Please see my new blog http://www.writes-of-passage.blogspot.com
and new women's writing group blog http://www.aweeksworthofwomen.blogspot.com
I head west
thru arches at the Mississippi,
leaving behind blue/green ocean waves
and sand.
The Rockies call me,
large and craggy,
evergreen encumbered,
as I trek through farmlands
to get there.
The vast expanses of land,
sometimes a full inch
between lines on a road map,
sing to my spirit
of places to grow
and spread my wings.
The east birthed me
and grew me up,
but the west speaks to my spirit ears
and bid me come
and put my roots
in dryer soil,
and hike mountains
deep in wildflowers,
and find peace
in her craggy depths.
2nd Place
Daisy E. Robinson Memorial Contest
Poetry Society of Colorado
6/07/08
I tremble on the lip
of understanding…
ever widening circles
open up around me…
I am left humble
at the vastness
of what I’ve asked for…
Dare I take the next step.
I’m clearing away the debris,
cutting some cedar bush limbs
that have grown beyond itself,
reminding it of its boundaries
as I remember mine
as neighbor, friend and mother.
I’m not in the wild anymore either.
And I’m not the tame mother anymore.
As I clip the branches,
full of leaf dust
and brashy offshoots,
I pull back into myself
and remember,
I’m new here,
new to this neighborhood,
to this person next door
at who’s south wall
I am working,
and new to myself
in the ways I want to express myself
from here on.
My center is always the same,
no matter that I come and go
and forget and remember.
That’s not the point.
The center remains,
I just have to remind myself
and find my way back
when I get too far away.
I step back and check the bush.
It’s much better with the cropping.
It’s needed tending,
and been neglected for at least ten years,
long enough for it to grow
out of bounds.
Mothering grows out of bounds
sometimes, too.
Wanting to caretake,
feed and help
anyone on the street
who looks like
they’re having difficulty.
My way is less formal .
I don’t usually give
to charity organizations.
I give to people on the street
when their sign asks for help.
What they do with it
is their business
I figure.
My desire to help
is changing its form.
I still notice those
who look unsure,
and I will venture
direction or a word
if it seems okay to me
to do so,
but my boundaries
are stronger
and I’m not looking
for opportunities these days.
I want to use that energy
for myself
and my own projects
unless I see a direct
need elsewhere in the moment.
Like the cedar bush,
I’m reigning in
the unbounded growth,
looking for more focus
and concentration of energy.
Some call it quality
over quantity.
The mother in me
will always inform my choices,
but no longer runs the show.
Courage in the Blood
There are times when one’s heart feels heavy
as if the weight of the world rested there
as if the sorrows and disappointments of self
and others, the longings and withholdings,
nestled in and settled down at the heart’s hearth.
At these times, one might make a cup of tea,
pull up a chair to the heart fire’s mantle
and, with courage in the blood and kindness
aloft, be willing to sort through and bless
all of it, and come to a place of peace.
Can I Be Less Than Generous
Can I be less than generous
with the people around me
when the Universe
has given me all this?
If someone is hungry
will I feed them
if I can?
If I help someone
who has helped me,
can I also help someone
who hasn’t helped me,
even someone who wouldn’t
help me,
even when I know,
if I need something
the Universe will not be able
to help me
through that person.
Can I be less than generous
with the people around me
when the Universe
has given me all this?
Would I dare look askance at
or even digress to demand
that which the Universe has given me
as my just due?
There are edges here of Truth.
I do deserve a good life
and everything I need
simply because I breathe.
It’s not my works
nor my thoughts and actions
that entitle me
to any of it.
My heart swells with gratitude
when I see
the Universe working
to give me the gifts
that go with this life,
as simple as it is.
It’s in the opening of myself
to what is needed for me
that I can receive…
and what chooses
to come through me
so that I am the conveyor
to someone else.
Thus gifts are given
freely.
And it’s not the entitlement
or just due,
more the grace of spirit’s caring
that walks with me
and bids me ask again…
Can I be less than generous
with the people around me
when the Universe
has given me all this?
Writes of Passage
Put pen to paper and see what happens
Join me in forming a four week writing group.
No experience necessary.
All types of writing are welcome:
Poetry, prose, memoir, screen play.
We will write each session using prompts or personal ideas.
The method is about receiving the reader’s words, not criticism. (This is not a critique group)
4 weeks $40.
sliding scale available
Boulder
Beginning May 16, 2007
Wed. evenings, 6:30-8:30 PM
Jyoti Wind is the author of ‘By Grace’s Edge: Poetry, Prose and Prayers’, publishes a quarterly newsletter, and is working on her
second book.
