Light Psalm
1 In the winter of white owls hunting in daylight, drifting low over dried-up meadows, I dreamed I survived a flood that swallowed whole my island. For years I had lived in earshot of the ocean. Now my house behind the dunes was gone, and I was looking down on my peaked roof wondering if the end of the world had finally arrived. Was all my angst at last a prophecy I could let go? Were the others I saw floating in the water the ones I longed for? The ones who didn’t call me crazy when I said the end was nigh? I asked a wise friend what my dream meant. Was the apocalypse really going to happen on the outside? It could go either way, she said. If enough of us go through an internal apocalypse, if we lift the veil, we might avoid external catastrophe. But there are no guarantees… Listen to the river inside. I did, and was carried to a mountainside where I lost myself in a ceremony, coming back to my body without words to describe what happened because I had no memories, but the fear before I disappeared and the peace after I found myself returned to the circle, sitting up with my back against a wall as if I hadn’t been removed from time. Nobody knew that I’d gone, and here I was back again, a spirit in a body who could sing and tell stories. So I did. I walked out of the valley of the shadow of death and asked the words to find me. I accepted gravity. 2 For years I lived in a house behind dunes whose windows rattled when wind bore down from the n’oreast. I would lay myself down in deer beds pressed by the herd into dune grass until the shape of their shared sleep spiraled me into the herds', whose dream began and ended with thirst. We dreamed of water welling up through rock and roots, pouring forth through ferns and filigreed shadows, cool on our tongues when we bent to drink. I could have drowned in that dream, but I floated. Sometimes I spoke too much or too little, like most humans, and sometimes I met the words seeking me in the middle. Those times, the space between words gifted me back the beauty I made. My soul was restored. 3 When the flood comes for you, come find me by the still waters. We’ll speak our stories off the precipice, become eight-limbed spiders spinning silk from our own bodies that will carry us to safety in the canopy a thousand feet below. 4 If there is a salt meadow opening within you now as you read these words, perhaps you’re in my dream. And my dream is entwined tail to neck with the herd, who presses the dune grass down in spirals. Lay yourself down in that dream that smells of warm fur. Let the silk of it smooth your worries. We are born from a black hole. Words can only describe what exists in gravity. Set your faith in that and praise what you can like winter stars and white owls. Houses by the sea and greening meadows, and the gold-tipped dune grass ruffled by the southwest breeze that will become again the gale come winter. Praise the windows that rattle. Praise the flood. Praise the peaked roof of a house where you once lived when you thought the world would end next week. Maybe it will. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, said a poet long before our time. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Find me by the still waters.
Listen to an audio of the poem here:
Visit my website to explore collaborating with me in private or group mentorship.
Resources:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Psalm 23, The King James Bible
Kō aloha lā ea
Concentrate on love by way of the light
I thought the last line the most important in the poem. It brought me through the winding images of your journeys to your self (maybe Self) and felt an invitation to be beside you near the still waters. Praise for this very accessible poem, Jennifer.
As always, Jen, the water of your poetry slakes a thirst I did not know, or perhaps had forgotten, I had. Lovely work.