life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life


Come to the river of your life

Look at your own reflection

choose to plunge into your own water

mouth wide open



Amy Lloyd

There comes a day when

it no longer matters what others think.

All that matters now

is that we follow our own lead.

That we no longer resist

the urge to get our feet wet.

At the waterside.

At the harbour, where we draw our own tide.

Yes all that matters now

is that we source the depths of our own longing.

For we know that our very being depends

on the truths we tell ourselves.

And these truths are reflected now,

in the stillness of the water’s surface.

Yes, look and find,

that after all, you are perfect.

To your own self to which you are now true.

And to your own purposes which call you.

THERE COMES A DAY by Ana Lisa de Jong

Living Tree Poetry

August 2017

So come to the pond,

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbour of your longing.

And put your lip to the world.

And live your life.

– Mary Oliver

For one day soon you will step into your own stunning universe—beyond the myths, outside any limitations or predictions, far from the illusions this life invents—as you answer the call to uncover the many starlit truths contained inside your incomparable soul. You will be reborn to fresh and glorious revelations only you can carry to completion. And while all the infinite possibilities expand within, may you sing aloud, rejoicing in your new birth, no longer owned by anyone’s idea of who you should be.

(~an affirmation from Susan Frybort’s luminous new book, ‘Open Passages’, available at any independent bookstore through Ingram Distribution on Amazon- kindle and paperback- at

Listen to I’ll Find a Way by Rachel Yamagata

black out

Diagram of solar eclipse from a 13th Century Latin manuscript.


My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.


My Heart Leaps Up by William Wordsworth

I am not interested in enlightenment if it means detachment from the emotional body, the earth plane, the challenges of being human. I am interested in Enrealment, because it means that my most spiritual moments are inclusive, arising right in the heart of all that is human: joy and sorrow, shopping list and unity consciousness, fresh mangoes and stale bread. Enrealment is about living in all aspects of reality simultaneously rather than only those realms that feel the most comfortable. We are not just the light, or the mind, or the emptiness, or perpetual positivity. We are the everything. It’s ALL God, even the dust that falls off my awakening heart.

– Jeff Brown

Backs on pier’s cool planks, fingers
intertwined, my girlfriend and I
gaze into forever as comets

tear open the sky, bright streaks
winking like distant fireflies.
Beyond them, a dwarf planet sulks

in its orbit. Einstein said nothing
could outrun physics’ laws;
even time must bend to fit its rules.

Yet scientists once declared Earth
center of our universe;
earlier still, that it was flat.

Evolution of what is certain
proves nothing is absolute,
not even a Rockwell scene

of young lovers beside
a lake, waiting for the future
to arrive from heaven.


Renaming the Planets by Bill Glose

What you see in a total eclipse is entirely different from what you know. It is especially different for those of us whose grasp of astronomy is so frail that, given a flashlight, a grapefruit, two oranges, and fifteen years, we still could not figure out which way to set the clocks for daylight saving time. Usually it is a bit of a trick to keep your knowledge from blinding you. But during an eclipse it is easy. What you see is much more convincing than any wild-eyed theory you may know.


Watch Bonnie Tyler Total Eclipse of the Heart

trust is ruthless

wisdom doesn’t always go bone marrow deep…

maybe the best we can hope for is not to be consistently foolish…

maybe the only risk we should keep attempting is the one where the only loss is that the bookie gets the VIG…

what if everything else has no possibility to get us anywhere?

what if magic doesn’t actually exist?

what if vanity is vanity all is vanity?

what if the ground just won’t bear our weight any more?

what if we never get to see it happen?

what if love skips my generation?

what if it’s just Im not lovable?

what if I really am too much of a good thing?

what if you and I are not capable of trusting ever again?

what if I never make it home?

what if there are never any good choices or solid ground?

what if love is too much of a burden to bear for mortals?

too much of a cost to consider?

too much of an unnatural commodity in this current landscape of our tinseltown world?

what if there is no comfort or joy?

what if heaven is an illusion and life is nothing more than pain?

Is life still worth living?

Is there still goodness to be had?

still something to fight for?

what if God just doesn’t care that much about the suffering we experience?

what if this is the last heart based risk I ever take?

what matters then?