To register, please call her at 303.541-9106
The Subtle Dark
The trees wave to me
in the subtle breezes
of the darkness.
They know I come in peace.
I am as happy to see them
as they are to be received
by another being.
How rich this planet is
with her entwining green arms
everywhere!
I’m a student here
and nature is my mentor.
I don’t have to know anything.
I just have to be open
to miracles.
It’s just that simple.
The symphony of crickets
sounds loud and persistent
now that traffic sounds
have diminished.
Off in the distance
human voices interact
but the distance is lengthened
by the buffer
my green companions
provide for me.
They keep it simple.
Leafy branches shade
and enclose my humble space
and bring me into
an enclosure of
loving acceptance
and welcome.
A subtle breeze again
and the waving continues.
It is simple and profound
in the same turn.
How simple and profound
is my life.
The busyness distracts
and detracts
yet it continues.
There is profoundness
in simplicity.
Can I go there?
Can I simplify
the complicated
and make the innocent
profound.
Can I bring to bear
in my own way
the simple truths
and wisdoms
I innately know
yet look askance at
when it is more convenient
to do so.
Can I be honest with myself,
and I pause here wondering,
why I would not be,
and look myself
in the heart,
in the midst of simplicity,
and see there
a profound truth
of innocence
and maybe in that stillness
wave back at myself
like the tree
in the subtle dark
of this evening.
Always A Walker
I’ve been a walker since I let go of the coffee table and ran across the room. Yes, it was running after not ever crawling, but it was
walking just the same.
In my early years, my grandfather walked me through the Bronx to Our Lady of Mercy School every morning. Morris Ave. was a
neighborhood of apartment buildings and a few small private houses with yards tucked in between. As we approached Fordham Rd., I
walked past the dress shop on the corner, the infamous fish store that I held my breath going past on the return trip later in the day
when they had their doors open, and down past the deli and dry cleaners. The candy store just before the Grand Concourse had a
soda fountain, newspapers outside, cigarette shelves in the window that opened onto the street as well as sweets. Every weekday
morning I walked the streets of this borough for the eight years I went to Catholic school.
In the next years, I would walk down a long country road as a teenager fresh out of the city. At the end of this walk was Brush Landing,
a lagoon, 15’ deep in the middle and bulkheaded on the sides, off the bay. It was a summer hangout for all the kids who lived in the
area. Since I was not a strong swimmer, and for some odd reason would begin to laugh uncontrollably right in the middle of my swim
across the lagoon, I stayed on the sandy area near the creosoted railroad-tie bulkhead on the edge, most of those years.
Several years later, as my marriage began to slide into that pre-divorce-but-can’t-we-keep-trying phase, I sought solace from walks on
the beach’s edge, gathering shells, sea glass and some semblance of emotional clarity from the ocean herself. I walked the shoreline
for miles and came home and composed very sad, yet spiritual poetry.
I walked miles to visit my sons who then moved in with their dad. I also hitch-hiked up and down the island to work everyday, having a
housecleaning business to accommodate tourists and the city weekenders. It was an easier time of the world and walking and hitch-
hiking was still fairly safe in a beach community.
I returned to the Island a few years later with a young son in a back carrier, and we walked the streets and beaches daily. I wonder how
he felt perched atop my back, peering across my shoulder, looking out at the world from a fairly high-off-the-ground vantage point.
I hitch-hiked with him on the island and, at one point, over the causeway to the mainland. A woman with a child was an easy ride, and
cars, trucks and vans stopped to give us a lift to our destination. I began the walk into the woods where our tent was pitched among the
scrub pines, usually walking about a mile or so, sometimes at dusk, with him in the carrier, along sandy pathways, to the tune of the wild
dogs baying off in the distance.
Around that time in the winter months, I lived in North San Diego County. Each day the back carrier went on, and the walk down to the
shore and the People’s Coop to make sandwiches began. It was a good two miles downhill. The return walk, with food for the following
two days, and his 32#s made for an interesting end to each day.
As I write this, I’ve just walked home from work, across the mid-north side of Boulder. On my mind was this very son and his LSAT
course and his thinking of environmental law studies for next year.
It’s amazing how as I’m walking, memories come unbidden and I review these large walking segments of my life. I know to live in the
present and not dwell in the past, nor try to divine the future. And try to remember to see the green around me, the trees becoming
more bare, and the blue sky above me. Yet walking has always been a part of how I lived. I just have to look out of my eyes at times,
and remember my surroundings.
