‘Tumultuous’ comes to mind, a word to characterize the departing year. Grace was never absent, but the sacrifices made, the loved ones lost to illnesses of body and mind, the confusions that still abide––its a bitter, bitter drink to imbibe. But I’ll raise a toast to the grim face of the passing year, to its liberating disillusionments, alerting us to the painful distinctions we cannot ignore; to its estrangements that made us strangers even to ourselves. A toast to devaluations that left us asking what our time is worth; a toast to the soulful distillations of an alchemy preparing us for god-knows-what.
When 2020’s hand was called, his cards turned up––all the world to see––in spite of the ill-will, bluster and balderdash, we found among us healers, magnifiers-of-light and grace, a new coin of the realm, a new language heard; its for us to speak and share.
Here’s to that new language, here’s to learning the value what we have––all we have––this invaluably abundant living, breathing moment.
Our Shire New Year ignited with a late afternoon sundog and a contorting rainbow which resolved into an convergence of opposing arcs. Simmering in a stew of pinks eluding definitive names, the sun became lost in a skyfield of purest, colorless light––like a radiance “behind the sun.” Disarmed before the visionary scene, we reclined in winter’s meadowgrass and in silence.
Imagination’s dominion selects fine tealeaves from the harvest of this occasion. We’ll share a cup when you come; the taste will say it all.
In a manner of speaking, and from a certain angle, body leads in archery.Discipline of form carries the student through the usual awkwardness to a wonderful sense of rhythm and ease.The archer’s body gradually awakens, pivots from reaction to response––wasting tensions dissolve into the joy of holding a purposeful draw. Engaged with its own sensuous knowledge, the body savors a new kind of tension––the range simply an extension of the archer, as the web is of a centered spider.
Here, at point-anchor, where vertical and horizontal, spacial and temporal, where stillness and movement meet, the patient moment can ripen into the deeper praxis of surrender.To what?What does such an archer be-hold and see?“Look before you leap,” so the old trope goes.On re-cognizing the Mark, its established in the devoted eye––a visual Anchorpoint to compliment the body’s harmonic twin.Twinship is only resolved in unity’s mirror.
A beloved teacher of mine once concluded the story of an old archer who’d been invited to share his art:Students were assembled alongside a long range giving the old man the sublime support of silent regard.When the archer’s deliberate arrow––his only one––flew and struck ‘Bullseye!’ my teacher was not the only witness who suddenly broke into tears.“He’d shot himself!”
In the Platonic mysteries, its said that “the fruit is the cause of the tree.”What then, dear one, is the archer’s intension?