A poem by author and spiritual mentor Amy Haible...
At Garrison
In the great stone hall sitting
where the monks, long dead,
sang the Pentecost over and over,
so even now the walls reverberate
with its subtle, shining, echo, “Oh love divine!”
One of many we all breathe.
Circling around our selves,
wading in together
these deep waters.
We start out stormy,
then become murky,
and finally, after hours
may just turn to glass.
Who knows how high the altar is,
or what must be sacrificed?
We think we know, and then we don’t
know any thing at all.
Into the silent space we sink,
so singularly observant.
We begin to watch the dreams
float in like gossamer pillows
of feeling, remembering,
planning, sensing, wishing and regretting,
Loving and forgetting.
last night in my small cell I dreamt
we were flying in the great hall.
I could see us rising toward the rafters
like little mayflies floating effortlessly up
in a spring pool.
And only wishing it were so
I found little flippers
on my feet and on my hands,
that moved the silent space like water.
And it came that with a thought,
the airiliee ethers, the clear awareness
In which we all hung low,
could somehow lift this ephemera of a body
just a bit higher.
So, I flapped and rose,
haltingly at first.
And sensing now
some escape velocity,
found us all rising, rising, rising
to touch the ceiling like mayflies
in a pond, reaching the surface only
to see a new world above the old.
All of us, lifting, lifting, lifting,
pushing up and out of this cold stone world
to surface together somewhere new and lighter.
In a chorus singing now, “Oh Love Divine!”
— Amy Haible
Amy is the author of Training Wheels: An Experienced Guide To The Lessons Of A Course In Miracles. She will be one of the featured teachers in an upcoming retreat weekend — visit "A Virtual Retreat for The Heart" page for all the details.