There have been different phases of life that I went walking with friends, students and clients. The walk became the telephone,
classroom and office replacement. My neighbor of thirteen years and I walked almost every day unless one of us were out of town. We
shared family stories and concerns and advice.
Where I’ve moved to now, there is a Greenway that stretches east and once past a few streets of offices and stores, opens up into
open space and a freer view of the sky and flat lands. It allows my mind, on a daily basis, to roam the edges of the canal and larger
thoughts as I walk.
Walking has been such a constant in my life. Even during city vacations, I will walk through neighborhoods, and find a small city park or
just hoof it to the main boulevard and walk to stores and museums.
One last memory surfaces as I remember walking my kids back and forth through nights of teething and fevers. I always thought that
this was how the Earth Mother had walked me when I was in pain and had no place to take it.
Now I walk for the sheer joy of it.
Do the small ducks,
skirting the frozen edges of the middle of the lake,
wonder about the larger life of the snow geese
as they fly overhead.
Do they construct in their minds
what it would be like if they had that wingspan,
that long a neck,
that clarion call of such volume.
Do they imagine different lives
as they raise up onto the ice’s crusty edge,
poking through the fragile melting ice,
one of the last vestiges of winter’s grip.
As the larger shadows cross their bodies
and the small pond that is presently their home,
do they even raise their eyes
to notice the possibilities.
I Did Not Know Joan
I did not know Joan
in the daily market,
shopping for food at Cid’s.
I did not know Joan
on the streets of Taos
or at the local tortilleria.
I did not know Joan
as she stretched herself
beyond her mind,
and I did not know Joan
as a mother of sons
and as gramma.
I knew Joan as a sparkling jewel
who had honed her breath
and polished her vision
to take and include
the great breath and breadth
of the Universe
as it usually is not known.
I knew Joan as a loving heart,
a generous spirit of brilliant magnitude
that accepted and loved everyone
as a part of herself
and herself as a part
of a larger being
some call God.
I knew that when Joan hugged me,
her heart, magnificent and large,
met mine and love poured
out of her for everyone.
Her dramatic flair for the truth
was only rivaled
by her effort to speak it.
I knew she had wrestled demons,
and she flexed those muscles daily
to keep her eyes open,
to be able to set her eyes
on truth in its many forms
and dared herself
not to fall asleep again.
I knew she had fought valiantly,
collected the true wisdoms
of many paths,
in which she immersed herself,
lest she forget
the truth of life
and why we live.
I loved Joan as a sister, an ally,
as someone who, in the briefest of times,
opened my heart to myself,
showed me how freedom appeared
as it lived in a human body,
and shared her love unstintingly
with her friends.
Jyoti Wind
Dressing Myself In Garments
Like the bride preparing for her bridegroom,
scenting her body
combing her hair
dressing in her finest of raiment
I ready myself for my next step
along the path.
I begin with my resistances
and like old rouge and lipstick
I slowly wipe away
the traces of the past
and what has kept me smitten with myself
in limitation.
I continue with old wounds
that justified my standing still
and not embracing
the unexpected wonders
that come with risk.
I dress myself in the garments
of the expectation of new possibilities
and leave room for new adventures
like lovers swirling the dance floor
in ever-widening circles.
Like the bride
preparing for her bridegroom,
I ready myself for my next step
along the path I have chosen
and trust my soul
to lead me well.
Shedding Old Skins
Sometimes small epiphanies
dawn in a moment of everyday business
and you see the practiced routines
that you’ve insinuated into your nervous system,
tape loops that circle
like buzzards waiting for the kill
only the ‘kill’ is you
and your growth.
Sometimes one needs to peel off
those old skins of habitual patterns,
pull the tape strands out
by the neck until dead and buried,
those ways of being
that served you in old days and times
and now you can clearly see
are not who you want to be.
Shedding old skins is intense
drawing up the bad blood and regrets,
resentments you’d rather not see,
yet, once seen, must be healed,
healed cell by cell,
DNA strands cleared to bring in more light,
and those skins laid to rest,
no longer yours.
Jyoti Wind
This Edge
Alone, but not lonely,
I toy with the cliff’s edge.
I’ve been taught to fly.
My dream memories
remind me.
I just don’t know
if my body will make it.
I’ve sat here
on this very edge
for several lifetimes now,
preparing for the moment
when, with courage at hand,
I step off the edge,
trusting my thoughts to be true.
I’ve remembered this edge
through lives of religion,
sitting with children,
and running the hunt,
while contemplating sphinx’
and bringing dolphins to land
and humans to see.
Hesitation of mind
pauses the breath
and feet stay put
while spirit yells ‘let go!’
