Beautiful! I love how you weave your words in your posts. It is like you are knitting. Your write ups are interlaced with your poetry. So so good! When we plant seeds with our words, trees of love and kindness will grow and last lifetimes for others to sit in their shadows and read poetry. 💕
Thank you! Its definitely a tapestry of sound and images. In the end words are what words do to us. It’s the energy that lives on. Maybe we are the spaces between the words? Thank you so much for reading and reaching out. Bless you. 🙏❤️
I agree! For a second a read that sentence with my screen have covered and my brain interpreted, "ask the dog." I have been told by two separate Shamans that on a higher level I am some kind of cosmic dust. I totally think we all leave the spaces we travel to and visit on this plain with an imprint. You can feel certain places that are sacred from prayers and other that are filled with old traumas. Lee Harris said Trees form an important barrier to contain where energies of atrocity attract darker energies. Then again, every time we dance our poetry into dense spaces, we actually fulfill lifting them in some way and leaving a cosmic imprint that may not always carry name or identity but has the fragrance of whatever/whoever we were and what we brought forth!
I would even say poetry “is” a spiritual practice. Poetry has the capacity to help us understand in our hearts what our brains will never be able to comprehend.
Emily, you’re speaking to my heArt! I’ve used that exact phrase many times and taught to it often! Poetry is a portal to presence and is a huge part of a spiritual practice that I’ve tried to reflect in most of my writing. Thank you so much for reading and for reaching out!🙏❤️
It was like you were one of those monks in Ancient Ireland... I am trying to remember the place, just South of Dublin...near a beautiful cold lake where the saint would roll in nettles...the water so clear and still, reflecting the mountains. And you were there writing in that tower next to that wax candle, and helping people who came. Sometimes now I think about this world where the dust too is really empty space and things are not what they seem. And like Alicia says...a world where relics seem to store energy. But perhaps it has less to do with solid things than something else beyond words...and dust. The something you whisper to in your weavings...?
Terra you are a poet. In the tapestry of spaces between the words where the dust can’t hide. We were always here. Beyond the cocoon. The energy. The spirit. Love. We are truly never leaving. Only just arriving. Thank you for taking the time to read this and reflecting as a poem. Sounds like Glendalough in Wicklow maybe? The sting of nettles a kiss of reverence announcing our arrival. Bless you.
Beautiful!! Words absolutely have ghosts - echoes are those ghosts. And I wholeheartedly agree poetry is meant to be aloud. It changes everything, but most of all, it changes you. Thanks for this!! Love the picture, too!! XO
Do you have a text editor and proofreader to catch unintended type errors even though in the long run they won’t matter because nobody will be there to see such trivial things.
It’s almost surreal to imagine a time when humanity’s knowledge disappears. Based our observations of a mere pittance of the universe’s light from billions of years ago, our eventual disappearance is a virtual certainty despite everything Musk is trying to do.
Gorgeous words and thoughts as always, Jamie. We shall return to dust, but thinking about our dust and the dust that exists all around is sort of mind blowing. For what is more common place and ubiquitous than dust. Thank you, Jamie.
A really engaging write, Jamie. I love the theme of 'asking the dust' for clues as to what was there before, a notion well captured in the poem. As for the question what is left, maybe the part of us/it that is still One, that which is eternally true -- and which the dust may reveal to those who are adept at 'digging'.
Yes, it is good to listen. We are among others, past and present. Good stuff. I had not thought of the distinction between dust and ash. I was reminded of TS Elliott, 'Ash on an old man's sleeve', but wonder if TS missed the distinction. I need to let this sink in. Yes, ‘tapestry’... Elliott again '... the tattered arras woven with a silent motto’. He digs into history.
The internet is here while it lasts even if I need my headphones in old age. Smile. Having subscribed to his concessionary Channel McGilchrist a few months ago I listened this Christmas to Iain doing some reading. One of his readings was John Donne's sermon at St Paul's, London, for the evening of Christmas Day, 1624.
