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Winds of Change

Writing Practice: What does devotion mean to you? What does your devotion look like in action? Write down seven things you are devoted to in your life. Start with a simple list by just naming them, then write a short narrative or poem about each one. Freewrite into the details of this person, place or thing. What aspects are you specifically devoted to and why? [Excerpted from Writing as a Path to Awakening (Albert Flynn DeSilver)

My Response [I explored just one from the list]: I stumble over the word devotion. Its meaning for me holds a history seeped in ecclesiastical dogma and intense attachment, neither of which compels me to live a life of passion or a life of service. However, if I take the word and reframe it with love, purpose, and commitment I can build that list of seven.

Today, my list would include: Saskatoon picking; Family and friends; Writing; Contemplation; Listening; Presence; Gratitude

This group of seven sprung from a morning of Saskatoon picking.

Saskatoon cascades ready to pluck in my loose stained fingers plopping like skimmed pebbles over still water into a ready bucket dangling from scarves snuggly tethered to my ample waist. It is U-pick season for hopefuls, gathering berries for pies, smoothies, freezers, and crumble. I am one of many pickers from a global community speaking different tongues; young, with mothers, elders with hats warding off heat, and husbands in tandem; some mute, others rows apart. I catch every syllable, each note of disruption pulled from the otherwise quiet and peaceful genesis of a new day.

I could say, devotion is family, yet today there are rumblings that take me outside my usual practice of gratitude. It is the ho-hum, numb-dumb feel of sticky stuckness that permeates each nook and cranny of my persona, where nothing specific claws me to apathy where devotion, is so far down the rabbit hole it can only burrow deeper, and stay in the dark. And while, I know the sun shines above the clouds—no amount of knowing can loosen the blar-ness—its fingers clearly hold fast and steady. Refuse to let-up.

So while I discern devotion as practice, who says that this commitment needs to take another shape other than the darkness that clings quite ardently to my current guise snapping gratitude away temporarily, pushing aside love and purpose taking me further down the warren before the light seeps back?

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So often, I write to explore the invisible bubbling beneath the surface. In its fiz I discover insights. The challenge is always to stay in the bog before I can reach its gratitude and keys. Days like today are hard yet, regardless write4health is my process and backbone.


fools day

Image

look to this day, it’s shroud of fog

blocks the light. trees heavy with snow

fallen, light as prairie dust-

 

icicles cling to the roof where snow-melt

springs momentarily; transforms, runs free

down roofs; caught mid-stream.

 

and told to stay as temperature halts

escape back to earth’s crust-

 

now the light is dimmed

by unspoken rays trapped behind

cloud cover.

 

a silence dangles in density, unheard

by passing trucks. their roar unmuffled

 

by stillness, or hushed in unspoken

glamour, held in peace

brought by low-hanging haze

 

it will come, speaks the calm

to all that listen beyond proximity

 

it will dance with the light

of transition, no matter the instant

of transformation—

 

it will move in fluidity,

once more, with patience

 

at its core. from that centre

it will emerge freed

by sun’s rays and gleam.

 

©Angela Simmons 2014