Maybe this time
I will take the leap,
dreaming my flight to be true.
Jyoti Wind
Birds of Peace
Out of the wayward skies
upon the branches of a bare winter tree
alight the birds of peace.
God knows, we need them now.
We always thought there was only one
in the form of a dove,
white and soft and downy,
with the proverbial olive branch
held lightly in her beak.
How can a peace offering
be held lightly
when the world’s battlefields
are running with blood and gore.
It must be clutched to the heart
where all light and the ideals
of true human life reside
and can imbue that peace offering
with all the heart can call upon.
The tree rustles itself
among the settling of feathers and claws
as the birds of peace dig in.
They are here.
They are not leaving anytime soon.
They have been called out of the Universal Mind
by those whose souls have been
sickened by war
and have cried ‘enough’
loud enough
for them to hone in on and arrive.
These birds of peace
will continue to hold the space
until we,
as sleep-walking humans,
awake to our own evolutionary cues,
and remember that we alone
are responsible for what happens here.
That we alone
are the peace makers and the war mongers
and the choice is always ours.
The birds of peace
ruffle their feathers,
leaning into one another
as gales of human selfishness
bend the winter tree near in half.
They flutter wings of joy
when we glimpse the light
of true peace and accord
with our sisters and brothers.
They will remain
until and when
we make room for peace
in our own hearts
and refuse the invitation to war.
Jyoti Wind
The Roads We Choose
The choice is always ours
whether we choose the high road
or whether we choose the low road.
Each will take us to an experience
that will ultimately
teach us
change us
and move us into a deeper sense
of who we are.
Some places give us ease
and allow us to blossom
more gently
opening to life and its gifts.
Other places will drag us along
into the dark
into the difficulties
standing on edges, we find courage.
The road we choose
chooses us as well.
The likeness of vibration
leads us to our own well
from which, hopefully,
we will drink deeply.
Choose your path with forethought,
embark upon that road,
and difficult or easy,
may that road lead you
to your highest calling,
the deepest knowledge of self
and the true meaning of life.
It Isn’t My Job To Save You
It isn’t my job to save you.
I’ve tried that. It didn’t work.
Not only were you not saved,
you got angry.
It’s not my job to save you.
I can offer you advice
but only if you ask.
I can tell you what worked for me,
but only if you approach me.
I was in the saving business
for the first half of my life.
It was a very unhappy profession
with many downsides
and resentments that built and built.
I’m not a hero and don’t want to be.
I hung up my cape and sword
a long time ago.
I sold the refuge I built
for outsider souls
and began building my own house.
It isn’t my job to save you.
That’s up to you.
I’m busy saving myself
and realizing each day
there’s nothing to save myself from.
I’m already saved and so are you.
Thoughts at the End of 2005
I remember the Buddha’s curse: ‘May you be born into interesting times.’
I look around at the global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps. I hear the winds howl and the tornadoes passing the wind-
mark of 200 mph, hurricane 5’s.
I remember my grandparents talking about the storms of the century, and how we could expect a major weather condition every 100
years or so. We’re 20 years past that in Boulder for the 100 yr. flood. Some island volcanoes are more than that over the mark for
erupting.
When I see the deepening gray sky, thunderheads building over the horizon or the foothills, I wonder what kind of aftermath we might
have to deal with; such high winds that roofs are lost, tree limbs from heavy snows are downed and streets impassable.
I think about the biblical end times. My sister says she believes we are in the apocalypse and that 9-11 was the beginning. The
prophecies of Ruth Montgomery, Edgar Cayce and Nostradamus remind me that I’ve been thinking about earth changes and such
since the 70’s when I read their predictions. I see the door is wide open for people to leave if they want to…flood, famine, tornado,
earthquake, etc. provide the passage.
These are the ‘interesting times’ we’ve chosen to be born into. If we chose it, we must have the strength to deal with it.
How many other times have we, as a race of humanity, watched the lands rise out of the sea and others be enveloped under the
ocean. How many tsunamis, eclipses, and earthquakes have we endured when the masses of civilizations have perished, leaving
behind a scant few to repopulate. How many times did we leave erupting land masses to navigate the oceans and bring humanity to
different lands, all with the same message. How it evolved is proven by the different faces of gods, yet the underlying tenets speak of a
universal theme.
Will we migrate again to other lands, or higher altitudes. Will the lands that have been raised sink again deep below the waves. How
close are we to those greater earth changes as global warming is a name we give to the noticing of the changing weather patterns.
