Today, I’d like to share a poem from my student, Rach. She offers some wonderful insights through the truthfulness of her lines and stanzas. While I often write the same things in a different kind of prose, there are ways that poetry and other forms of writing can feel more compelling by the nature of how they are presented. Also, the lovely picture is from her as well.
With that, I hope you enjoy this thoughtful sharing of Self-discovery.
What felt so real, deep, and certain just there
Is gone now and is no more.
Maybe to come back again
Who knows what is in store?
Sometimes I feel I get it, it’s fabulous,
it’s flux and flow and change.
Then I’m neck deep in depression
I “am depressed” and feel I’m going insane.
Insane because I’m desperate, drowning
stopped in my tracks in dark despair.
When just yesterday I was dancing, laughing so much I almost fell off a chair.
Once again despair passes
and once again I see
So this despair is not me!
I’m bright and bushy
Full of love and light.
Is this then what is real??
Surrendering to silence
Sensing the expansiveness, that whole
The space of stillness in my soul
Sinking deep into my Self
The Self that ponders “which me is I?”
“The light, bright and bushy one?
The depressed, dressed in despair, done one?”
So surrendering deeper, further into that which observes the pondering itself.
The space that witnesses whatever is
what thought, sense, state, emotion is dwelt.
Whatever’s dealt and happens to be there,
and then the next one as though the previous never were.
Constant flux and flow and change…
Which I is really me?
I am that from which all is passing through
That from which manifests
the movement we may think
and believe is solid me and you.
This me and you is momentary,
Not long the same.
Tears, laughter, listlesness
None forever remain.
What remains is I
That which is
Will always be
Which we cannot describe with words
And cannot see.
That from which these words arise
Cannot be said,
Only truly known.
What moves this pen,
From where these words are manifest
Into this now
This is-ness is
invisible, indescribable somehow.
And this how’s not to be figured out
not something to be done.
Only felt and known
in fully letting go.
In recognising and dropping in
to the space that’s still and sees
that our breath, our heartbeat
are breathed and beat
Not through our wish or will.
I do not breathe
The breath is there
I do not do it
It is done
I am life
I do not live
I am alive!
Much is manifest in many forms
in this constant web of change.
All is one.