TRIUMPH OF SPIRIT IN LOVE, NATURE & ART

Posts tagged “Love

Sadhguru’s Cure for a Spiritual Lobotomy

Another invisible illness silently
sapping quality of life
vertigo and acute nausea
now join
constant migraines
and, with Aspergers, I am
more of a recluse than ever
But my beloved stands by me
A few weeks ago
I wanted to die
Bipolar, too, you see
too sick to sleep
too long a wait
to see a doctor
My beloved, my savior
keeps me going.
But I must fight on my own
and have enlisted Sadhguru
an Indian mystic and Yogi and guru
who promises bliss.

Meditating and chanting every day
with my beautiful husband
whose love
pulls me through
My husband the healer
who worked
with the poorest of the poor
the dejected and rejected
the condemned
My husband who married me
despite my mental illness.

Sadhguru says my mind
can poison my body
Sadhguru, my last best hope
I meditate and chant Aum
with him daily
living the life of a hermit
in a 3 room box in New York City
rather than in a cave in the Himalayas
Desperately seeking
the spirituality of years ago
before antipsychotic medication
gave me a spiritual lobotomy
A trade off
it offered me
some sort of stability
to have a quasi normal life
with my devoted husband
of 28 years.

Why can’t you have
pharmacological sanity
that allows you to love
AND spirituality???
I am going to try…
With Sadhguru.


Reaching for the Stars

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“I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree… a tree that looks at God all day and lifts her leafy arms to pray.”  The opening lines of the poem,“Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer.  Indigenous peoples through the ages have talked of tree spirits and trees as wise ones.  Trees are striking as they permanently lift their arms to the Heavens in seeming prayer, day and night in communication with the Creator, their outstretched arms reaching for the stars.

Reaching for the stars.  The image calls to mind a dance of the Kalahari Bushmen who were featured in the movie “The Gods They Must be Crazy.”  The Kalahari, the last men born of the Stone Age culture according to Laurens Van Der Post, have no sense of individuality and so share all they have. They have a dance of gratitude which Van Der Post describes in his book entitled “A Mantis Carol”: “I never see their dancing without feeling deeply moved and utterly irreverent and blasphemous because of our own incapacity for acknowledging what life will give if only we will let it in.”  And then there is their dance of the “great hunger,” a dance that says we do not live by bread alone, a dance at life’s end fraught with longing, with arms outstretched taughtly towards the Heavens as they reach for the stars.

My grandfather reached for the stars.  He came to the United States, a 16-year-old peasant stonecutter from the mountains of Sicily, knowing no English.  He wound up carving the Lincoln Gettysburg address at the Lincoln Memorial in DC.  While working on the Gettysburg Address he studied English at night school.  I remember him telling me how he was the laughing stock of his fellow stone cutters because, inspired by Lincoln’s words, he carved his initials at the top of the monument, “A.L.” for Anthony LaManna (and, of course, for Abraham Lincoln), followed by: “Attorney at Law.”  Working his way through school, he actually did eventually become a VA lawyer.  He reached for the stars and touched them without ever forgetting where he came from.  And he was childlike as he took care of me, as we danced to records on the victrola or as he played the mandolin and sang to me.  I always think of him with a tinge of sadness, for more than anyone, he taught me to reach for the stars.

Reach for the creator– that is what the trees say.  At this time of year I yearn for the days of childhood in which God seemed close.  This yearning fully ripens each year at Christmas/Hanukkah when the people brighten their houses with festive lights.  It is a time of year in which we light up our hearts and look to the heavens and sing songs of love to a babe born not so very long ago, or in which we give thanks for the oil to light the lights of the temple for eight days.  We are all really seeking the love that motivated the Kalahari Bushmen to do their dance.  We are seeking a savior, and yearning for the Light in this overlit, commercialized, complicated world in which the inspiring simplicity of the Bushmen, the peasant, is rapidly disappearing.  And the trees touch my heart in their upward reach for the Heavens.  For at this time so many millions of them are sacrificed as they have become our Christmas trees and Hanukkah bushes, to be discarded after the holidays are over.

May we experience this holy season with a simpler yearning, not for presents and parties and hoopla, but with our hearts full of gratitude, taking lessons from the trees, from the Kalahari Bushmen, from our ancestors, and seek Love, in whatever form it takes in our souls.

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on Amazon


Love Mentally Ill Style

This appeared as a feature in the “Modern Love” series in the New York Times.  It could be the story of my marriage, a marriage of two mentally ill people, though my husband is way higher functioning than I am.