The native peoples of this land said they saw the changing of the seasons. Not Fall into Winter, but Summer becoming Winter, and
Winter becoming Summer.
These ‘interesting times’ beckon to us to drop our preconceived ideas of life-as-we-know-it and be open to totally new concepts of life
and visions of the future.
My Mother’s Hands
by Jyoti Wind
I’ve met several women in my life who had my mother’s hands. I could almost see them from across the room. There’s the tapering of
fingers that my cheek always longed for their touch, and a fineness of shape and skin color that, unremarkable in and of itself, was so
familiar to me. I can remember watching her hands move quickly along the tablecloths she taught me how to work on. Embroidery
hoops in place, threaded needle in hand, we would sit and sew for hours in the summer shade. Her hands crocheted doilies and
bureau scarves for our apartment in the city, and her bright red nails, matching her lipstick, would fly over the threads. I remember
holding those red nailed hands as I crossed the streets when I was very young. Sometimes those hands grabbed my upper arm when
she was angry, squeezing, trying to meet her fingers through my flesh, pouring her own angst into that touch. And yet I never knew how
much of a focus her hands held for me until I moved away.
I felt it was very curious, at first, that I would meet women who had her hands. It made me wonder what else of her psyche they carried
as well, and why I had drawn them as friends. I would watch the movement of their hands lifting a tea cup, while doing massage,
changing diapers, smoothing their own hair. For many years I was simply fascinated by these images, and upon meeting someone, my
gaze would drift to their hands in the first several moments.
Now, in later years, I haven’t noticed my mother’s hands coming to say hello as often. Once in a great while, I happen to see a flash of
similar movement, or a quality of texture and shape. I no longer miss her touch on my cheek, having healed that child’s desire for her
affection. I still see her bright red lipstick and smell the powder and rouge that she wore everyday in the recesses of my memory. And
some days I miss her.
Thirteen
At 13 I held my words in a quiver
alive, ready to fly aloft
yet knowing the time had not come for me.
I stood in my yellow dress
roses entwined in my hair.
I was at the edge of myself
readying to leap and fly
readying to sing my truth.
A storm blew in from the North
and streaked my face with rain
tore apart with icy fingers
the yellow threads of innocence.
The rose petals blew and gusted
like the blood of new born ideas
and scattered forever
the dreams that lived in my heart.
Many years later
over 4 cycles of that day
my quiver is full and
and the yellow dress is coming.
Roses like the bloods of midlife past
adorn my graying locks
and I am at the edge
of my authentic self.
A warm wind from the South
has stirred my passions
and with the 13 yr. old’s hand in mine
I ready to fly.
Heart to heart, arms entwined,
a lifetime of sadness and confusions reclaimed,
we prepare to play, to sing, to write
and let our arrows fly.
Ó Jyoti Wind
Planet Poetry
Neptune
Mists and fog
Swirl the mind
Blindfolded, one trusts
The shifting sands, underfoot.
Waves crash somewhere
Phantom voices call your name
Visions of Angelic presence
Guide you on.
Driven deeper into Truth
You blow the breath of soul
To release the illusions
And live what you know.
Carrying Truth as bowls of fruit
You meet and share the vision
Compassion carries you into
Pits and palaces
And, here, you redeem them all.
Pluto
Unbidden across time
The shadows deepen
As Pluto joins the dance.
The night lengthens
Dragon wings stir the air
And close the gate…tight.
The underworld beckons…
Unresolved fear, demons of the mind
Draws one close in darkness.
Fires spire, flickering one’s soul
To come forward
And release the old.
Coals burn underfoot
Voices crowd for power
And one merges with the flames.
A resurrected life emerges
Newborn into clarity, released
And heaven and earth beckon cle
Jyoti Wind
From the Grail to the Black Madonna: A Passage from Zurich to Rome, Jan. 2005
Arriving safely, albeit exhausted, in Zurich we drove to Berne, had brunch at the apartment and then walked around the city. It has one
of the longest covered walkways with stores in the world. As it was the day before New Year’s Eve, the place was crowded with
shoppers and tourists. We saw the Parliament buildings and the Bear Pit where bears were kept for display. Now through humane
animal care, there’s only the 3 oldest ones left. The others have been farmed out to different places.
I was struck by the conciseness of the place. No trash in the streets. Everything is recycled. It reminded me of the precision of a Swiss
clock’s workings. Mostly German and French spoken, some English. I was also curious about the rounded doorways and windows on
some buildings. They were old, and looked out of place with the more modern square efficiency of the Swiss/German mindset.
The weather was about 30 degrees and cold. Jet lag took it’s toll.