Amy Lloyd

There is no life after death. Why

should there be. What on

earth would have us believe this.

Heaven is not the American

highway, blackened chicken alfredo

from Applebee’s nor the

clown sundae from Friendly’s. Our

life, this is the afterdeath,

when we blink open, peeled and

ready to ache. Years ago

my aunt banged on the steering, she

insisted there had to be a

God, a heaven. We were on our

way to a wedding. I would

have to sit at the same table as the

man who saw no heaven

in me. Today I am thinking about

Mozart, of all people, who

died at 35 mysteriously, perhaps of

strep. What a strange cloth

it is to live. But that we came from

death and return to it, made

different by form, shaped again back

into anti–, anti–. On my run,

I think of Jack Gilbert, who said we

must insist while there is still

time, but insist toward what. Why we

must fill the void with light—

isn’t that our human insistence? But

we drift into a distance of

distance until proximity fails, our

name lifts away with any

future concerns, the past a flattened

coin that cannot spin. I am

matter spun from death’s wool—and

I bewilder the itch, I who am

I am just so happy to go.


Afterlife by Natalie Eilbert

No one laughs at God in a hospital

No one laughs at God in a war

No one’s laughing at God

When they’re starving or freezing or so very poor

No one laughs at God

When the doctor calls after some routine tests

No one’s laughing at God

When it’s gotten real late

And their kid’s not back from the party yet

No one laughs at God

When their airplane start to uncontrollably shake

No one’s laughing at God

When they see the one they love, hand in hand with someone else

And they hope that they’re mistaken

No one laughs at God

When the cops knock on their door

And they say we got some bad news, sir

No one’s laughing at God

When there’s a famine or fire or flood

But God can be funny

At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or

Or when the crazies say He hates us

And they get so red in the head you think they’re ‘bout to choke

God can be funny,

When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way

And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini

Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious

Ha ha

Ha ha

No one laughs at God in a hospital

No one laughs at God in a war

No one’s laughing at God

When they’ve lost all they’ve got

And they don’t know what for

No one laughs at God on the day they realize

That the last sight they’ll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes

No one’s laughing at God when they’re saying their goodbyes

But God can be funny

At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or

Or when the crazies say He hates us

And they get so red in the head you think they’re ‘bout to choke

God can be funny,

When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way

And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini

Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious

No one laughs at God in a hospital

No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughs at God in a hospital

No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughing at God in hospital

No one’s laughing at God in a war

No one’s laughing at God when they’re starving or freezing or so very poor

No one’s laughing at God

No one’s laughing at God

No one’s laughing at God

We’re all laughing with God

Listen to: Laughing With by Regina Spektor

The mind wants to live forever, or to learn a very good reason why not. The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, even God. The mind’s sidekick, however, will settle for two eggs over easy. The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel. And, incredibly, the simple spaniel can lure the brawling mind to its dish. It is everlastingly funny that the proud, metaphysically ambitious, clamoring mind will hush if you give it an egg.

– Annie Dillard

life is movement

What do you compare life to when life is all you know?

Who do you blame when everyone is exactly the same?

How do you know what you’ve never known?

Why do you scale the building when you’re not sure what you want?

Why do you bring a letter opener to a gun fight?

What do you clap for when the curtain has fallen and the actors have gone home?

When will your chance at fame and glory press the doorbell of transformation?

Seems like the only way to stay alive is to keep moving, even if it’s just upstairs to bed at night

and downstairs for coffee in the morning

Yes, the journey of any length begins with one step

‘Leg over leg the dog went to Dover…’

Don’t surrender before the first shots been fired

Eat when you’re hungry

Rest when you’re tired

Dance on the hard days


Always kiss your lady goodnight


Amy Lloyd

Don’t find fault. Find a remedy.

– Henry Ford


The age of gurus and disciples is dying.

The time of second-hand spiritual revelation is coming to an end.

A new age of democratic teacher-student relationship is dawning.

Where we are all teachers and we are all students.

And we are all expressions of the One.

And we all have direct access to the Divine.

And no guru has the final Answer.

And we are all free to ask Questions.

I have no guru. I have never had a guru.

Or rather, life itself has been my greatest guru.

Pain has been my guru. Joy has been my guru.

The most profound heartbreak has been my guru.

