12 September 2014

Samsara

In reading words that a friend wrote me, I thought lightly of the cycle that is birth, life, death and for some faiths, rebirth and reincarnation. She said, Samsara. She said it is only one life of many I'll know. I don't share that faith, but I do share that sentiment.

Everything changes.

We can, those of us whom believe in the short span of breath and long span of eternity elsewhere, call it a "life phase". We can call it a season, a stage, or a stepping stone. We call it temporary. We say, this too... shall pass.






She wrote, "Samsara speaks of flowing into and within oneself, of sempiternal wandering and the constant flux that is our existence." I cannot wrap my faith around the notion of being born to the world over and over again, but I have been born unto myself repeatedly. So regularly, in fact, that I begin to hear my own rhythm. I've been delivered from pasts, from pains, from fears. With every ring of growth around that solid and arborescent soul, I know without doubt that there have been many lives indeed. Memory tells me so. The mirror tells me so. 





I do not know of the upcoming design for me, and I do not know if we are meant to break through everything we feel we must. I know I am thankful for moving waters, for the cyclone wind that is change and fresh air- that which carries us beyond the stagnant places where we might otherwise furl and forget ourselves. There is, in the echo of recognition and the deja vu of turning pages, a quiet affirmation that yes... all things will begin again.



Samsara, she had said. I reread it, nodding.  Nodding and sitting still in the oscillation that is this life...where every second is a second chance.

* * * * *

These rings were built in multiple layers of silver.  Some etched, all pierced, all soundly soldered in a way that adds depth and degrees of light.  All details have been addressed from front to back, as life is spherical and three dimensional- meant to be seen from all perspectives, regarded from without and reflected upon within.  Each tiny pallion of silver was hammered and individually placed- an exercise in patience, an act of dedication to the moment at hand, and a humbling exercise in this wonderful artform that so many of us love.  I hope you enjoy them.  I so enjoy them.  I so enjoy us.

Happy Friday, y'all.
xo-
Ro


11 September 2014

We Came Home

I opted to repost this entry from last year, in honor of today being the anniversary of 9/11.  True, that freedom is not free.  May this be a gentle urge to remember the fallen and appreciate the many blessings we have been gifted.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

We Came Home



...the two of us did,
along with many others on a Tuesday Delta flight.
I'd been away for a bit over a week, working,
and was returning fatigued but full of ideas.
Anxiety.
Emotion.

As the plane pressed on,
I could feel the weight of the "catching up"
that would follow my arrival.
Going through mail, lining up calendars, answering messages,
laundry, lawn, coordinating schedules and reaching even keel
with elementary school work.
I chatted casually with the woman next to me
and we spoke of our children, of our jobs and the states
of our lives-
Our banter was soft and steady,
and I looked occasionally out at the cloud carpet below.

He, on the other hand, was sleeping.
He'd been away far longer than I had,
had been further from home,
and was returning that night to a family worn by waiting.
His presence was such that we didn't know he was there.
No one would have known, in fact, had the captain not
introduced him at the end of the flight
as we pulled quietly up to our gate.

We hushed as the words fell low from the
static and crackle of the speaker system.
In the following moments of that sacred space,
a quiet silence, a breath,
and then a single meeting of palms.
It was soft, the rhythm of awe, but it built impact by impact,
until the scattering of echoes that followed it soon erupted
into a wondrous thundering of applause, from forward to aft,
as we rose to our feet and the tears fell.

We watched his exit through our windows from where we stood.
He was the first off the plane that night,
entering the rain of Raleigh beneath a moonless sky. 
His light, however, reflected off the faces of us all,
and he carried his own stars, and they enveloped him.

I thought of him into the early morning hours,
and yesterday, and today... as I will tomorrow.
The remembrance of his family there, arms open and hands
hugging stripes, the mix of salt and freshwater
converging on cheekbones.
I will never forget the sight.
I will never forget the gratitude.



We came home, the two of us did, along with
many others on that Tuesday Delta flight.
He was sleeping...

and it woke me up.