The next day we drove over the ridge to take the flight to Rome, and since it was icy, there was an 8 car accident down the road
several miles from where we were forced to stop and sit for 4 hours while it was cleared. Needless to say we missed out flight. Planning
to take the train instead the next day, we set off to drive to Arlesheim, a Grail Hermitage I had heard about as a sacred site in
Switzerland. We drove into the town and found the Arlesheim Cathedral.
Arlesheim Cathedral. Sat there in the Cathedral. Was told I could open myself to Christian thought again. That it was part of my spiritual
heritage, not the way it was being used now. Made me smile. I sat in the pew and meditated and absorbed the opening of the heart,
and free flowing energy.
Emerging from the Cathedral, still feeling that this was not the Grail place I was looking for, we stopped a young man and asked him if
he knew anything. He directed us to the north of town. As we arrived near the green fields, we inquired of a woman riding her bike. She
told us there was a place that was known as a power spot long before anyone took it over. I knew that was it. We parked and walked in.
Coming to a cave, and peering out the other side, we climbed stairs cut into the hillside, leading up.
Grail Hermitage. Walking through the cave entrance, up the steps cut into the rock, up the dirt paths to the original hermitage building.
Felt a dropping away of the heaviness of the heart. Climbed to the top, the castle under reconstruction. Walked to the lower lakes.
Ducks in the water and a great blue heron in the tree. Felt the peace and openness of the place. This was a place where the original
Grail had passed through. A Grail quest.
On New Year’s Day: Crossing the border into Italy on the train. Domodossola, the train glides smoothly to a stop here, the first upon
entering Italy from Switzerland. I feel the shift in energy immediately. My spirit is made room for here. There’s an ease, a patience even
though it’s just a line in the sand, or mountains and snow, the same as before. But somehow different.
This is my life. I’m no longer waiting for it. For this to end or that to begin. It’s all been my life, yet there’s a different phase beginning
here. A phase that includes me, even centers around me.
Passports are checked and entry assured. Across the platform, in the train heading north, a couple sits across the table from each
other. The conversation drifts back and forth. Her body leans in, then with smiles, relaxes back. They share food, some bread. She
reads in between their conversation. They are engaged, yet alone, each in their own thoughts. Water is shared as he passes the
bottle. I notice the leaning forward and relaxing back as the rhythm of relating.
What’s here for me in this return to Italy after 9 years.
The spirit of the Alps, the guardians, are stark and gargantuan. They welcome me. ‘Be at peace on your passage here.’
The train sways on its run. Old churches lean toward the tracks as we pass hamlets and villas. I imagine the colors cascading down the
mountainsides in spring, which now appear somewhat barren. Ice, slick and clean, coats the furrowed fields. Red tile roofs and crosses
begin to appear with more frequency, and I feel myself sinking into a sensual, body-felt experience.
A huge yellow painted stone church rises out of a hillside plateau, with Mary in her pale blue robe, smiling from the south side of the
building.
Vineyards appear quite soon. Balustrades, painted stucco in bright images, grillwork and shutters draw the eye. Islands of villas scatter
across an expansive lake while small covered boats travel back and forth. A mountainside quarry, marble gleaming amidst the
scaffolding, sits opposite. Palm trees suddenly appear and I realize how warm it must be in the summer, and the contrast they provide
to the snow capped peaks looming in the background.
The sudden darkness of tunnels intermingle with the bright noonday sun. It is a constant juxtaposition of images.
Roman columns, some twined with bougainvillea draws my gaze to the balconies of larger homes on the hillsides. The sun loses a
certain remoteness as the clothes solar drying on clotheslines, become more and more plentiful.
We arrive in Rome right after dark. Our refuge is a great apartment with family.
Walked across the Via Solaria, through the park and down to the Pantheon. Crowds of people, Sunday tourists and still the holiday
season here, throng the streets. Had lunch at a streetside café. Temperature about 50 degrees. Chilly in the shade. Walked for four
hours. By the end of the day had windburned cheeks, tired feet. Long day.
Parthenon: A tribute built by Cesar. And now inside, a chapel with altar and chairs. I found it disquieting.
Went shopping at a local supermarket this morning, then headed downtown on foot again. Arrived at the Tomb of the Unknown, the
Forum, several churches, and ate gelati.
San Carlino alle Quattro Fontane. Went inside. Found our way to the back, The old part was roped off and under reconstruction. Went
further to the lower spiral staircase down into the crypt. Several people buried there in the basement of what had been the old church.
