Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Dead Places

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
― Rumi

The woods are dark
In the depths of the trees
The light rarely shines

So to the rain and snow
Are blocked from entry

And so
All too often
In those dark secret places
Those hidden places
Deep within

Little grows
Oh perhaps a mushroom or too
Or Oregon Grape (nothing stops Oregon Grape)

The fungi
And the pests

So too the dark places of the soul
Are the places where wounds fester and rot
Where the dark things grow

Sometimes, when we are wounded
That very place
Where we are broken open
Becomes the place where the light can enter
To dispel the darkness
And bring growth

“The beauty that emerges from woundedness is a beauty infused with feeling; a beauty different from the beauty of landscape and the cold perfect form. This is a beauty that has suffered its way through the ache of desolation until the words or music emerged to equal the hunger and desperation at its heart. It must also be said that not all woundedness succeeds in finding its way through to beauty of form. Most woundedness remains hidden, lost inside forgotten silence. Indeed, in every life there is some wound that continues to weep secretly, even after years of attempted healing. Where woundedness can be refined into beauty a wonderful transfiguration takes place.”
― John O'Donohue

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