Because it happened, certain gates were shut;
A door opened.
From
“The Parcel” by Robert Bly
Looking back at shut gates
accomplishes nothing.
You walked through the open
door, into new life,
laid a foundation, built,
tore down, rebuilt, a
process repeated
until the house was truly
yours.
Now dwell there, inhabit
it fully,
fill it with light and
joy. It is your home.
Who cares what others
think of it?
It fits you perfectly.
Here it is,
Eight thousand years later, and I still remember.
From
“Looking at the Stars,” by Robert Bly
How much is stored in the
memory of our bodies?
I wonder what I’ve carried
for thousands of years, unconsciously,
events of ancient times
that have shaped who I am.
When I look at the full
moon, or watch the sun rise
what is triggered in my
being,
how many sunrises are
stored within?
What wildness lies deep in
my DNA, at the core of my identity?
When I walk through the
forest am I bridging
gaps in my soul, traveling
neural pathways
ancient as earth itself?
What, finally, will I know
of myself
when I come to the end of
knowing?
Each time a story ends
There is such a
long pause before another begins.
--Robert
Bly, from “Looking at the Stars”
Those pauses seem interminable, even if only days:
the pause between test and result,
diagnosis and treatment plan, breach of trust
and forgiveness, death and resurrection.
Though the new story may truly start
at the end of the old, there is a time,
disorienting, when one knows not what to do,
when you are frozen in limbo,
when no path is visible. The shock
of ending holds us fast, and though painful,
it is good to be held, to be kept from
stumbling any deeper into the chasm
between stories. The pause has its own story.
Listen.
