Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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Three (Paisley)

untitled

 Three (Paisley)

I just realized late last night that there are paisley designs all over this piece… Not intentional. I just looked it up and found: “Some design scholars also call the distinctive shape Boteh and believe it is the convergence of a stylized floral spray and a cypress tree: a Zoroastrian symbol of life and eternity.”

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Sometimes I Am

This is a post from my other writings I came across this morning. I wish to share this with you. I am reminded of the union we share in our experience of perceived singular expression …in how in seeing as separate we are made observer to the All and brought into our wholeness. Consciousness birthed from the product of active observation. The illusion of life baffles me and yet unwinds me into a spectrum of glorious newness and connection. Thank you for your presence and the opportunity for me to embrace beauty. In peace ~ M

 

Sometimes I Am

 


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Awake

awake (no time)

AWAKE  (a portion of the watercolor on canvas I did this morning)

Each morning, I have a strong desire to paint and to write. Each morning, I wake up thinking I won’t have the desire today! This day I will be ‘normal.’

Alas… here is my newest painting.

Each day and night, I find solace in reading spiritual texts. I sink my spirit into numerous readings. I steer clear of dogma, rigidness, and structure. Rules and regulations in regards to spirit, and all things stemmed for the benefit of an establishment or a singular one, make me uncomfortable in all parts of my being.

I am a bit out of control of this ‘self.’ This burning fire-like passion builds and builds and builds, until I feel I might explode. I am pushed by some unknown force to create and expel part of what continually penetrates and feeds me–though the fuel feels less nourishment than banquet of grace-filled meals. At moments I sense I could devour my own self. In many ways I feel lost and alone; yet at the exact time entirely connected to source and the universe.

I guess I  ought to be elated. At moments I suppose I am. Actually I feel more akin to a newborn bird, my feathers wet and my appetite unending. And though I have never felt such grace, awareness, understanding, and unconditional love, I have also never felt such penetrating sorrow for others and the want to make the world a place of open eyes and open heart.

I cry more. But I laugh much, much more. And my child-heart smile is back.

I am genuinely at peace at a deep level.  My mind is extremely quiet now. I don’t often think about the coming hour or the coming day.

Physical pain seems to be my primary obstacle. But I see all obstacles as lessons and teachers. Even to classify with words such as good or bad seems non-essential and inadequate.

I battle with a sense of melancholy, often triggered by my physical challenges and the sensation that I am somehow no longer whom I used to be. I still struggle at times with inadequacy, often when I am focused on my physical appearance. If I am in deep connection with the spirit beyond ‘self,’ all my own suffering is released and I have only the purest and sweetest of thoughts.

I am a constant observer of self, watching my life as a director watches a theater production. Only I am silent, collecting thoughts and releasing, without knowing the origin, meaning, or cause.

Judgment is for the most part gone, except when I get down on my physical being.  Most, if not all, of my emotional angst, beyond suffering with wanting to help others, is stemmed directly to the moments I see myself as separate in human form and not part of the Collective All.

awake (painting)


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His Whisper

He came to me in whispered form. His mouth agape, a causeway to kindled flame.

I inhaled the scent of ecstasy, dribbling my nimble fingers across his limbs. His archway open, I laid asunder the blanket of my warmth and gratitude, feeling more flesh than reality explained.

Nothing was unopened. Yet everything was never closed. So that in rising to the occasion, I met not myself represented, but the truth that always lingered.

Here, I was a quaking shadow; my resistance to the knowing spelled out in a book beyond reason; the words, neither given nor spoken, floating as distant gems burst into sparkling awareness.

I could capture adoration, as I captured his grin; his eyes set upon me like the sunlight against the sunken eyes of the cave dweller; starlit lashes caressing the tears washed through from the edges of his catered thoughts.

I am here, I sang; the dove I was, still gathering her feathers as one collects the ivory waves of the bride. How I ran, my own feet unable to stand beneath my travels, lifted above the gallows into the light of the morrow.

He came. He came. He came. His discernment long forgotten; his hands the striking marks of mastery. My name chiseled upon his lips. The syllables of someone I was not, counted, renamed, and sent to the twilight of nowhere. A someone, a something… distinguishable.