Every relationship has been my guru.

Every death has broken my heart open and taught me and saved me.

Every moment has transmitted the teaching.

Every disappointment has brought me closer to the Ground,

closer to the peace that is my own absence.

The guru was not found on an ashram in India.

Or in ancient books.

It was found Everywhere.

In friends, lovers, students, teachers, strangers on the Number 23 bus. My cat. A broken heart, mending. A song on the radio that suddenly took my breath away. A missed opportunity. A promise, kept or unkept.

You are all part of this divine play, friends.

This heaven in which everyone receives exactly what they need.

Not always what they want, but always what they need.

And you are all held in the arms of the Beloved, without exception.

Call me a guru, call me a non-guru, call me a fraud.

Call me a friend, call me a narcissistic screwed-up mess.

Ignore my song completely.

I honestly don’t mind.

I love you, and I love this perfectly broken-open life

where our conclusions are continuously exploding

like dying stars.

– Jeff Foster

speaking into the chaos

Listen to Brave by Sara Bareilles

I was taught to stand in line

I was taught it’s not my time

I was taught to people please

I was taught to bend my knees

I was taught to raise my hand

I was taught I need a man

I was taught to never speak

I was taught to not move my feet

I was taught that I was wrong

I was taught I don’t belong

I was taught my church was right

I was taught a certain fight

I was taught I wouldn’t finish

I was taught I should diminish 

I was taught to take abuse

I was taught to just excuse

I was taught to obey

I was taught to walk away

I was taught that I was vain

I was taught to live with pain

I was taught to live in fear

I was taught to not drink beer

I was taught the way to heaven

I was taught on May Eleven 

I was taught I didn’t matter

I was taught that hearts will shatter

I was taught to give and give

I was taught these rules to live

I was taught I must say ‘yes’

I was taught I was a mess

I was taught to stay and die

I was taught to live a lie

I was taught that love meant loss

I was taught money is boss

I was taught to say ‘I’m fine’

I was taught that words should rhyme 

Then I turned and found the away

To learn anew for every day

To break the chains

To teach myself

To love my life

To grow and heal

To love and know

To just be real

To share my words

To break those rules

To speak my truth

To say my ‘no’s’

To dance my dance

To sing my song

To go my way

To be set free

To live my heart

To just be me


Amy Lloyd

Here you go

light low and long

in the fields

at sunset and sunrise

Everything twice

a doubled existence

two nows

two thens

two names

yours and the other one

also yours

folded into a paper boat

the points of which

constellate stars


Epithalamium by Carl Adamshick

of poets and poetry

Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don’t see

its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way

its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled

red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day – the odor of truth
and of lying.

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.


A New Poet Linda Pastan

I read poetry 

And it’s so familiar 

I like this way of words.  

I slip into the passion, 

the broken hearts,

so like my own. 

The depth of loving, 

it is my own. 

The beauty,

these words caught inside 

someplace within myself, 

suddenly breaking free from this other angle. 

Broken love, 

twisting in the wind of unequal relationships. 

The parables, 

the simple narrative, 

the stark condensed truth, 

the healing, 

the beauty of nature, home, love, life, laughter…

Anything can become a poem. 

Words strung,

so like my own way, 

yet not,



sometimes not quite understandable, yet. 

I am in love with poems. 

I learn from their awareness 

I may get tired of my own heart wringing words,

I may get bored with my own platitudes, 

but, every day,

I find the words in poems of another

to inspire me,

to allow me to see,

to teach me,

to make me laugh,

to get me through my day. 

Every day I realize how much poetry means to me

I am so blessed to be a small part of this magic. 

I love poems. 

I need poems. 

I am a poet. 

That settles in a good spot within me,

as I settle in to 

read my morning verses. 

Amy Lloyd

The realization that every act, every word, every thought of ours not only influences our environment but for some mysterious reason forms an integral and important part of the Universe, fits into it as if by necessity so to say, in the very moment we do, or say, or think it – is an overwhelming and even shattering experience. The tremendous responsibility of it is terrifying. If all of us only knew that the smallest act of ours, or a tiny thought, has such far-reaching effects as to set in motion forces which perhaps could shatter a galaxy…If we know it deeply and absolutely, if this realization becomes engraved permanently on our hearts, on our minds, how careful we would act and speak and think. How precious life would become in its integral oneness.

