My Exhausted Self
by Fleur Chetwynd
I am a day dream of bliss
with interrupted spaces of restless dissatisfaction.
Momentary ripples turn through my core like a whirlwind of scattered leaves
that the wind will not rest to decay.
This persistent call for change tires me out..
I am ragged like an old mule whose fate is bound to the mountain passes
and canyons of the soul.
Will i not find permanence in the wholeness?
The irony of our layered existence mocks such questions into the depths of exposure, left to quest out an answer through the ravines of my souls passing.
I am an old crone with smooth skin and color in her hair.
The maiden passing into indistinction.
How foolish and counter productive it is to claim an experience with words,
that after its passing ceases to exist.
All that is left is a hollow reminder of what I feel defined by.
A tapestry of fallen angels
weaving into humanness wisdom of celestial uprising and soulful revolution
against this back ground of physicality.
There is no sense, but so much conviction in my heart.
Blackness sucks me into vacuous quiet
a pale sky with nothing to report.
A weather less silence that cannot be heard,
as time switches off and all input ceases to create.
but not all of me came back,
ideas of self were lost in action,
the journey claims the lives of many faces.
I am lighter.
Insubstantial as a feather
being swallowed by the tidal waves of consciousness.
Like pollen serenely drifting
in search for a place to unfold into.
....to create from,
revealing petals and all my finery
the potential that I AM.
How struck I am by the windows of my soul,
a reflection of such connection
that wears the cloak of distance
....how bound we are to these dichotomies....
I smile inside.
I fall asleep once more, or am i waking?
Sometimes i forget....the hour is so late and moon is high....
Come, rest now sweet self...you have come a long way
...rest now in the bosom of my all.
I wrote this poem when I was moving through a very challenging phase in my process, when it felt like I was just continuously deconstructing in my meditations, shedding layers of self again and again... I remember feeling tired and bored with myself when i wrote this under the rescueing gaze of the full moon.
"The imaginal swirls with symbols, myths and forms of the unconscious mind of the individual, collective and universe as one - echoing the bridge between eternity and form.
The place where the dream can become known to itself, can be heard and deeply honored and lived.
The lucid dream is essential, formless, intangible and unknowable, yet deeply felt and lived...touching the heart of the dream within the dream, with the love of consciousness.