Quote: “The air is not so full of motes, of atoms, as the Church is of mercies; and as we can suck in no part of air, but we take in those motes, those atoms," [then he makes a short list but goes on to refer to] "… such mercies as a regenerate man will call mercies, though a natural man would call them accidents, or occurrences, or contingencies”.
I guess I am still a ‘natural man’ and am grateful for some contingencies of the less severe kind. Smile. For the earlier Chinese poet we were: “a grain falling into the Great Barn.”
Philip, once again, you respond with Poetry. Living into the questions. I will read this over a few times. T.S. Eliot was definitely sharing the experiences of observing World War I. Years ago, we followed the diary of a relative who fought in all the major battles in the Canadian Corps in 1917 and 18. How anyone survived is a miracle. A wasteland, indeed. Maybe it was dust on an old man’s sleeve. Once those atoms
turn to dust - where do the mercies go? I’m a natural man too. A seed of grain. Watching itself grow. Thank you for everything you share. I will check it all out. Bless you. 🙏❤️
Thanks Veronika! It all started with the observation that dust just seems to arrive in the aftermath of undisturbed time. The final judge of existence? Was I here? Bless you 🙏❤️
Beautiful! I love how you weave your words in your posts. It is like you are knitting. Your write ups are interlaced with your poetry. So so good! When we plant seeds with our words, trees of love and kindness will grow and last lifetimes for others to sit in their shadows and read poetry. 💕
Thank you! Its definitely a tapestry of sound and images. In the end words are what words do to us. It’s the energy that lives on. Maybe we are the spaces between the words? Thank you so much for reading and reaching out. Bless you. 🙏❤️
more intriguing ideas here 💕
What nourishing words. Every time you share I discover a deeper "yes" to life.
Thanks, Kevin! Kindred spirits 🙏❤️Bless you
I have heard that ascended Masters literally leave a radiation in the space/dust after they live their body, or even coming from their remains.
Thanks Alicia. Maybe we all do? Was I here? Ask the dust. Thank you so much for reading. 🙏❤️
I agree! For a second a read that sentence with my screen have covered and my brain interpreted, "ask the dog." I have been told by two separate Shamans that on a higher level I am some kind of cosmic dust. I totally think we all leave the spaces we travel to and visit on this plain with an imprint. You can feel certain places that are sacred from prayers and other that are filled with old traumas. Lee Harris said Trees form an important barrier to contain where energies of atrocity attract darker energies. Then again, every time we dance our poetry into dense spaces, we actually fulfill lifting them in some way and leaving a cosmic imprint that may not always carry name or identity but has the fragrance of whatever/whoever we were and what we brought forth!
Keep being your poetry, words and living!! <3
Thank you so much! I’ve been here for thousands of years and been called names I can’t remember. Bless you 🙏❤️
Yes indeed!
I would even say poetry “is” a spiritual practice. Poetry has the capacity to help us understand in our hearts what our brains will never be able to comprehend.
Emily, you’re speaking to my heArt! I’ve used that exact phrase many times and taught to it often! Poetry is a portal to presence and is a huge part of a spiritual practice that I’ve tried to reflect in most of my writing. Thank you so much for reading and for reaching out!🙏❤️
It was like you were one of those monks in Ancient Ireland... I am trying to remember the place, just South of Dublin...near a beautiful cold lake where the saint would roll in nettles...the water so clear and still, reflecting the mountains. And you were there writing in that tower next to that wax candle, and helping people who came. Sometimes now I think about this world where the dust too is really empty space and things are not what they seem. And like Alicia says...a world where relics seem to store energy. But perhaps it has less to do with solid things than something else beyond words...and dust. The something you whisper to in your weavings...?
Terra you are a poet. In the tapestry of spaces between the words where the dust can’t hide. We were always here. Beyond the cocoon. The energy. The spirit. Love. We are truly never leaving. Only just arriving. Thank you for taking the time to read this and reflecting as a poem. Sounds like Glendalough in Wicklow maybe? The sting of nettles a kiss of reverence announcing our arrival. Bless you.
