let me know when you create your own poem!

1. threshold
2. story
3. a color
4. winter
5. names of ancestor(s)
6. stone
7. a foreign phrase (perhaps from your country of origin)
8. breath
9. an emotion
10. home

Bon chance, mes amis!!

Sacred Sunday: Pondering Poetry

Thursday was National Poetry Day in the UK. Tess wrote a lovely post that has stayed with me most of today. Here was my response:

this is a very thought-provoking post for me. i do not remember lullaby’s ever being sung to me except in the recesses of my mind, so they must have come from somewhere. the poetry i remember from school was dissected and examined in such critical detail that i did not like it at all… and so, when i think of my favorite poets, the first ones that come to mind are the “ordinary” people. the ones i have witnessed create beauty from just a moment or two of solitude. i remember the first time i was prompted to write a poem since the painful time of elementary and middle-school rhyming agony. it was sitting in the midst of a group of women who i know now were anything but ordinary. when the words popped out of my mouth, they pulled a string on my heart and i was hooked. now i can visit the likes of oliver, neruda, levertov, rumi, hafiz, o’donohue, berry and others without dissecting them and looking for iambic pentameter and whatever. i can let the words wash over me like the songs they were created to be.

alas my poet’s heart was awakened by this post.

oh, and i am a sap for the love poems of elizabeth barrett browning.

How about you? Where and how (or does) poetry pull on the strings of your heart?

People Watching

The following poem evolved from a couple of things - Memory from a Zeta Sister and Invitation to Poetry: Moments from Abbey of the Arts.

Do they know who they will become?
Are they already there?

Pink crocs and purple cast, she floats
across the playground.
Will she be a nurse mending others or
the daredevil breaking bones?

Tiny son in his own blue crocs,
raises his voice to the sky.
Budding opera singer? Talk show host?
Perhaps a bellowing father.

Newborn babes & scampering tots,
mothers, fathers, aunties too.
Do they know who they will become?
Are they already there?

The merry-go-round spins
faster and faster.
Which moments of the blur will
stand in clarity?

Bell bottom jeans, peasant top
& flowing hair, she sits upon the campus wall.
Could she know who she would become?
Was she already there?

Perhaps it is middle age or psychotherapy that has me remembering moments of my past, but I continue to be fascinated by what I am learning about my life. Recent discoveries have led me to consider the "clues" to who I have become that were there all along the way.

The things I loved as a child (which I thought I had forgotten) are still the things I love today. My authentic tendencies (not necessarily those imposed upon me by others) have been with me from ages 5 to 15 to 50.

So, what do you think? Did you know who you would become? Were you already there? Can you see the clues that were there along the way?

photo from Paris, 2008

Sacred Sunday

Last Sunday I shared a poem about the six senses of God. Here is another one I uncovered in my archives. Wishing you a peace and sensory-filled day!!

More Than Enough

God smells like cinnamon. Baby's breath. Fresh baked bread. Warm cookies. Sewer Swamp. Compost. Earthen Clay.

God tastes like sweet mint. Red wine. Honey on scones. The lips of a lover. The skin of a baby.

God sounds like thunder. Silence. A bird's call. An infant's cry. My heart beating. Laughter & tears.

God feels like safety. Warm arms wrapped around me. Snug. Gentle. Distant. Knowing. Unknown. Filling every sense of my body.

God looks like the wind. The smile of a child. Weather-worn face. Toothless grin. Rock. Sand. Feather. Life. Death. New birth. Bloody war.

My sixth sense says, "Ahhhhh. Awe. Stop asking questions. Just be. Just be, my dear one."

photo by h3images ©

Summer's Sweet Slowness

Dressed in my glossy red coat
adorned with perfect black dots,
I tip a feeler into the warm summer air.
Ahhh.
The bark feels cool and
safe beneath my bare feet.
Perfect for a slow stroll
on a summer day.

Shall I stick close to home or
spread my wings and fly?
The world offers much to explore.
Hmmm.
Which outlook will I prefer today–
comfy barkside view or
daring aerial vista?
Summer sweetness beckons.


Image © and poetry prompt can be found at Abbey of the Arts. Check it out!!

Sacred Sunday

Today I am pulling one out of the archives - prompted by my pleasure of being associated with two amazing women, Christine Paintner and Betsey Beckman, who are working on their new book about the Awakening the Creative Spirit program. Their writing reminded of a poem I penned almost three years ago during that program. It seemed perfect for this Sacred Sunday.

Enjoy!

Six Senses of God

No old man in flowing robes and long white beard for me. My God looks like the wind, the rain, the sun & moon. He is creation all around--both seen and imagined.

Rainstorm beating on a tin roof & brook gently babbling through the forest. The laughter of children and screams of childbirth. Tinkling bells and booming gongs. These are the voices of Majesty.

God smells like spring after the first rain. Roses, old and fragrant. Wet dog and fresh baked bread. Homemade cookies & pie.

Taste the sweet nectar dripping from fresh berries. Complexities of a gourmet meal. Chinese food and take out pizza. Communion wine. God pours flavor into life.

Experience God with the touch of a newborn’s bottom, a soft kitten or the bark of a gnarled tree. The suede of a child’s head and the crepe of a woman’s weathered hand.

A presence that embodies pain and sorrow, joy and laughter. A tugging of the heart and a whisper in the ear. The flutter of stomach and the pounding of heart. Our God is the feast of eyes and the fullness of soul.

photo by lucy

Sun & Sixteen

One of the greatest gifts in life can be having a friend who knows you well. You wonder and ponder whether they were with you in another life or silently observing you throughout the years. You experience those moments when you say, "how did you know?", But then it doesn't really matter does it, because they have seen deeply into your being, and to know and be known needs no response at all.

The following poem was gifted to me this week from one of those wonderfully amazing friends. Were she and the poet laying on the grass beside me? I wonder...
Thank you, C.

The Sun Lover

The long afternoon after church

a girl lies on the lawn,

glazed thighs slightly parted,

fingers splayed like petals. At sixteen

she is a virgin. While her parents nap

in the quiet house, she knows

the sun is teaching her about love,

how it comes over your body

making every muscle go soft

in its pitiless gaze,

how it penetrates everything,

changing you into something dark

and radiant. She craves it,

knows it is everywhere like God’s love,

but difficult to find. She waits,

entirely still, trying to see her eyelids–

not lingering traces, but the lids themselves

luminous and red as the cheeks of the kid

who stuck a flashlight in his mouth at camp.

She squints so the tips of her lashes

flash like iridescent fish scales.

Every hour, she turns over but prefers

to face the sun. All her life

she’ll measure loves against this

gentle ravishing. She’ll spend afternoons

alone on crowded beaches, and at home

stand naked before mirrors, amazed

by the pale shape of her suit. She’ll touch

her cheekbones’ tingling pink, and nip

at her lover’s shoulders, as if

it were earth she were after.

-Julia Kasdorf

photo of me at 16