All is Well

All is Well

Quitting is good.
The garden was never meant to be, overcome by weeds.
I walked away and took my seeds with me.
On another plot, I set them down to start again.
From the dark earth, things grew beneath the rain.

Alone feels fine.
I have the sun, the breeze, and a new day.
I cannot determine what anyone else may say.
Still, the silence within feels fresh, not dead.
The future, clean, like a shining new knife edge.

Change is hope.
Broken can realign and once again be mine.
The heart is meant to weep and smile.
When the weight and wait, the tears and tears
become all the same. Then, I will know.

Age bends time.
All will circle back to be as it was meant to be.
The promise never forgotten; the will never slept.
Creation has been busy spinning its crystalline web.
When light returns, the pattern will be seen.

Alice W. Lee

The Garden Where Everything Matters

The Garden Where Everything Matters

It’s too late now to see color at the Arboretum,
only the moonlight in a dark and silent world
of trees, sage, flowers, stream, grass, and mulch.
I walk among the labeled specimens, a shadow of myself.
 
I have been studying all day, all week, all month,
then tested and retested, until I am filled with fear and loathing.
Anatomy, biochemistry, physiology, immunology.
Information: I am buried beneath it.
 
Medical training is the line that drags me, gags me, tags me,
like a fish caught on a hook, gasping on the dock.
I have been running—a duck among leopards—
straining to keep up, my wings forgotten.
 
What has become of me?
I have died and no one cares.
But tonight I return to pay my respects,
to the tender part of me that is gone.  
 
I knew this garden once when it glowed in the sunlight,
and breezes blew through cherry blossoms and rippled the stream.
I watched the bright koi swim among the clouds reflected in the water,
and the rhythm of my heart felt as tranquil as my breath.
 
Can the dead recreate life's tapestry with just one thread?
I am wasting my time.  This doesn't matter.
Then a thought arrived as if it were my own:
Everything matters.
 
A bolus of awareness fills me, and i vanish.
I become this Presence and am its knowing.
It lifts me and the moment out of space-time
and illuminates my soul with solace and peace.
 
Over time, the rigors of training transform
many doe-eyed healers into tin soldiers,
marching smartly in line, doing what they're told,
stoic under stress and numb to feeling.
 
I visit the garden to wander through who I am.
Its fragrance, beauty, and peace shelter me
and nurture the sacred within my soul,
where sensitivity and creativity grow.

Decades pass, and yet I cherish still
the space the arboretum saved for me:
a place where everything matters,
and the invisibles flourish and flower.

Alice W. Lee

The Rich Witch

The Rich Witch

The house cleaners spilled bleach on my carpet,
broke the lamp, and scratched the furniture.
I shared how good cleaners were hard to get.
"That's a rich-person problem," he demurred.

The letter implied I was a witch--
using crystals and incantations.
Needing a lawyer to save my niche,
as the Board invented accusations.

Extraordinary-person problems are even worse--
litigation over incantations vs. intentions.
To live this way is an envied curse,
for who could relate to such situations?

Journaling, after a long day with patients--
subtle and soft, as if I were imagining it--
a spiritual presence, a shift in vibrations,
then feeling connected and cherished.

A reminder of life beyond this space,
where a rich witch is still beloved and known. 
That is why I believe in grace,
and a heaven where I am not alone.

Alice W. Lee

You Are

You Are

Who are you, beyond yourself?
When your thoughts and feelings become
strange, unwelcomed intruders,
abusing you day and night. 
Do you envy the freedom of
ashes whipped by the wind?

When the rhythms of life--
sleep, breath, and stride--
jerk and lurch off-charted,
and your hair leaves in clumps
upon your trembling brush,
do You leave too?

After the mirrors have betrayed you,
and colluded with the meds, 
to ravage your face and shape,
will you hang those labels
one by one around your neck
and stand rejected in a stall? 

Open the envelope to your invitation.
and read between its lines.
Let us play the game of hide and seek,
or polish the silver,
until you reveal the real You,
beneath life's shifting disguises.

You are the hider and the seeker,
the remover of tarnish,
and the challenge of Love,
to be found in any mirror--
the Infinite One creating,
with the light and the night.

Alice W. Lee

Beautiful Poems by David Whyte

Have you heard of the poet, David Whyte?  Some poets write things that muddy the mind, but David's poems illuminate the soul.  I recommend his beautiful poems to you and hope that you will enjoy them and use them for your own enlightenment.  

I can't decide on a favorite.  They are all like gems, glittering in the dark, each filled with its own living light.  He must have an amazing soul.  Here is a link to samples of his poetry:

David Whyte

THE LIGHTEST TOUCH

Good poetry begins with
the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then like a hand in the dark
it arrests the whole body,
steeling you for revelation.
In the silence that follows
a great line
you can feel Lazarus
deep inside
even the laziest, most deathly afraid
part of you,
lift up his hands and walk toward the light.

