At first glance,
coming into the space,
there is bright light
casting darkness within.
The luminescence overpowers.
It is alluring, mysterious, it blinds.
We can stay here for a moment,
either terrified of the shadows
or subsumed by a desire
to merge with the light.
But everything changes,
And here is the invitation:
(there is a seat waiting for you)
and look through the fiery frame,
to watch the parts slowly appear,
to witness life unfold.
To gaze outward,
with the clear and deep memory
of how this light first penetrated you,
to feel this illuminated self
and the outer spaces as one,
to feel the power and grace
of bringing self to world,
to do what’s needed,
to make things right,
to honour the shadows
and to find the light.
Take the time you need
to enter into the shadow;
this brilliantly dark place
is your sculptor of light.
I love the way darkness frames
a most colorful entry to light,
not engulfing, not obliterating,
but celebrating our passage there.
I love how the colors of my childhood
both veil where I am preparing to go,
and emit their own spectral flavor,
cutting through my rationalizations,
inviting the little girl inside of me,
the seed of the woman I am still,
everyday, becoming, to be here,
every last part of her perfect being.
I love every last inch of this place,
that cocoons every last part of me,
holding nothing back in its embrace,
the darkness all consuming, total,
the promise of the brightest world
lying just on the other side
of my pretty, precious obstructions,
for me to linger with, converse with,
and finally, when I can, let go,
this space of dark and light
reminding me above all else
that until we die, we should live,
until the end, there is every beginning.
We know that the dark helps us
to see light, and we know this is
a scientific fact and this is also
a figurative way of thinking.
What’s evil casts a light on the good,
What scares us teaches us about
what gives us comfort, hope, joy.
Have you ever noticed that
objects in silhouette, as dark
as dark can be (because of the light),
never look quite as dark as the blackness
of a tunnel, or of a deep, starless night
(or a day lost to despair)?
A thing at its darkest, surrounded
and inflected by the great and powerful sun,
retains the brightness that
has given it life, does not invite
the void, never-ending, never-sweet.
We fall into darkness (the way
we fall in love); a silhouette is
sculpted in relief, its contours
made of light; there is no falling,
only emergence. The silhouettes
of autumn, the most moving of all:
not hesitant, but lingering,
The glimmer is the dying of a day
The glimmer is soft and yearning,
The glimmer is you.
she fills herself
with the blood and bones
of her being
knowing the cycles,
that her sun’s
succulent rise in the sky
her regal descent
give us our
so that there is no
basking and there
no exaltation of up
and no fear of falling
may we descend
as we mount
may we retreat
as we blossom
may we come to understand
our life in shadow
that paves the beauty