Thank you Jamie. That is the place. I think the saint’s name was Kevin and I am not sure. Sweet that you know it...and not surprising.
Soft and beautiful and poignant. Thank you!
Thank you so much Muriel 🙏❤️
Beautiful!! Words absolutely have ghosts - echoes are those ghosts. And I wholeheartedly agree poetry is meant to be aloud. It changes everything, but most of all, it changes you. Thanks for this!! Love the picture, too!! XO
Thank you so much Danielle for reading and reaching out. Echoes and ripples indeed 🙏❤️
Dear Dust,
Do you have a text editor and proofreader to catch unintended type errors even though in the long run they won’t matter because nobody will be there to see such trivial things.
It’s almost surreal to imagine a time when humanity’s knowledge disappears. Based our observations of a mere pittance of the universe’s light from billions of years ago, our eventual disappearance is a virtual certainty despite everything Musk is trying to do.
Thanks for reading
Your words touch a subject that I reflect on frequently. Thanks for your eloquent way of saying it.
that’s a powerful image to kick off some thought-provoking prose.
Thanks David 🙏❤️
It does, you are right. Thank you. And may you have a blessed day, too!
Gorgeous words and thoughts as always, Jamie. We shall return to dust, but thinking about our dust and the dust that exists all around is sort of mind blowing. For what is more common place and ubiquitous than dust. Thank you, Jamie.
Thanks Jenn! That dust just arrives. 🙏❤️Bless you
Beautiful Jamie. 🍃
Thank you Jo ❤️
A really engaging write, Jamie. I love the theme of 'asking the dust' for clues as to what was there before, a notion well captured in the poem. As for the question what is left, maybe the part of us/it that is still One, that which is eternally true -- and which the dust may reveal to those who are adept at 'digging'.
Thanks Josh! I am digging away to set that oneness free. A body in a soul.
Yes, it is good to listen. We are among others, past and present. Good stuff. I had not thought of the distinction between dust and ash. I was reminded of TS Elliott, 'Ash on an old man's sleeve', but wonder if TS missed the distinction. I need to let this sink in. Yes, ‘tapestry’... Elliott again '... the tattered arras woven with a silent motto’. He digs into history.
The internet is here while it lasts even if I need my headphones in old age. Smile. Having subscribed to his concessionary Channel McGilchrist a few months ago I listened this Christmas to Iain doing some reading. One of his readings was John Donne's sermon at St Paul's, London, for the evening of Christmas Day, 1624.
I have just found a transcript here https://aclerkofoxford.blogspot.com/2009/12/merry-christmas.html
Quote: “The air is not so full of motes, of atoms, as the Church is of mercies; and as we can suck in no part of air, but we take in those motes, those atoms," [then he makes a short list but goes on to refer to] "… such mercies as a regenerate man will call mercies, though a natural man would call them accidents, or occurrences, or contingencies”.
I guess I am still a ‘natural man’ and am grateful for some contingencies of the less severe kind. Smile. For the earlier Chinese poet we were: “a grain falling into the Great Barn.”
Philip, once again, you respond with Poetry. Living into the questions. I will read this over a few times. T.S. Eliot was definitely sharing the experiences of observing World War I. Years ago, we followed the diary of a relative who fought in all the major battles in the Canadian Corps in 1917 and 18. How anyone survived is a miracle. A wasteland, indeed. Maybe it was dust on an old man’s sleeve. Once those atoms
turn to dust - where do the mercies go? I’m a natural man too. A seed of grain. Watching itself grow. Thank you for everything you share. I will check it all out. Bless you. 🙏❤️
Such great questions❣️
Do words have ghosts?
Did a story tell me?
Did I ever tell mine?
And to ask the dust ~ what an intriguing suggestion ~ 💕🙏
I've spoken to the ocean, a couple of big rocks, Sequoia trees (and others), an anthill, the dune grass... but never the dust
Thanks Veronika! It all started with the observation that dust just seems to arrive in the aftermath of undisturbed time. The final judge of existence? Was I here? Bless you 🙏❤️