— Irina Tweedie

I want my life to be a poem

I want to live extracting the poetry carried within the miracle of my days

Distilling the beauty

enhancing the Essence

Boiling it down to its finest worded Reduction

Like balsamic demi-glacé or raspberry coulis

all the most intense flavors enhanced by the right words drizzled on the plate

I will go around Dropping words like a flower girls petals

into waiting hearts ready to find reflections of love within

I want to live acknowledging this poetry

that lives everywhere I look in the oh so lovely world of ours

Home is one of our most important words

poetry takes us there


Amy Lloyd

one more time…with feeling…





I twisted into me
into knots and threads of darkened memory
like tree trunk rings or strips of film
of jagged time.


There are shards of light there
in those tied up corners
and those softened edges
of flesh and bone.


Hold me up to the sun
and study the maps
that run through my veins
they’re all places I have been.


The signs along the highway
have turned a jaded green
but I remain a brilliant
shade of transparent gold.


I can guide you at night
I can teach you
spread out on the hood of your car
one finger on some tiny destination.


I am a breathing mess of
sun down and sun up
of abandoned buildings
and new beginnings.


Find me when you’re starting over
I have been everywhere
I have grown rings
twisted into the depths of me.



Find Me When You’re Starting Over by Nicole Marie


One Last Time by Ozio Beffardo

Your stitches are all out
But your scars are healing wrong
And the helium balloon inside your room has come undone
And it’s pushing up at the ceiling
And the flickering lights it cannot get beyond

Oh everyone takes turns
Now it’s yours to play the part
And they’re sitting all around you
Holding copies of your chart
And the misery inside their eyes
Is synchronized and reflected into yours

Hold on
One more time with feeling
Try it again
Breathing’s just a rhythm
Say it in your mind
Until you know that the words are right
This is, why we, fight

Do do do do do do-we-oo-we-oo-we-oo
Do do do do do do
Do do do do do dooooooooo

You thought by now you’d be
So much better than you are
You thought by now they’d see
That you had come so far
And the pride inside their eyes
Would synchronize into a love you’ve never know
So much more than you’ve been shown

Hold on
One more time with feeling
Try it again
Breathing’s just a rhythm
Say it in your mind
Until you know that the words are right
This is, why we, fight
This is, why, we fight

Do do do do do do-we-oo-we-oo-we-oo
Do do do do do do
Do do do do do dooooooooo



love warriors walk through this world

carrying as much love as we can bring,

allowing it to drip from open hands

love freely poured onto shattered pieces of the broken bits of kaleidoscope hearts

love sealing up the pin-pricked places where we are leaking from daily life-battles, the stinging words felt

stepping carefully so as not to trample the bleeding wounded

slowing down, pouring love, moving oh-so-slowly over the hurts of the many

meanwhile, the ones who have forgotten to know

appear to continue doing battle against the very thing which could heal us –

not knowing what they have forgotten:

we are all the light


we are each the beloved


let me hold you

let me touch those wounded places

let me rub love on the sore spots

until you remember

what you already know!

stay here with me

for a long, long while

let’s walk together




spreading this love and light

as we go

allowing the drip to become

a pour

a fountain

a river

an ocean

where we will sail our sea-green ship

into this mystic world beyond the stars

beyond the moon

and once again

find ourselves home in the sun

Amy Lloyd


Charlie Doane Photography

breathing air is prayer


Stillness is vital to the world of the soul. If as you age you become more still, you will discover that stillness can be a great companion. The fragments of your life will have time to unify, and the places where your soul-shelter is wounded or broken will have time to knit and heal. You will be able to return to yourself. In this stillness, you will engage your soul. Many people miss out on themselves completely as they journey through life. They know others, they know places, they know skills, they know their work, but tragically, they do not know themselves at all. Aging can be a lovely time of ripening when you actually meet yourself, indeed maybe for the first time. There are beautiful lines from T. S. Eliot that say:

‘And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.’