A shell above the doorway to the old part. I remember the shell symbolism of the San Juan de Compostella road in Spain, being the
symbol of the pilgrim. Felt peaceful, but felt underneath was old wisdom, but too much covering it up.
Nomme de Maria Church. Near the Forum and the Tomb of the Unknown. Quiet and peaceful. Hushed. Housed a devotion to Mary.
Basilica di S. Maria degli Angeli. This Basilica I had been to nine years ago, down the street from the Hotel Artemide. Was amazed that I
found it. The church has a meridian in the floor, in gold, with astrological signs tiled into the floor. Above, a small slit in the church wall
near the ceiling allows the sun to shine on the floor, and follow the signs on the floor below, with each season. Conversation with Mary:
You are mine, no matter what face I wear. Be at peace.
St. Bonaventure Church at the Coliseum. Church at the top of the hill across from the Coliseum. Walled gardens and small chapel.
Dark but homey.
The days in Rome had a rhythm. Being with family in the morning and around noon walking across town, through a beautiful park, down
the hills, through side streets or shopping districts to the sites. The last full day we shopped for a belated Christmas present. One last
gelati, a family dinner, hugs and kisses and farewells before bed.
We left Rome at dawn the next day, boarding an Easy Jet to Geneva. Because of the air traffic in and out of Geneva on a weekend, we
sat onboard an extra half hour to ensure we didn’t arrive too early. We crossed the Alps and still arrived only 15 minutes late.
From the Geneva airport we drove to Montreux and Lake Geneva. Absolutely gorgeous. Bordered on three sides by mountains, the
view is breathtaking. A ferry boat had just docked and we watched passengers settle in for their tour of the Lake.
We walked along the water’s edge for a while, and then decided to visit the Chateau de Chillon.
Parking along the mountain wall, we crossed the highway, paid our 8 francs, and entered the medieval world of Lord Byron.
First we found the gallows overlooking the water through barred windows. The ceiling structures were incredible and reminded me of
the medieval architecture books I had poured through at the library six month previous, looking for backdrops for collage art projects.
My new camera was buzzing with use as I took many photos.. We walked through the courtyards, almost envisioning horses pulling up
and riders dismounting. The huge fireplaces in the kitchens stretched from ceiling to floor. Next came the halls where the lord and lady
entertained their guests. These were lined with suits of armor, weaponry and wonderfully shaped windows. These were raised off the
main floor and had carved seats on both sides. Curved and paneled, they looked directly into the lake and across its expanse to the
rising mountains on the other side. The blue sky filled the upper parts of the view and I could imagine sitting there with pen and paper,
crafting one of the many fantasy/fiction books I’ve read. With rapiers piercing the air as men practiced and women embroidered
tapestries near the window’s light, the smell of the pig roasting in the cavernous opening of the fireplace was almost real. Soon
someone would ride into the courtyard and the news he brought would move the story to its next phase.
I walked into the Hall of Scribes, knowing Lord Byron had written his works here, as well as inspiring the poet Shelley and Dumas in his
story of the Count of Monte Cristo. This very room and castle and the events that transpired here led to that legend. The tall ceilings,
huge windows and long tables brought to mind also the monks transcribing biblical paragraphs with calligraphy quills flying over
unrolled parchments. I lingered here, hoping as a writer, some of this energy would infuse me.
We walked through the rounds of apartments, bastions, keep and private chapel. The late afternoon sun beckoned with the call of the
road and we drove back to Berne, dinner and sleep.
A walk through the old part of Berne occupied the next warm afternoon. Temperatures had been about 50 degrees with no snow on the
ground. Felt good. We walked across the river and looked out across the city from a park bench. One of our group that day, friends of
our hostess, was a foreign national from Georgia, working with English speaking clients, now a resident of Berne for two years. We
talked about the States, her life here and especially what she found different.
The main topic was the safety in Switzerland, the feeling that no matter the time of day or night or location, one felt safe. Theft and
murder were very rare, and a woman felt safe to walk alone at any time.
Having been born in NYC I had had to download a lot of the self-protective fear and horror stories years before, when I moved to the
Jersey shore. There no one locked doors at night, nor car door anytime. I began to follow suit, and walked alone at night through the
deserted neighborhoods of summer tenants in the crisp winter air. Moving to Boulder years later, I was able to maintain that same level
of trust in my fellow man for a long time. But Boulder grew and so did crime. Those who didn’t have stole from those who did, even if
they were only one step up the economic ladder from them. I learned to protect, lock and not walk alone at night. So here, Berne was a
throwback to a much simpler time in my life, though much more crowded than the shore or Boulder had been.
