When I am liberated by silence…
My whole life becomes a prayer.
—Thomas Merton
I still see that light shining around
any object; and I still feel that current,
sometimes so strong I may not
have feet on the ground.
And that space inside grows larger,
like a scary no beginning, no end;
vibrating, vibrating until the silence
is no longer silent.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
July 4, 2017
Remembering
…
We remember, and the memories float
like clouds that shape themselves
then dissolve into something else.
We remember, and the past comes to life
as if there is no difference.
We remember how the years pile up
like children’s blocks we try so hard
to keep from crashing down.
We remember and at our best embrace
sweet gratitude.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
May 9, 2017
1.
“Life is Difficult”
M. Scott Peck
“That’s swamp fog,” he says, “it collects
in watery crevices
between local hills, especially, after
this wet…wet winter.” I nod, thinking, mysterious,
beautiful and wispy,
thinking of someone who said,
I will drain the swamp; instead,
he empowered swamp monsters
to pollute our air,
streams, rivers….
2. The Need to Learn
Yesterday, I heard the sound
before the sound.
I remember Opa, ignoring papers
to Auschwitz, Poland,* was forged
in to a hidden man,
a silent man,
shrunken
inside his clothes.
I need to learn each day as if new,
so everything humane becomes audible.
3. Today’s Mammal
“Look,” he says, “back there! The bobcat!” I remember
crying out as the gopher ate my last butterfly plant,
and bobcat came to grab that offender. Now, we wave,
“Hi, friend, good to see you! It’s been a while!”
He looks at us over his right shoulder; his tail tilts
left. He almost stops, steps forward at his former speed,
not fast, not slow, but casually, self assured.
We have nothing on our offering plate, today, and he knows it.
*From Ashes Into Light, explores dealing with fascism
1.
I’m on a mission uphill,
downhill, back and forth,
I refuse to fall into myself,
to sink. Cold
may contract
all it wants.
Breath lifts and lifts,
I raise my face to sun
like a prayer.
2.
In that space between rain
after rain, after rain,
I stand on wet grass,
close my eyes, hear happy birds,
see the play of red and gold
behind lids, radiance.
3.
When anger crosses the street
and makes a sharp left,
I am relieved.
I check the slider and two doors;
one was not locked.
I sit by a west window and enjoy
bright afternoon light
almost warm.
………..
Gudrun Mouw (c)
March 1, 2017
Between rains, you arrive,
heads down, nibbling on the green, green
winter grass. You are not anxious;
you have never heard of politics. You come
and go at will. Only, sometimes, you look up
to see if I will shoo you off my roses
and other delicacies. I have given up on that.
…
I am leaning into an essential, universal
truth that says we are no different. A cold wind
of bigotry has frightened me and made me hungry
for that abundance of careful management, thoughtful
governing and peace we once enjoyed. So my friends,
my deer neighbors, please, eat your fill.
I wish you well. Love, your chastened human
February 3, 2017
Gudrun Mouw (c)
…
Gudrun Mouw is the author of From Ashes Into Light – a novel on how to recognize fascism
with the telling of three vivid, international stories. Order online or from any local bookstore.
From Ashes Into Light is the winner of multiple awards including the 2016 International Book Awards in Visionary Fiction and New Age Fiction.
From Ashes into Light is a transpersonal tale of epic tragedy, spirituality, family, and personal redemption. It is told through three distinct voices: the hauntingly tragic story of Ruth, a Jewish adolescent during Kristallnacht in World War II Austria, Saqapaya, a stalwart Native American from coastal California during the time of the Spanish conquest, and Friede Mai.
Friede is born during WW II to a Bavarian soldier and a East-Prussian mother. As those around her struggle with the inevitable chaos and paradox of war, Friede opens her heart to gruesome enemies, at times saving herself and family members from atrocities. With war behind them, the Mai family immigrates to the US, where Friede, her veteran father and ex-refugee mother, struggle with the reverberations of trauma. Friede is unable to find inner freedom until she meets her spiritual guide, a Rabbi, who helps her see that the voices from the past are teachers and the horrors of history are also beacons of light.
Three electric characters weave a narrative of raw consciousness, a moving example of transforming the ripple of suffering through the incredible strength of vulnerability.
There are books for which I wait,
perhaps, they’re in the mail, or maybe,
they’ll write themselves straight from
dents in the trail made by dainty deer steps,
or coyote tail waving, or gophers playing
peek a boo, or owls and wet grasses.
May book after book unfold
before my eyes. On a cloud filled afternoon
inside my favorite yellow room,
I read the memory of sun. Outside, a dripping
roof creates puddles I can almost hear.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
Jan. 7, 2017
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