Saturday, October 27, 2012

Ataraxia


Artist: Susan Seddon Boulet



I know we have bodies...bodies behind desks...cash-registers...computers...sex...sinks…treadmills... ovens...link in the chain-strain...bodies full of stress, dressed and waiting for the other shoe to fall,
in whatever way, yes...but we always have our right minds too.  Everything is Everything, after all,
big and small, we are juxtaposed, both with life and with death, with nothing...and everything,
with that, get 'er done left brain...and Let It Be, right side, again.

Through that right mind, I invite you...come, sit with me, if you will...still...between this moment
and the next, before anything might, or might not be.

See outside, a gentle rain falls without a sound, to grateful ground.  Light drops tat themselves together,
knots that make a lace curtain, hanging from curved rail of a mist through the trees.  Breathe...oh yes, that breath, in and out, between birth and death, breath, in and out.  Listen to that rushing stream, air, in and out.  I take four real bellows-from-the-bottom breaths, and realise how different it is from shallow, stressed,
only top of the chest breathing.  Creates space inside, a place of peace on the right side, come sit beside me,
in a pyramid of violet light.

I can feel the rain upon my face, my breath catching with the wind...and I breathe the magic word.....Ataraxia...it makes a foreign voice from the everyday...Ataraxia...the state of freedom from emotional disturbances and anxiety...Ataraxia.  Rain, tears, wind, breathe...trees beneath and rising,
twisting through the mist...the sky...the stars...the orbiting rhythms that make us fly.

I'll meet you, midnight at the oasis, or morning on the mountain-top.  We'll walk along
a crescent beach, finding shells...we'll pick heather in the highlands and make
Medicine Circles everywhere.  Never despair, for the door is right there,
and I've come a-knockin'. Breathe and be free, for this is a gift built-in, the door out,
within

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Sunday, October 21, 2012

Nehmes, Temple Singer (Neh-MEEZ)
 
On the first day of Egypt’s
Spring Eleven revolution,
while a young generation
called out for freedom,
they found her, temple singer,
in buried casket, Nehmes Bastet.
She died and was mummified,
nearly three thousand years ago,
lovingly wrapped, sacred cargo
entombed with Pharaohs
in Valley of the Kings,
in Valley of the Kings.

Nehmes, daughter of the Priest, Amon,
rose again to sing blessings upon
rise of an Arab Spring revolution,
songs of yearning freedom.

They kept her hidden in a wooden,
painted black sarcophagus,
hieroglyphics written
all over it, to tell us
about her, temple singer,
Lioness, oh Bast…Goddess
Feline, worshipped as divine.
Nehmes sang under drifting sand,
praying for her golden land
released from a golden hand,
in Valley of the Kings,
in Valley of the Kings.

Nehmes, daughter of the Priest, Amon,
rose again to sing blessings upon
rise of an Arab Spring revolution,
songs of yearning freedom.

Three thousand years comes Nehmes,
through a people’s evolution,
lyric celebration,
musical ablution.
They hear her, temple singer,
timeless, people’s voices,
rejoice in Egypt’s choice,
Nehmes and history sing
of power that truth can bring,
Singer, let your voice ring
from Valley of the Kings,
from Valley of the Kings.

Nehmes, daughter of the Priest, Amon,
rose again to sing blessings upon
rise of an Arab Spring revolution,
songs of yearning freedom.