– John O’Donohue

Iona Reflection:

There is a making of “aloneness” that often surrounds and surprises me. The wearing of God worn through to the bone and the Mystery smooth with garbled edges. There is nothing disguised before God nor would there be even a slight hesitation. To be known by God the greatest journey of my life and even the narrow path is grounded in deep relationship to the earth , my neighbor and the curiosity of invisible passages I find in a snatch.

Holy , Holy is not so much gone as it is upon us with fires and observances, of reverence and revelation.

Ordinary hours spent listening to words and stories dripping off the stones of the Abbey and Holy God wrapped up in breath and the movement of my diaphragm . The passion of the Christ burning ..

Rev. Donna Knutson (from Scotland)

the trees are singing hymns of gregarious grace
including me in their harmonious worship
shades-of-violet hydrangea snowballs shyly peek out from forest green camouflage
wanting to tell their easy going secrets
summer days bunch in humid bouquets of passionate colors
though we’re all slightly wilted in this heat
longing for a bit of chill
the evening falls down in shades of blues and whites
then cinematically the rainbow reel begins to turn
catching our collective breathing in this wonder-as-we-wander show of colors quickly changing
reflecting all its magical up-in-the-air business in the mirrored surface on the water below
(Previews of tomorrow’s wondrous as-above-so-below film festival double feature include majestic brown-red hawks and virtuously patient, used-to-waiting, snowy-white egrets edged by living marsh grass frames)
but for now, light plays electric games
intertwining within the trees empty spaces above black silhouettes
creating living, breathing, stained-glass-type masterpieces down each darkening dead-end street
then it all graciously surrenders to nights call with such tender sky streaking eloquence
having complete peace with its natural disappearance
everything spoken loudly with no verbal cues
I see love everywhere
my soulful eyes touching these freely given moments
I wholeheartedly admit, am full-smitten with this messy, beauty-full world
recklessly giving my heart without any hesitation to is flaunting desire to be wild and ramble free-
changing every moment
ever on and on
my heart beat keeps time
my steps lead me through emptied streets
winding my way home
to my bed of quilts and comforts
now I lay me down
with no more miles to go
my ever rambling conversation,
this thing named, Prayer,
with this best friend of mine,
this love I know so well, is,
as it is most frequently,
one of extravagant thanks
I am kept
I am loved
I am enough
this I know for sure
Amy Lloyd

EVERYBODY PRAYS whether he thinks of it as praying or not. The odd silence you fall into when something very beautiful is happening or something very good or very bad. The ah-h-h-h! that sometimes floats up out of you as out of a Fourth of July crowd when the sky-rocket bursts over the water. The stammer of pain at somebody else’s pain. The stammer of joy at somebody else’s joy. Whatever words or sounds you use for sighing with over your own life. These are all prayers in their way. These are all spoken not just to yourself but to something even more familiar than yourself and even more strange than the world.

According to Jesus, by far the most important thing about praying is to keep at it. The images he uses to explain this are all rather comic, as though he thought it was rather comic to have to explain it at all. He says God is like a friend you go to borrow bread from at midnight. The friend tells you in effect to drop dead, but you go on knocking anyway until finally he gives you what you want so he can go back to bed again (Luke 11:5-8). Or God is like a crooked judge who refuses to hear the case of a certain poor widow, presumably because he knows there’s nothing much in it for him. But she keeps on hounding him until finally he hears her case just to get her out of his hair (Luke 18:1-8). Even a stinker, Jesus says, won’t give his own child a black eye when he asks for peanut butter and jelly, so how all the more will God when his children . . . (Matthew 7:9-11).

Be importunate, Jesus says—not, one assumes, because you have to beat a path to God’s door before he’ll open it, but because until you beat the path maybe there’s no way of getting to your door. “Ravish my heart,” John Donne wrote. But God will not usually ravish. He will only court.

– Frederich Buechner, Originally published in Wishful Thinking

My dear,

Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh
you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.

-Falsely yours,



hard times require furious dancing

We cannot live in a world that is 

interpreted for us by others.

An interpreted world is not a


Part of the terror is to take back

our own listening.

To use our own voice.

To see our own light.

