30 January 2012


We are like sand
Waiting for the next imprint
Always impressionable
Touched by every encounter.

We feel the silence
Of the bare aspen tree
We taste the sunlight
Rippling on the pond
We sense the yielding earth
Under every footstep

So why is it then we close
And harden into numbness
When to be like a sponge
Or an empty canvas
Or the nameless surface
Of the still water
Is to be open to grace
To be touched
And lifted from this moment
Into a world like no other

I suppose it means
We also bear our hearts
To the bruises and scars
We all carry within us
To feel the untold grief
Of so many, and open ourselves
To the inevitable losses
Feeling exposed and vulnerable

But if I had a choice
Which I always do
I'd rather be open, even
If it means being a pin cushion
Exposed to the piercing of life
For numbness is a quiet death
Where nothing touches us -
Locked inside our own prison
not knowing we hold the keys.

Author of 'Awake in the Wild'

The image is of the Tree Monster in a street near my home. A vine has climbed up a stobie pole and out onto the power lines and it resembles a monster with arms flailing, especially when it sways maliciously in the wind.
Once a year it blossoms into flowers.

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