 -- David Whyte
 from Everything is Waiting for You
 ©2003 Many Rivers Press

This poem moved me deeply as well. I felt the poem knocking at the door of a part of me that seldom receives visitors. Here is a poem, alive and breathing, pushing past our poised facades, and asking to see, instead, the vulnerable, real, hidden part of being human. By wanting to know, David Whyte seems to invite us to be open to an authentic connection and conversation. Isn't that a more satisfying and fulfilling way to relate to ourselves and others?

SELF PORTRAIT

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.

I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

  -- David Whyte
  from Fire in the Earth

Remember Me

Remember Me

When the sun sets,
Or at the rising of the dawn,
Remember me,
When I am gone.

Remember my imperfections—
My incurable lateness,
Living As-ifness instead of Isness,
My smallness clashing with greatness.

The healer-sage-artist bent over
Unwieldy words that slanting-say
What is impossible to show.
But you know, anyway…

When you think of me,
Your heart glowing with my name,
I will be remembering you.
Our lighted loop will remain the same.

When the wind ruffles your hair,
Or the leaves flutter against your feet,
And the rain drops tears upon your cheeks,
Let them gift you with my touch until we meet.

Alice W. Lee

Before a Shift

Before a Shift

It's strange to be here,
When I thought I would be there.

I feel disappointed,
Somehow lacking and disjointed.

If, perhaps, and whys,
Intentions interwoven with sighs.

No more room left to grieve,
No more tears to cleanse or relieve.

Senses turned off, the mind in a hole,
Don’t ask me anything—my heart won't know.

I will simply linger here,
Until I am able to transform it to there.

Alice W. Lee

Love Affair

Love Affair

Be not blind to self—
The dark corners and the light.
Be not deaf to self—
The cacophony and soul’s song.

And when you look down,
Removed as angels from your pain,
Look again,
Embrace compassion,
As a choice, in which you drown.

Be kind to the child within—
Let tears remind you of tenderness.
Be patient with your incessant “Now!”
Find the passion to begin.

When you want to run away,
And say, “I cannot,” and “I’m afraid,”
Stay...
Gather your strength,
To chase another unknown day.

Be all of you and more—
Acquaint yourself with who you are.
Be the love that knows no bounds—
To kiss away the wounds you bore.

Alice W. Lee

Hold Lightly

Hold Lightly

Hold lightly to life,
Like a ball,
That rises and falls.

Let it roll,
As you stroll.
Sharing, as you go.

Hold lightly to love,
Like the breath,
On the notes of a song.

Let it flow,
Come or go,
Trust where it belongs.

Alice W. Lee

Homesick

Captured light

Art by Gabriel Dawe, Exhibition called Wonder, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Renwick Gallery

Homesick

I want to be home.
I have been gone.
Stuck in time.
Working with matter.
Bound to things
Lost and cold.

I want to be light.
Freed from this night.
Know my soul.
Moving as love.
Be the essence
Of eternity formed.

I want to be me.
Heaven beneath my feet.
No more waiting.
Knowing I’m enough.
Cocooned by God.
Alive in Oneness.

I want to belong.
It’s been so long.
On the fringe.
Carrying this load.
Take me back.
Send me home.

Alice W. Lee

Unlikely Places

The gift of oneself

A chair from the cliff--the nature of gifts and gifts from nature.

Unlikely Places

It was vibrating at the plane of shame and pain.
He explained its nature and illustrated its effects.
“The more I love someone, the more I criticize them.”

(How curious to find this cactus by this forgotten lane…)

He taught, “We are alike.  We are average
and must work harder to be good enough.”
Its point poisoned instantly—I could hardly feel myself.

It was vibrating at the plane of fear.
She explained its nature and illustrated its effects.
“Be good.  Drive carefully.  Don’t die on the road.”

(How strange to hear it singing in this shadowy sphere…)

She warned, “Always wear make-up when you go out."
"To avoid wrinkles, you should stop having expressions.”
A mask for my mask to mask the life without and within.

It was vibrating at the plane of sound.
He explained its nature and illustrated its effects.
“I love you.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.”

(How surprising to find it in this vacuum, spinning around…)

He repeated, “I’m too busy (to play with the kids,
hold a conversation, or catch the fly)."
Oneness that leaves one feeling lonelier than being alone.

It was vibrating at the plane of service.
He explained its nature and illustrated its effects.
“Would you like a picture taken of the two of you?”

(How poignant to feel its warmth melt the frozen surface…)

He revealed, “When I was young and naïve . . .
I gave $20.00 to an addict and waited and waited for his return.”
The butterfly effect of such gifts determines its restoration.

It vibrates at every plane of creation.
I know its nature and have felt its effects.
Thank you for loving as you are.

(How enlightening for the soul to grow from exploration...)

Emmanuel said, “Love is all that exists.
Love is the universal communication.”*
As long as it was meant in love, I honor it, unconditionally.

Alice W. Lee

*Emmanuel’s Book Compiled by Pat Rodegast and Judith Stanton, p 47

Chipped China Cup

Chipped China Cup

Middle-aged, with curly, graying hair,
she enters my practice because of her despair.
Layers of fat beneath her floral dress,
her eyes cast a shadow on all they rest.

“I was never perfect enough for my mother.”
“Last night I dreamed I was fighting a tiger.”
“I refuse to talk to my husband so we use notes.”
“There were too many words on the one he wrote.”

