And here it is, unbound
I cut words from magazines and fashioned them into a poem I have shared before in a visual post. Today, this calls to be spoken.
Love,
Kirsten
First, you will need to cross some dark threshold.
This deftness might
be regarded as “its own breed of genius.”
Very slowly and then all at once,
You imagine what lies ahead or, perhaps,
behind. Your body feels the twilight, too.
Do not be afraid of fear.
A whole world exists on the underside
showing us something different,
hidden in the dark.
Looking for the color over there, and
here it is, unbound.
So deliciously unpredictable.
Unfathomed know-how, a shrewd intelligence needed to navigate the dark
kicks in at a level of intensity that far outweighs our
better idea for safety.
I can see the emanation of
what’s held here cosmically mirroring itself,
presence and wonder
breaking across your face.
You go from dark to light and back again
If any doubts remained after
cells wondrously bearing both,
they were dispelled forever.
And returning often to the same ground in new light reveals a different story.
Sources:
In addition to a variety of magazines from various eras, these are particular sources within some of those magazines whose words I recognize.
“Lovesick,” By Major Jackson. Sierra, The Magazine of the Sierra Club. Read the poem in full here.
“Tables and Gems,” By Fred Moten. The Atlantic, August 2023 Issue. Read the poem in full here.
“The Owls Are Not What They Seem,” By Rebecca Giggs. The Atlantic, September 2023 Issue.
My name is Kirsten. I accompany folks as they attune to the inner experiences of life in spiritual direction, a place of presence and connection, a place to anchor briefly amid the chaos, a spacious place to be seen and known. To read more about this type of accompaniment, visit my offerings page.
