Saturday Morning Haiku

Saturday morning. I putter around, play yards of solitaire, feel like I’m waiting for something: the phone call, the snow, spring, or Jim to get up, or to time to go to the meeting. I lie down to follow the Yoga Nidra meditation which ends with this suggestion:

You go into the cave of the heart

There is red mist blowing from the mouth of the cave

In the cave you encounter a Divine Being

(these shift until they settle into a Tree)

You ask your question

(Is this really necessary? Not the question, what lies behind the question)

(That’s not your question)

If you don’t have a question the teacher suggests ask this:

What is the source of Peace?

(The red mist in the cave of the heart, comes the answer. Feels like a cheat. Like a non-answer)

(How do I release fear?)

(Ask this instead: What is the source of Peace?)

Right now. In this moment, whatever is going on, What is the source of Peace?

This simple breathing

And two red cardinals perched

In the dogwood tree



About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
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