The world doesn’t need any more martyrs. We need teachers, healers, poets, writers, leaders and visionaries. People who have cultivated their own souls and now reach out to others with what they’ve learned. I’ve never learned to fish from a martyr. They gave up their meal so I could eat.
Showing posts with label life's calling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life's calling. Show all posts
Monday, September 6, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Ice Sculpture and Sculptor
Disclaimer: To those who know me, not to worry, no sharp objects were actually placed in my hands, nor did I run with the scissors.
One cannot say ‘done’ for that implies a sense of completion, task completed, book closed, “The End” written and fade to black. The week has been one of spring cleaning. A week of going through the notebooks of images and old journals of the heart and pulling out the pages now unreadable, scriches that go nowhere and those that time has covered the original meaning, emotion and intent. A few were tossed into the cyber world’s fabric, others were re-weaved and others were sent sailing, with full honor, upon their funeral pyre.
In truth, I have been ice sculpting. I have taken chisel in hand and begun to chip away at the block of ice wherein a voice is calling. I tap, tap, tap ever so gently, fearful that I will inadvertently strike a weakened area and crack the entire block. I trust my hands. I trust my heart. I trust the voice calling. I do not know if others have felt the cold of this block. As the point of the chisel strikes against the ice I pray forgiveness from those who may have felt its cold sharp exterior and could not see the sculpture contained. Perhaps I should have put up “Under Construction” signs to warn them. Nay, the construction is done, I have but to see. “Limited Visibility” would have been more appropriate.
The sculpture begins to take shape, though still incomplete. Like Venus, I think she has no arms. I smile, put the chisel down and hold the warm cup of coffee in my hand. I like that. My hands are always, always in my pockets when they are not working. But no, this is not about pockets. The armless ice sculpture reminds me that my reach, my hope, my love, my compassion extends beyond the reach of my short arms. I will learn to embrace like the horizon and the domed night sky.
I begin to shake and put the coffee cup down. But what of the impending spring and heat- what will happen to my ice sculpture? The chisel falls to the floor. I reach down to pick it up and feel the melted ice pooled on the floor. Cupping the sculpture’s life in my hands I whisper my promise, “I will give drink to the thirsty and cool the foreheads of those in pain.” Looking up I catch a wink from the block of ice. I know the wink. It is a wink that doubts my reserve, my will, my fortitude and my hope. Overly ambitious? Too ethereal? Perhaps, but you are but a block of ice and I am the sculptor. And I begin to chisel again.
One cannot say ‘done’ for that implies a sense of completion, task completed, book closed, “The End” written and fade to black. The week has been one of spring cleaning. A week of going through the notebooks of images and old journals of the heart and pulling out the pages now unreadable, scriches that go nowhere and those that time has covered the original meaning, emotion and intent. A few were tossed into the cyber world’s fabric, others were re-weaved and others were sent sailing, with full honor, upon their funeral pyre.
In truth, I have been ice sculpting. I have taken chisel in hand and begun to chip away at the block of ice wherein a voice is calling. I tap, tap, tap ever so gently, fearful that I will inadvertently strike a weakened area and crack the entire block. I trust my hands. I trust my heart. I trust the voice calling. I do not know if others have felt the cold of this block. As the point of the chisel strikes against the ice I pray forgiveness from those who may have felt its cold sharp exterior and could not see the sculpture contained. Perhaps I should have put up “Under Construction” signs to warn them. Nay, the construction is done, I have but to see. “Limited Visibility” would have been more appropriate.
The sculpture begins to take shape, though still incomplete. Like Venus, I think she has no arms. I smile, put the chisel down and hold the warm cup of coffee in my hand. I like that. My hands are always, always in my pockets when they are not working. But no, this is not about pockets. The armless ice sculpture reminds me that my reach, my hope, my love, my compassion extends beyond the reach of my short arms. I will learn to embrace like the horizon and the domed night sky.
I begin to shake and put the coffee cup down. But what of the impending spring and heat- what will happen to my ice sculpture? The chisel falls to the floor. I reach down to pick it up and feel the melted ice pooled on the floor. Cupping the sculpture’s life in my hands I whisper my promise, “I will give drink to the thirsty and cool the foreheads of those in pain.” Looking up I catch a wink from the block of ice. I know the wink. It is a wink that doubts my reserve, my will, my fortitude and my hope. Overly ambitious? Too ethereal? Perhaps, but you are but a block of ice and I am the sculptor. And I begin to chisel again.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Your Arrival Gate is....
I do not typically leave two posts in one day, but writing that speaks and provokes the heart sometimes requires the scrich of pen to paper. This is inspired by Calming Reflections. (you can click the link to read the heart speak) Thank you Bernadine for your soul and your journey.
“How will I know when I get there?”
“Will you still be looking?”
“I’ll always be looking.”
“Then are you going somewhere?”
“I do not understand.”
“If you’ll always be looking, what is there to find?”
“I believe there is always more and other doors to go through.”
“Why would you go through a door?”
“To see what is on the other side. Is this like the chicken?”
“If there is something on the other side, perhaps a chicken, does that mean you’ve found IT?”
“I suppose. But what then? Do I just stop there?”
“Were you looking for the chicken?”
“No. I did not know the chicken was on the other side of the door.”
“Then you found something but not what you expected.”
“Agreed, but I’m getting so confused. How will I know when I get there? Forget the chicken.”
“You found something you didn’t expect.”
“Yes.”
"You say you will always be looking.”
"Yes.”
"Do you appreciate what you find?"
"Yes."
“And you keep expecting?”
“Yes.”
“Then, my little one, you have arrived.”
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