Yesterday I read the message from our Mother Quan Yin on Soul Connections.

This is an open letter to the Other, Soulmate, Twin Flame or to any who move you towards yourself...

 

I am an Empath,you know. I can sense your tidal movements towards the shore and back again, as if they were a film of this vast sea playing before my eyes in darkened theater on a sunny afternoon.

I am drawn to you as the shore is to that sea, but think I also understand the essence of that primordial relationship, to be a touchstone, never a container, earth giving reference to sea and sky's seemingly boundary-less existence.

But there are countless shores, it seems, each sensing their deep connection to this virtual sea, this film playing out to unseen eyes in darkened theaters on sunny afternoons.

The sea says "it's my nature, this dance with shore and sky, I can no more count the grains of sand, than I can hold on to the sunbeams that sparkle or the phosphourescent glow of the moonbeams on my inky depth..."

I feel we have danced this dance more than once or twice or too many times to count. What that means exactly is as unfathomable to me as the very sea that draws me.

It's said you're drawing your soul's family together. To what purpose? In this timeless time of overlap, pastfuturepresent, the many permutations of connection are boggling.

Yesterday, when the ionic charge of the air had my skin crawling with electricity,  the fluid in my body roiled and raged against the boundary of my skin,  maybe also, in anticipation of the equinox, that point of balance, tidal rising, seeking equilibrium.  I was lost in this great elemental battle of heart/mind/soul.  I realized I've spent my lifetime in longing for this Other, who like the sea was equally illusive and uncontained.

So these words, from past, from tomorrow, I send to you;

a bit of Rilke, too, to set the stage for this leg of my soul's journey.....what he says so succinctly,  please bear with my own fumblings...

I love the dark hours of my being in which my senses drop into the deep.

I have found in them, as in old letters,

my private life, that is already lived through,

and become wide and powerful now, like legends.

Then I know there is room in me for a second huge and timeless life.

But sometimes I am like the tree that stands

over a grave, a leafy tree, fully grown,

who has lived out that particular dream, that the dead boy

(around whom its warm roots are pressing)

lost through his sad moods and his poems.

 

(written to my Animus/2007)

Tesseract

 

You have wooed me and won me.

Now the Tesseract has wrinkled  time/distance

and I wait. Soon,

too soon, not soon enough, equilibrium lost,

when we face to face to

head to heart to breath to

breath to soul to soul

BE.

My pupils, deer in headlights,

dilate and a thousand stars explode behind my retina.

My mouth, full of sand, when I want roses.

Roses, ah roses,

seduction of scents, senses and intentions.

They bud, unfold and die,

pressed to chest to

book, each a posey sent.

White: purity, love undefiled

Yellow: friendship sought

Pink: fondness exposed

Red: red of beauty, heart,

red of blood, Red of undying love.

But those roses, those roses

in their seduction,  in reaching for the impossible,

that just beyond your grasp,

you strain your reach for perfection.

Pierced, the flesh,

the soul, a single drop of life

lived perfectly unfolds;

a bud, a blossum, a Rose,

pressed to  chest,  in a book,

a posey sent to you from me.

 

and finally... (written for my son, SQ after his first bout of unrequited)

Cruel April

 

Words, poseys sent winging.

No recall, no indian-give, no take-backs.

What's said is said.

Caution, wind thrown like die

and I wait.

Wait for the subtle hum,

the Marconi buzz of signals sent and received.

I read you loud

and clearly you didn't mean

to be so intimate with a stranger.

Familiar stranger, who sent no audible syllables

connecting thee to me,

but spoke volumes by

intimation of my soul's longing.

Could be fooled,

playing one.

April 2001

 

So take these ramblings with a grain of salt, precious commodity,

the common denominator of the sea and the shore.

love,
lulu