Out of the Darkness — Modern Love http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/27/fashion/out-of-the-darkness-modern-love.html

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The Dawn of Hope and the Hope of Dawn

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I await the dawn
rigid with anxiety
each minute an hour
as you sleep beside me
lost in the land of Morpheus.
I cannot rest,
try talking to God
cannot hear Him.
Where is He?
No Presence felt
inside my icy heart.
Do the birds wait
like me, in despair,
for that first magenta burst
of the high and mighty sun?
Then when the first light comes
you awaken and bring tea,
I put my hand on your back
to bless you with Reiki,
as we lounge together drinking warmth.
And I feel God’s presence
and I feel joy and peace and love,
all snug in bed with you and God…
It is for these few special moments
I live.


Trying to Write Again

No words.  No photos.  Fractured mind/body of Akathisia.

Faulty connection to God.  Weak link to Mooji.

It’s been awhile.

Forgive me if I have neglected your posts.  Cannot process lots of meaning.  Losing cognitive functioning.

Medication change.  In the last months of withdrawal. Finally totally off the blasted Zyprexa.   A  psych med.  Heavy duty antipsychotic on for 15 + years.  Sick from withdrawal and from increased dose of another antipsychotic been on 40 years.   Almost daily panic attacks and lots and lots of migraines.  Nausea.  Anxiety ad infinitum.

When will strength/creativity/spirituality return?

Better question…WILL it return?

There are far, far worse things.  Two blogging friends I hold in my heart, very sick, with serious stuff.

Better psych meds needed.  No, no, no!  Needing psych meds NOT a sign of weakness.  Unmedicated Bipolar 1 can be fatal.

Yes, fatal.
Poetry a memory.  Beauty ignored.  Even my refuge, Nature, cannot inspire.
Will figure this out with Doc.  Hope to figure it out with Doc.
Hope is hard to find.
Namaste.
Love still there.
The most important thing.

Send to all.


Wishing You Light…

and LOVE to guide you through the New Year!

With humble thanks to all who have followed, visited or commented on my blog…

and special thanks to regular commenters:  Kitt O’Malley at “KittOMalley”, Mitza at “Made by Mitza”, Richard Guest at “The Future is Papier Mache”, Hariod Brawn at “Contentedness.net” and Genie at “Poetry Whisperer”

for their many generous comments!

Love always to all,

Ellen

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New Life, Old Love

 

 

Tree skeletons

acquire accoutrements

each passing day

pale green regalia

not the deep green

of Summer when the

change in color

is so gradual

as to be imperceptible

nor the fleeting riot

of color of Fall

no, in Spring,

ephemeral  evanescent

slight light green

appears by the moment

right before my slow eyes

as I discern

shadows in the woods

a flash of white tail

deer fleet of foot

fly through the brush

dancing to the deep trill

of the wood frogs and

the echoing, haunted cries

of pileated woodpeckers

in the sudden density

of the fast-growing woods

inside the booming forest

whilst where I sit

at the edge of wood

bumble bees hum

and magically lift off

the teaming ground

and fly to the sky

where birds sing to mates

sweet songs of desire

in a crescendo of new life

as you have sung to me

for nearly thirty years

in an ever-changing

ever-growing love

whilst a breeze caresses

a newborn leaf

that tingles to its touch

as I thrill so very much

to the searching clasp

of your hand in mine

(As yet another killer, this time on the campus of Santa Barbara, California,  is identified as possibly having Asperger’s syndrome, I, as a Bipolar Aspie, offer this poem written to my Aspie husband for May 14, 2014, on the occasion of our 25th wedding anniversary, to show that not all people with Asperger’s reach for a gun and are violent.)


The Hum of Life

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The reverberations of love

jump across time and space

to another receptive heart

*

The reverberations of suffering

resound around the earth

picked up by open souls in prayer

*

The reverberations of Aum

most sacred of sounds

pulses through our minds in meditation

*

Love brings the possibility of loss

Suffering brings a totality of pain

Aum brings the reality of God within


Alone Together


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You stand before me

in total vulnerability

openness spread across your face

how can I resist

I am powerless

before such love

before your open heart

and yet you have to go

live life in your world

after all

though we share so much

we remain alone

 we make love,

or not,

no matter

 our foundation

is deep and strong

how can it be that

our two bodies

though sometimes

joined in union

remain separate

paradoxically

keeping us apart

how can it be that

our bodies

will break my heart

in the end

for we will die

alone

how can it be that

our bodies

vessels of union

will keep us apart

that one day two hearts

that beat as one

will leave this bodily union

alone

Death cannot sever

our binding bond

though it rips us

asunder

(Dedicated to Thomas, my husband of almost 25 years, with all I have to give)