The next day we drove to the bottom of the mountains and rode the large tram up to Gimmelwald and walked up the long
switchbacked/snow packed trail to Murren, up on the next ridge. Twice we went to the side of the trail to allow a sledder past, on his way
down to the village we had just left. Plodding through the snow pack, we walked for an hour or so, always up. Murren sits on the top of
the ridge, connected by tram to the next two ridges above it. At the very top is Schilthorn where the James Bond film, Her Majesty’s
Service was filmed. This is high in the Alps and is now a revolving restaurant.
We, however, settled for Murren and walked through the snow packed streets of restaurants, hotels, etc. Almost everything was closed
during the lunch hour and it felt pretty deserted until the skiers slid back into town.
Hiking back down the icy path, now covered with saw dust to prevent slipping, we descended back near the Mountain Hostel and the
tram. Five minutes later we were aboard and moving out over the edge of the mountain. With a stomach-rushing swoosh, we were over
the edge and began a steep descent to the cold, shadowed station below.
Today the plan is Freiburg. We walked through the old town, visited St. Nicholas Cathedral. It was a huge and imposing structure, and
very hushed inside. Whether a piece of the true cross is there as advertised or not, I was told to let go. Not carry any ‘sins’ as it were,
anymore with me. I could be free of all of it.
Down the cobblestone steps we trekked, down the steps built along side the cobble roads, twisting through the tiny streets where the
apartments were built into the hillsides. The original row houses, connected, rounded. Down and around and across the river, up and
over another bridge and arrived, after climbing back up the hill in a different part of town, at St. George’s Fountain. Sleek on
horseback, sword thrust though the dragon of sexual/metaphysical/corporeal attachment and extravagance, he rears up in the triumph
of courageous acts.
Noticing the small shops as we passed them, we were on the way to the Basilica de Notre Dame, also known as the Lady Church. Mary
statues and homages, flowers and lights, adorned the pictures and altars to the Divine Feminine. It was beautiful.
Next door was another church…the Place de Notre Dame. We entered the huge, heavy wooden doors latched with iron, and walked
through the church itself. Altars, statues of Mary and others in the Catholic hierarchy of saints and holi people.
As we were about to leave and I was looking for a pen as mine had just run out of ink, I walked to the far left of the lobby and to my
astonishment, came to a doorway. It was decorated with cherubs and larger angels emerging from the walls and a sign ‘Ave Maria’
above the small doorway. I entered this seemingly side altar and found myself in a tiny chapel. In front of me was an altar with iron bars
protecting her. For behind the bars resided the Black Madonna. She held the Christ child, both with ebony skin and gold and lace
raiment. Behind her glowed hammered gold as it became the back drop of her auric field. Sharp featured she was as I gazed up at her,
thrilled with my discovery.
It had not been possible for me to get to Einseideln, Switzerland on this trip. Housed there in a Benedictine Monastery was the Black
Madonna painting in the chapel. I suddenly felt like I had found her. My quest that had begun at Arlesheim with the Grail search had
brought me full circle to the Black Madonna…the embodied Grail as the Divine Feminine. I also realized that twenty years ago I had
begun a search for the Grail in my own personal way. A desire to open my heart and find the Divine Feminine in my own life, along with
the true manifestation of who I was as a woman. As the years and my path progressed, it brought me in touch with the Black Madonna
and the shadow side of life, the Christian faiths, the feminine aspect of humanity, and the unmet, disowned parts of myself. As I sat
there, gazing at her, I realized I had come full circle, that this trip represented an encapsulated view of these last twenty years of my
own life.
Place de Notre Dame. As I sat in the pew, gazing into her face, she said “You work with the shadow, as I represent it as well. You work
inside yourself and with others to help them see the part of the heart that sabotages and fears. Continue to do this. Clear the heart.
Help others to do the same. Once the heart is clear, you are done here. Once you can live in the day-to-day and keep the heart clean,
you do not have to come back. I am with you wherever you go, as you are with me.”
I left the chapel feeling my trip was over. Any social events that were left were just that. The spiritual, wider-view reason for the journey
had just completed itself. In gratitude, I returned to Berne.
The last night I was there, we watched a movie, My Life Without Me. A poignant film of life and death. When people think their death is
imminent, they have several things they’ve always wanted to do. And they just go and do them, without concern for the consequences,
or whatever had gotten in the way before.
I asked myself what it was I would like to just go and do. What is it I don’t want a death sentence to spur me into? What is one of my
heart’s desires that it is more than time for me to do now.?
Thoughts to fly away on the next day. Life is short. Do what makes you happy inside. Do what warms your heart.
