it’s a moonhold. the waning is always held by the waxing
Poetry is art. It is the art of using imagery to inspire a universe of feelings within, which draw a response from our psyche. Poetry dares us to think and to question – going inside of ourselves to explore our inner world. As we are being immersed into ourselves deeper and deeper, we flow unresistingly filling the empty spaces unseen before. We shape feelings, movements and experiences into something tangible – into words – into something to be seen and reflected upon – engraved through time. And as we do that, we get closer to the previously perceived distances – to find parts of our psyche, which weren’t able to be found otherwise. We experience ourselves in a new way.
Poetry is the expression of mysticism and the mystic’s inner experience. By nature, a mystic is able to access a state of consciousness beyond the usual awareness of the humanity. Mysticism embraces the unknown and in fact, mysticism is what is unknown.
Mysticism negates the rational as it explores beyond the veil – an expression of a state of mind which cannot be communicated but can only be felt. At a certain point, all mystics and seekers find it impossible to describe this full yet unseen experience – an experience which is not merely to transcend and annihilate the rational, but to allow for a new awareness and perception.
A few years ago, I was standing at 3,300 meters in the Swiss Alps with bare hands, freezing. And yet I felt so alive. Looking at the world beyond and beneath as I was standing at the edge – everything in my life had suddenly become so clear. All that mattered to me was “now”. I’ve been on a spiritual path for many years and it never ceases to amaze me how much movement is found in stillness – and how much unsuspecting intimacy is found in silence.
I fell in love with the unnamed.
This is what spirituality is – this is what love is – everything we just can’t shape but only feel deep within.
As the storm approached and all became white fog of snow in the Alps, I found that I was no longer within the boundaries of a page. And the only thing I had to trust was my heart.
White magnolia blossoms sweep down like snow.
I suppose it all began on a summer day when a blue eyed girl was born and her parents named her Lubomira, which means “love” lubov and “peace” mir. I loved dancing and my timid nature would patiently wait for everyone to go to sleep or go out, so that I take the center stage of the living room (or the attic room) and dance for long hours. To this day, dance and music have remained my greatest inspiration. I often think that I usually just pick words that sound good because I always imagine them as a sonic string of letters; like my hands become violins, my feet drumming to the beat of my heart and words make their homes on pages.
I wrote my first poem when I was nine years old, at least that’s what my diary states as its date. I still have it and keep it close. It reminds me of where we all come from with the purity and innocence of child’s heart. It is quite spiritual which doesn’t surprise me because as children we are observers but also very connected to the natural world.
We often feel what is only later understood.
I’ve always written stories even before I knew it. I think as children we often do this; it is a way to understand the world around us. We just sort of try to pick up the pieces of who people are and what their situations are to be who they are and act they way that they act. We try to pick up the pieces and make sense of life and the mysterious adults.
Growing up I loved writing prose and stories, and continued writing in my diaries. I’ve always loved the depth of the simple things. I am realistic about the big things, and deeply romantic about the little things. I find inexhaustible romance even in the way tea is made and how the squirrels gather nuts in the garden. I love the unnamed. I love the intimacy of silence. I love the many movements found in stillness. And two years ago, I wanted to challenge myself to express a universe of feelings within with just a few words. That’s when I started writing poetry.
A year ago, I started writing “Moonhold” and wanted to celebrate this by sharing more about it today. I see it as my book of mystic art. It pushed me out of my comfort to do something I’ve never done before but this was my intention. I wanted to experience myself in a different way.
Necklace of Indra.
Once I read a story about The Necklace of Indra. This refers to the concept of interconnectedness of all things in our world and universe, as per Mahayana Buddhism. It is an extrapolation of the concept of Pratītyasamutpāda, in which all things emerge together at the same time in an interdependent web of cause and effect – as a jewel necklace of the net of life.
“Far away, in the celestial mansion of the great god Indra, there is a fabulous net which was woven and hung by a cunning craftsman in such away that it extends infinitely in every direction. To appease the extravagant tastes of the deity, the craftsman placed a shining jewel in every one of the net’s holes. Because the net is infinite, the jewels are infinite. The jewels hang in the net like shining stars: a fantastic image to behold. If one were to arbitrarily pick one of these jewels and closely inspect it, they would discover that upon its shining surface are reflected all of the other jewels hanging on the net, infinite in number. Each of the reflected jewels then reflecting each of the other jewels, and so there appears an infinite number of reflected reflections.”
In the hadron bootstrap, all particles are dynamically composed of one another in a self-consistent way. And in that way it is as if they contain one another. This is the Necklace of Indra – a network of precious gems – a necklace of pearls – in each pearl is the reflection of the other. In the same way – each object in our world is not merely of itself but it involves the other, and in fact is everything else. In every grain of sand is the presence of God consciousness. Everything around us comes from the same but it is manifested in a different shape and form – with its own intelligence. But we are all connected nonetheless.
In each is the other and is everything else.
Words are just strings of letters. The only meaning is what we give them through our own perception and feeling. In my book I wanted to make this reference by deciding to have all of my poems untitled and written in lower case. This is my necklace of pearls. No one letter is more important than the other. I wanted my reader to focus on the feeling they feel while reading the pieces rather than me emphasizing “a title” or “a letter”.
In each is the other and in each is everything else.
Like all of us.
Duality is important to recognize. Eucalyptus seeds open only when the trees are burned. Fire, and all else in life, has two sides. And in chaos is fertility. Everything is life is a perspective. And what is pleasure for one, may be pain for the other in the mutual exchange. This is why good and bad are also perspectives. And the waning is always held by the waxing. Yet once we recognize duality, we need to collapse it into oneness.
Everything in life is a relationship.
Life has its own pulse.
It inhales and exhales in its breath.
It expands and withdraws in its lungs, like the waves ebb and flow.
And in itself, each breath is needed and each aspect is purposeful.
To see the face of God, may be we need to accept all of life’s aspects as they wave.
God has many faces. And if we only look at the Divine, like a perfect structure or painted icon, expecting that it is perfect as per our own perceptions, may be we are just as biased as when we look at humans expecting them to be perfect. May be God’s face too carries the aspect of sadness sometimes.
Blessed be our sacred hearts, how sometimes they are wrapped in barbwires yet always radiant in love.
Some waves will be strong and cold. And then another, gentle and warm will flow. And so it goes.
The humility in this deserves to be respected and treasured.
We have to become comfortable with not knowing.
And accepting the cycles of the land. No matter what is seen or unseen, there is always something shaping behind the scenes.
Snowdrops grow in shade. And in the most barren months of cold and emptiness, something spreads and weaves beneath our feet, and will reach out on the surface, for merging; tempted by water, tempted by air.
We were never meant to know it anyway.
We have to stop defining and categorizing whether it is others, ourselves or life itself.
Each time we define something, we limit it and we ultimately rob ourselves of the experience.
Life has its own pulse. Is there a purpose? Of course. But may be it is just something beyond the understanding of our human condition; of a perception much higher than we will ever be able to fully realize in this life.
Some days are bad days and we wear sadness on our face. In the same way – life itself has different aspects of its face. And we can’t reject it just because it is having a bad day.
And we don’t need to pressure it to tell us why.
We can just accept it as is – even when it cries, it is still part of the same face that we loved yesterday.
And may be all we have to do is just hold the safe space allowing to just be.
This is poetry.
This is art.
This is mysticism.
This is moonhold.
I am currently delving into the world of writing my second book. It is starting to shape as a mystical walk into the woods, smells of amber like deep magick, and feels much different than my first. More on that in my next post! Thank you for being here, my dear reader.
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Much Love & Peace