Eyes of Wings and Flames

This morning as the sun rose over the snowy landscape outside my window, I came across this poem that I wrote in the early 90’s. I can feel the longing for annihilation and the terror of annihilation flowing through the words. The longing and terror that propelled a desperate search for some resolution - through merging with a lover, seeking safety in the illusion of structure that would either crumble or that I would reject, knowing it was not what I most deeply desired. The longing and terror that led me to Gangaji’s door where she said stop. Stop searching for something to save you from annihilation and instead let annihilation have you - right now. In this moment be willing to let every strategy go, release the hold to any structure or lover, and discover what remains. Right now, no postponement.

The sun moves higher in the sky, and the moon is still barely visible in the field of vast blue. The longing and the terror are gone. What remains is empty, spacious, open, embodied, whole. No need for anything to hold me to earth for I am earth and sky and sun and moon. Effortless beingness, annihilation itself - full, solid, empty presence living this illusion. No doubt, no question, no need, no one.

The day calls, the elk move through the snowy field inviting me to follow their tracks.

What to say to the young one in the poem? Let go and discover what is always here.

eyes of wings and flames

In a photograph

I have just turned four

knee deep in snow with a crown on my head

white tights

angel wings pinned to my back.

With one hand I clutch a magic wand

a paper bag with the other

An angel sent

to stand in snow and smile for a distant camera

In a memory

it is Christmas at the Metropolitan Museum

In white tights again

and black shiny shoes

I steal

behind towering golden gates

to a massive tree

covered with angels;

glowing,

dripping,

delicate

held

by a thin wire above my head

Surrounding me

calling to me

singing to me for moments

before I am found and pulled back by my mother’s hand

In the photograph

I am smiling so hard, so happy

so misplaced

Now

you look into my eyes seeing wings and flames

I hear your voice

You are an angel, where did you come from?

I have been here

standing knee deep in snow

alone

with empty spaces carved around me

I have knelt on altars

carried heavy stones

and prayed

for someone, something to hold me here

on this plane

in this body long enough

for you

to see me

long enough to be touched

held

as you hold me now

Ethereal I am

Hold tight for this moment

in the next I may go again

winged eyes carrying me away

This is not my home

I tell you

My feet land

touch earth, touch water

while I hold a curling stone in my arms

When I place it down

I go again

I was witness to the birth of Christ

I am here before you now

as you roll over in your sleep

open your eyes because you feel me watching

and ask again

Where did you come from?

The corner store, I say

I just went to get coffee

I hold out to you a steaming cup

I feel the hand wrap around mine in the museum

holding my feet to the ground

while my name is being called

from the tree of angels above

Now

as I lay in bed with you

late afternoon sun stretched across our bodies

I hold your hand

solid

with a desperateness that only I understand

You whisper to me again

You are an angel

I feel the wings of my eyes unfurl

they begin to carry me away from you

from this bodily plane

where your feet touch the ground

No

I say

please don’t call me an angel

Allow me to stay here with you

be of you

and be next to you

one moment more