May your holidays be bright and full of cheer.

A Dancing Bear

by Linda Jo Hamlin

A dancing bear for all to cheer
My brown body sways in the dusty arena.
The golden ring in my nose looks precious
Shining in the half light. Glinting in the shadow self.

I move both feet and try for grace
Under pressure, besieged by the laughter
Unable to hear the music beyond the din.
Eternal rhythms call the drums to beat like hearts.

When did I wake in this heavy fur
Carrying the weight of eons
Designed to keep me quiet
Intended to still my spirit?

So, I move my feet and in my mind
I cast off forgotten ages
To examine them in the full light
Of intent and present.

To you I may look like a dancing bear
Furred, costumed and wearing a tiny hat
But inside the fur, I am lithe and lovely
A child of the universe
Dancing my self through the day.

Photo by Robert Ziesler

Sweet Dream
by L J Hamlin

Once I thought my life was lost
beneath the past’s debris.
And suffered all the perceived cost
becoming more bereaved.
A dreamer resting on a bed.
dressed by my own taste.
By my ideas the dreams were fed
and worries went to waste.
Like a cloak I wore a past
and doomed my future too
Until that cloak was put at last
where nothing more is due.

But blessings wait, or never leave
and waking up one day
Now’s a truth I could believe
and attend to what I say.
Change is now, and life is now
being now and too,
The reinvention of the songs
we sing to be ‘til through.

Old stories do not serve us well
I left mine by a road.
Tell the good and not the fell
seems to be the code.
The peace is always in our midst
the love abides there too
Altogether all is kissed
me and you and you.

The stories are much better now.
The dreamer sleeps with smiles,
Dreaming a story of the Tao
That dances down the isles.

My baby steps were good enough
And pirouettes as well,
Dancing, twirling, all fun stuff,
More movement and I'm still.

I wake in grace’s sweet embrace
Aware there is no “win” or “race”
Or special something you must solve
To simply be and thus evolve.

Before Germination
by Linda



Deep within memory and time
I discovered a seed covered in rime.
Keeping it cool. Keeping it hidden
So it could spring forth when reactions have bidden.
When it was planted I haven’t a clue
And the way it reacts, I truly rue.
The seed covered with ice, kept revelation cool
It was not very nice but seemed like a jewel.
It mimicked the light, it shone and reflected
When keyed by event - the seed resurrected
Old business, old thoughts, old emotions and traps
Reactions would roar and my energy snaps
My life’s grace leaves at that moment
If I don’t recognize the seed-tyrant’s foment
To try to correct a memory’s shade.
So loud the grieved voice; ego's trump made.

So disconcerting, not to be there
Not in the moment - so unaware.
Real time gone, now dealing reactions
Only reflections of old emotion’s blithe actions.
I am trying hard to discover the seeds
To deal and heal and thus stop their deeds.

I hunt them and heal them with determination
Using compassion like I am my own lover.
Before my seeds germination
Into reactive ground cover.
A gardener of the spirit,
I am my soul’s keeper.
The present, I hear it
and carry it deeper.
Replacing the seeds
Of experience’s discontent
With the solace and peace
Of the now’s great present.

Morning Light

Early morning light moves about the room as
it dives through the crystal hanging in the window
leaving little rainbows everywhere.
I can almost feel a kiss
as something passes through my soul on the way
to the kitchen.
A moment of tenderness, a soul exposed.
My feet stop the shuffle
in their early morning slippers.
No motion into tomorrow
or yesterday. Just the stillness of now.

I close my eyes and listen to
the glory of the moment.
Soaking into me like the daylight
when it infuses a pond of clear and still water.
The moment warms me with grace and gratitude.
Joy spinning in me like energetic koi
flashing gold and silver.
My eyes open. My slippers slap the floor again
as they take me to a cup filled with hot tea

waiting to go to the garden.

Belief in Change

The other day a friend was talking with me about knowledge we glean from books. We read the books and we understand the truth of what we read but we do not change life's patterns to reflect what we have learned. She believed that we did not change even with the knowledge because we did not believe we could.

I thought about it for a minute and thought of dishes in the sink. We know we should wash the dishes. We have read all the books and explanations about how healthy it is to clean up those dishes and even knowing this - it is easy to shine on all the knowledge and walk away from the work. We know clean dishes will make us feel good, keep us healthy and give us pleasure and we may still walk away, leaving them to worry about, fret about and wish the job was done.

Thinking of the image of the dirty dishes needing change and cleaning them seems much like cleaning up our way of being in the world. Both are actions to remove the debris from the past, both are work. The things we can learn to change the patterns in our lives which may appear as living in the past, dreaming of the future or listening to the ego's rantings will only manifest if we practice and do the work. The reward of the work is change. Clean dishes are a good thing just as being present for our lives is a way of being.

I said to my friend "... it seems that though we know with our intellect that these truths will set us free yet it isn't until our heart knows the truth that we take action and work with the energy of the heart to make it happen."

We both laughed and later as I was leaving she asked with a smile "Are you going to do those dishes?"

What a wonderful life.

Night Sounds

Waking again at the magic hour of 3:00 in the morning the darkness brushing the walls of my room, I remembered a poem I wrote about waking. I decided to share it with you.

Night Sounds

When it gets quiet at night,
the sounds of the world drop away
one by one into the cool indigo silence
of the world sleeping.

Sometimes, then in that cushion of darkness
one can hear the wee sounds of the in-between.

Like a small bell far away,
or like an engine idling, waiting for passengers
sometimes like a radio just beyond audible reach.
voices down the street, wafting from an open window
to your ear.
Like the earth humming an ancient song.

Why does this happen
when one is alone in the star shine
wondering about the night and her secrets.

The moon’s full, belly light
shines through the window
slicing the dark into large bites
yet the still small voices murmur
as I lay with my eyes wide open.

Is it because the veil is thin?
The three o’clock call
waking us from sleep.
I am not the only one.
Others admit this waking hour
and sometimes they too
hear the ethers breath
of night sound.

It is curious,
a wonder and an irritant all at once.
Uncomfortable to recognize
like the stranger ‘s eyes
in which you see yourself.
So,
wrapped in night cushion
I lay listening.