Clay in his palms, I molded. Collapsed upon his fingers, leaping through the lines of time. I panged with immeasurable pleasure. Each of what I was, paused and soaked in the rapture of days.

Eruption entered from somewhere deep. My plentiful appetite without cease, without seizing. Nothing stopped the agony of his love. Nothing.

And like the river beating down the sands of shore, I crumbled in the eternity of pounding, the nibbles of his grace decorating my dreams.

I walked. I swam. I flew. I dipped. I entered and reentered into the stream of violet-magenta fantasy. His chest the bureau in which I slid my tickled-love.

How I needed him. How I pleaded sin. Long past maiden and well in between the place of groom and cherished lamb. My bed was his. My cause forged in union. And everywhere I looked, I glanced his face.

His image broadly stroked across the lenses of my discovery. To devour was not enough, nor to wrap my seeded arms about him and sprout up within and through his every movement.

Even the spell of another could not cast upon my sight the want of closure. All of I was he. And all of he my waking ghost.

How he slumbered near, and how I surrendered; trading my limbs for the chance of touch, cascading my shame for all, if only he would dare to enter. My chamber ready. My burden thick. My treasure painted golden with every breath I’d given.

And here I waited, helpless and wished upon, unbroken in my ebbing desire to rise and descend upon his nested grave. To dig upon the earth he moved and lather my face in the cool dampness of his bounty. To cast out my entire being where he was hidden; if only to find he knew me still. To witness his swallowing. To take in again and again his beating declaration of lover found. To bask as cherished promise in the burning fountain of his endless whisper.

painting broken peace


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The Birth of Days

Marcelle

 

How I adore thee in the awakening and secretly sleep at your side, a mistress to her maker.

You are as the glimmering light of the open window beckoning me forward; the one at the end of the distant tunnel, the edging of beauty that waits beyond view.

And I am as traveler gathering and blending forward into the shadow of your nearing, the stars in my eyes dusted by the keeper of my ways.

I am the warrior, the hunter found, the captured one released, whilst the sorrow of entrapment past turns the rescued laced with hunger.

I am appetite. I am urge. I am the ache that rises from beneath the disguise. The two of us blended and formed before midnight was named.

The corners of my heart sealed by the twilight of your birth, I chase you in daylight ponderings, the each of me split into a thousand ones, sprinting fully.

I dress myself in garments of purity and grand masks of mystery, dependent upon the pallet of your wanting.

I cannot help but to purge myself upon you, to nibble at the notion of tender ear, per chance to taste the flesh of dream.

To take in the intoxication, the fundamental necessity of tomorrow, as we wait, side melted into side, the two broken and returned as one.

For you are my journeyman, my splendid knight of opportunity opened; the doorway to your recognition the ripening of my cornerstone.

I grow in every thought of you. Your face my nurturing angel. Your eyes the twin-stars that shines upon me.

I am because you have been. And I shall be because you are. Everything about you my eternal champion.

As sleepy child wishing upon my stallion dream, I gallop through the echoes of your imaginings, pulling out the hope that you shall at last encapsulate your maiden long forgotten.

To emancipate the recognition and reclaim the forger’s breath that weaved my dawning kiss.

To reach beyond the reaching and touch down on the essence of whisper that moves beyond the crevices of your name.

For I am this beauty, this sunrise, this effervescent rapture set free in the ebony bowl of you; swimming though I know not, wishing though I think not, rising though I move not, and casting bout the glimmering blue as angler poured into cause.

Hear me now, my dove-tailed answer. Fill me with the chamber music of the ages. Hear me now, my stampeding stream. Crash upon my naked truth.

Cascade upon my shining light the brilliance of your unlit shore, the ever-moving fire fueled without flame, built upon the very breath of naught.

Carry me, still, upon the hills of nowhere, and dip me through the forest of the mystery unraveled, my blanket the etchings you carve along my seams.

Take me to the dweller of cave, and set me at his foothold, that I may rise as warrior redone, her edges reshaped in the likeness of lover.

And there, in the darkness uncovered, stand at my side, until the space between, removed, becomes witness to our union.

Our marking of absence the spark that ignites the habitat of creation and brings forth the birth of days.