I listen and think while seated at my desk,
pondering on patterns, weighing what is best.
My mind dissects, and my heart connects,
busily analyzing as she reflects.

I know her mother--so many such mothers-- 
and the unfulfilled need to be good-enough daughters.
The belief that perfection could earn true love,
and holds enough power to prevent its loss.

A vision dawns of a chipped teacup lit by light,
sitting on a windowsill, simple and white.
“Even a chipped China cup is perfect,
if loved perfectly,” a thought interjects.

For, love leads to perfection—this is the order--
the yearning and earning of a child can’t change a mother,
who searches for love she lacked from another,
forgetting those she holds, leaving souls to suffer.

On a rainy afternoon, her husband came--
balding, bent, black umbrella as a cane.
Like J. Alfred Prufrock, obsequious and mild.
A soft voice with sad eyes, even when he smiled.

“Before my wife became ill, she asked me not to leave.
Alone, in her depression, abandoned to her grief.”
“I promised that I wouldn’t, and I will stay.”
“I don’t care how long it takes for her to find her way.”

“I removed dirty dishes from the dishwasher.”
“I thought they were clean so I cleared them for her”
“Now, she refuses to speak with me.” 
“I’ll write shorter notes if that’s what she wants to see.”

The connection between love and perfection,
gave him the strength to endure denigration.
The chipped teacup became my symbol—
of love transforming the chipped to whole.

Years later, when writing for a conference,
I remembered the words, my youth, and innocence.
“Even a chipped China cup is perfect if loved perfectly.”
A sudden shift--of meaning made for me.

My heart filled with the love that had been given,
to the chipped China cup that I had been,
waiting for someone's warm embrace,
blind to the light that gave me grace.

Alice W. Lee

At the Gate

In memory of love without barriers and barriers that reveal love

At the Gate

Together, inside our walled garden, by the red gate.
December in Taipei, Taiwan.  Mimosa, courtyards, and luggage.
The air is always warm.  The sunset casts bronze light and black shadows.
My grandmother and I stand close, but talk of parting.

She is fifty and steps gingerly, on half-bound feet.
I am seven and skip along, braids bound by red string.  
I am leaving for America soon,
to reunite with my father there.

I have no choice but to go. 
Am already aching for my return—
to see her wrinkled face again,
and hold her vein-filled hands in mine.

“Grandma, it will be a long time before my return.
You may die, before I can come back.”
“Don’t worry.  Street vendors often come, selling ‘Long Life Pills’. 
I will live to a hundred and wait here for you.”

“That’s good.  Remember to buy them. 
It will take me a long time to grow up. 
I promise I will come back to you.
Don’t forget me.  I will always remember you.”

At the last moment, I refuse to get on the plane. 
I wriggle away and run towards her.
“Grandma!  Grandma! Help me!”  I call.
I am not going!  This is my choice!

My mother pulls me back to the plane,
and I resist with all my strength. 
She slaps me hard. 
The pain freezes me forever.

Grandmother looks on, unblinking,
standing behind a barrier made of rope.
Her face and arms hang down.
Tears and tares at the gate.

Alice W. Lee

The Ballerina

The horcrux of love, freedom, and creativity

The Ballerina

16 years old, 8½ by 11 paper, a 14-pan watercolor set,
and a pin-point of hair on a small brush.
Dab, dad, dab, dad, David, dab, dad, David…
Painting L’air Du Temp’s ad of a ballerina—
a floating angel of swirling vibrant color.
Light from a window shines on her black hair,
illuminating her, as she dances in a dungeon dark space.

Hyper-focusing, blending light and dark,
texturing rubber cement on the shadowed walls.
Blinking back the tears, keeping my lips firm.
Everything must be perfect—her face and dress.
Creating something beautiful out of water and despair,
because it would be useless to question why.
“Why did you stop him from seeing me?”

Why did you stand like a guard at the front door
and send him away, as he smiled his poor smile?
What is so wrong with a boy who calls,
to argue about how to cook an egg,
to share how his mother had died,
then writes of his mission in Hong Kong,
and comes to visit, after being gone so long.

I had been alone all my life, until he came.
Why do you hate his name?
And I…I stood silent and afraid.
I should have said, “You are a monster.  I hate you.” 
I should have pushed you aside and opened the door.
I should have cried to him, “Please forgive us.  I’m so sorry.”
Instead, I paint, with blinding focus and quiet intensity.

Walking by, he smirks, “You’ve never looked happier.”
If I were a python, I would wrap myself around him
and squeeze, until every bone cracks beneath my coils.
Like the Joker, I could put a blade in his mouth
and show him how my happiness feels.
I return to the painting and let
the work transform my hatred and regret.

The ballerina shone like the Orion nebula.
When it was done, I gave it to him, as if to say,
“I forgive you for being who you are.”
His sister saw it later, hanging above his bed,
and asked me to give it to her, and I said, “No.”
He wrapped my forgiveness in brown paper for her sake.
Then—along with the part of me that paints—it was gone.

Alice W. Lee