Midwives of the Soul

From the moment we take breath, our bodies know when to breathe and our hearts know when to beat, no one teaches us the simple wisdom of being alive.

We live, just as a million others have lived, through the fall and steady rise of seasons. The same moon waxes and wanes; the same sun rises and falls and the same constellations cast their sweeping nets across the night. Over every nation and every time. And over every spark of life. There is a centre, a universal rhythm to things. It's not until we relinquish this idea that we are different or apart, that we are special or don't belong, that we can re-member and reclaim our sacred birthright in the Great Cycle. That we can surrender to the mystery of how those same, wise rhythms transform us - in both the inner and outer worlds.

We can stare up at the sky and know that we are alive. We can swim in a swelling ocean and know its waves have kissed every shore, and in every age.

We can find our own soul in the fleeting glance of a stranger, or the eyes of a fellow creature; hear the soul in the brush of leaves in the woods, or connect to the new and trusting being of a child, hand held safely in our own. And each transforming sunset, and every changing season reminds us that with and without us - it will all go on.

The precious moment is now. Each joy and trouble is fleeting.

There is a freedom to honouring our fleeting place in it all. And a sober responsibility too, that the indigenous peoples have always understood - that everything in life is deeply connected.

And at the same time, when we find that Centre, we can experience our own.

That we are whole in and of ourselves, that our eyes and breath, and soul, are the songs of a whole planet. Nothing is lost. And there, in the connection to our own heartbeat we can find a stride that matches the heartbeat of the World, and in that stride find the gentle, embodied power of our own significance. This is the power of the Feminine. Where light and dark, sorrow and joy, life and death are contained in the ancient embrace of The Mother, where her children might grow.

Every voice tells us to forget that we belong - here, and to one another, you and me. Instead we name differences, we demand perfection, we are blinded by all that separates and creates divides. We are told that we must fight and conquer, to earn our place in a world we already call Home. Have letters or titles after our name to be heard, respected. That we must be unblemished, untouched by life, perfect to be loved, *seen* - when all it takes is to catch another's eye to see the part of us that is here, learning, struggling, *being*; and that is eternal. All part of a grand web of life in a unique world, in a universe that is itself, a miracle.

It is the soul that remembers the perfect unity of our life here, together. Love that crosses distance and heals the divide, in ourselves and with one another; humility that reminds us each day that we participate in a short moment called Life.

We've built entire civilisations to compensate for this loss, this disconnect - but if we are quiet, we will still hear it. For each day our heart and our souls commune with this Great Mystery. For they are the very impulse of Life itself.

~ Rachel Alana 

How to live with my body

My brain and heart divorced a decade ago over who was to blame about how big of a mess I have become eventually, they couldn't be in the same room with each other
now my head and heart share custody of me
I stay with my brain during the week and my heart gets me on weekends
they never speak to one another - instead, they give me the same note to pass to each other every week
and their notes they send to one another always says the same thing:

"This is all your fault"
on Sundays my heart complains about how my head has let me down in the past
and on Wednesdays my head lists all of the times my heart has screwed things up for me in the future

they blame each other for the state of my life

there's been a lot of yelling - and crying

so, lately, I've been spending a lot of time with my gut who serves as my unofficial therapist

most nights, I sneak out of the window in my ribcage and slide down my spine and collapse on my gut's plush leather chair that's always open for me
~ and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes up
last evening, my gut asked me if I was having a hard time being caught between my heart and my head
I nodded

I said I didn't know if I could live with either of them anymore
"my heart is always sad about something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried about something that may happen tomorrow," I lamented

my gut squeezed my hand
"I just can't live with my mistakes of the past or my anxiety about the future," I sighed
my gut smiled and said:
"in that case, you should go stay with your lungs for a while,"
I was confused - the look on my face gave it away
"if you are exhausted about your heart's obsession with the fixed past and your mind's focus
on the uncertain future your lungs are the perfect place for you
there is no yesterday in your lungs

there is no tomorrow there either
there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment
there is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your heart and head work their relationship out."
this morning, while my brain was busy reading tea leaves
and while my heart was staring at old photographs
I packed a little bag and walked to the door of my lungs
before I could even knock she opened the door with a smile and as a gust of air embraced me she said
"what took you so long?"

~ John Roedel (johnroedel.com)

The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all !
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still, treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out
For some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing,
And invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been set
As a guide from beyond.
– Rumi
from: Barks and Moyne. Copyright 1995 by Coleman Barks and John Moyne,
originally published by Threshold Books.