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Ignition

July 20, 2021

Ignition

By Amba Gale

“Pick up your pen and write,” she says,
  that wise and ancient Voice: the devoted Muse,
speaking to me in the grey morning, white
  ball of sun
  in the sky,
in the water, below.

Below,
where the surface conversation has long since disappeared,
I ask a private question: “Of what shall I write?”

“Anything you hear in the deep well of your own heart.”

“Write about the loon mourning the days away.
Write about the turtle who belongs
    in the pond among the lilies.
Write about a world of wonders.
Write about me, who will always encourage
        you to find me,
                to find your self
                through these beautiful
                    white pages in your lap,
                through the warmth and smell of the tea
                    you drink every morning
                    attending to it smoothing through your body
                through the grey soothing sea below
                    your window carrying the splashing sparks of the sun
                    dancing         dancing         dancing
                through your
                                          Love
                                                    Of
                                                            Life.
                May you meet yourself.
                There, may you be delightfully surprised by who you find.”

 

Additional Poetry

September 26, 2023

Surrender

Let go and love the way the world turns. Be with it. Allow it. Notice it. Even, embrace it. When you rail against it, you become part of the same energy that stopped the flow at the beginning. Be the holder of it. Know that it, too, has a destination to, finally, merge as one with all. Listen deeply to your heart inside and those things you know are anciently true. Trust in your essential wisdom to lead the way. The world is in flux. You will find your way. “All things must pass.” Let them go. May I be…

September 12, 2023

Presence

Dancing in the water, the bright orange sun winks at me through the branches of the pine. The ceiling falling is nothing, being present to such beauty.

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