~ Hildegard of Bingen


time wears down

as life takes its anguished toll

of strained shoulders and weary back

from the unyielding pressure of anger’s mighty weight

lash of black eyed look

the demon,

lying in wait,


words stripping tender heart skin

of the vulnerable

the innocent unprepared for attack

leaving hope in shreds,

shame cocks its hat sideways

flames of passion freeze in place

ice, brittle, cutting

fills veins,


slicing us to ribbons

destroying all our goodness in its path

Only you can change this

you CAN change this

I know for sure…

you can…

if you choose to…

God only knows

if you will

Amy Lloyd

Be soft…
Do not let the world make you hard.
Do not let the pain make you hate.
Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.
– kurt vonnegut, jr.

yesterday I was born a leaf
a small fragile tender wisp
trembling as I hung on the vine
yesterday I was a gust of air
short lived, but not insignificant
full of bone rattling cold and hat disturbing bravado
yesterday I was a large, slow, snow flake
plopping down like a wet goose feather
making the world a magical place
yesterday I was a world made of glass
lying shattered on the floor
hoping to be recycled into a new and useful object
yesterday I was various people
a student, a mother, a friend, a lover
feeling my way into the next moment hoping to find a way home
yesterday I stood tall as a tree
proud, yet with humble confidence
accepting what winter brings, gently weeping, waiting for spring
Amy Lloyd




"Brave' is the only thing that I ask myself to be
Brave to write,
to love,
to face criticism,
to live according my own rules
to follow my dreams
Paulo Coelho

The weather was changing. It was a regular day, neither ominous nor auspicious. He was playing in the surf, not far from his family lazily oblivious up on the sand. A good-sized wave of green, jovial as the others, reared above him. He tried floating over it but miscalculated: he was ahead of it, and it was closer to breaking than he thought. It lifted him up like a playful grandfather raising a child to his shoulder, then pitched him down into an explosion of foam.

An ocean's wave is not a child's wave. In the chaos and tumble of the spillout you have no control; there is no up or down. A roiling mass of seawater digests you until it is done. All you can do is wait.

This was not a huge wave; he'd been tossed by bigger ones than this. But it had its way with him for a few seconds. He thought of himself in that seething froth of water, a living being hidden in the chaos, a body not water. He was alive. And then it occurred to him─and he knew it was an odd thought─ that he could drown. He knew he was overreacting. But for one second something in him imagined he was near death, and he became desperate for air, for control, for time, for life. Something in him pulled at the sky, though he didn't know where it was─and reached for earth, though that was lost to him, too. His helplessness infuriated him, then saddened him, then intrigued him.

Powerless over the force of the water jumbling him about, he was aware of an even greater force within him, also not under his power, reaching out for life. It was not his will; it was given. And unmistakably there was yet another force, another grasping, another desire, pulling at him, a yearning not his own, a mind that was in yet beyond the water, that came from wherever the sea comes from, reaching for him as if finally able to get at him here in this cataract. Never had he so deeply wanted life, or suspected that life so deeply wanted him. The two yearnings tugged at each other under the roiling water. Something like trust blossomed. He was amazed to feel an awe, a reverence for those clasped hands, that twinned yearning, and a desire for it even more than for air. He waited. The wave spit him up like Jonah.

He found himself rocked like a newborn in swirling seawater, washed. He almost wanted to go back, to go under, to go deeper, overwhelmed again, and touch that yearning. But all he could do was wait. In the water wasn't where it would be now. It would be in him, as it always had been. It would be up there on the beach, back in the city, silently swirling in his days, the falling and rising, his reaching and the reaching for him through the chaos, under the unseen waves. He wouldn't be able to explain it; that was another mastery he would not be given. It would have to change him. He would have to become innocent all over again, and again and again.

He wanted joy, he wanted sadness, he wanted it all. He walked up the sand. The weather was changing.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

The dark is as bright as the light
once you settle into its rhythm
get to know your other senses so well
you begin to see with your ears
your skin can see what's ahead
what's behind
the sensations of your breathing alert you to danger and angels
open the darkened eyes
to sight beyond vision
and the darkness falls away
and you are left with an unnatural conclusion
which no one can take from you…
the dark is as bright as the light
seeing is a subjective process
the ground will hold our weight
we are never abandoned
we have no control except to accept and surrender
we have no control except to accept and surrender

– Amy Lloyd

I have been blinded by darkness and blinded by light. What I've learned from it is how to adjust my eyes, my mind and my soul so I can see in both!
– Lissette

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