Christin's Words from Sunshine Hill

If it is to be music
you must be present to it, must offer to it
a profound self-remembering.
-from Altar Music

Sunday, January 27, 2019

The Word is Life





If I could bring to you through words
Everything that can be seen,
Felt, held, imagined, envisioned, danced, sung,
 And all the other ways we know the world
The Mystery that holds that world and worlds infinite,
I would.
If I could find a word,
But that word would need to reach into the unending depths
Of the multiverse.
 It would need to echo into the unknown and unnamed.
So all my life, the form of it,
Became a search for words,
The contemplation of each one,
The stringing them upon the thread of intuition,
The hope that together they will ring like bells.
These are my books.
These are what I give
In hopes that the frequency of their sound will reach you
Wherever you might be in time and space
And where you might be beyond.
These are my books,
That no matter the topic or the genre of each one,
I hope will open you and move you
Into vastness of the ordinary,
Eternity of the moment,
Fullness of life
That also can be found in your each breath,
In your every word spoken, written, and received.

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Leave A Message

Dawn at Sunshine Hill

It is January of a new year I hope to keep from breaking my heart. What choices can I make in this ambiguous world? Early in the month the nightmares came, the quaking in the deep reaches of the soul, the cries of something caught—imprisoned there. Of wings breaking against bars. It was the world struggling in the dark. It was the song of freedom caught in a paralyzed throat. From deep in the world’s soul I have sensed the unending yearning to sing, to fly, and I have felt the quaking behind closed doors, impenetrable walls, the paralyzed will.

I hesitate to put this into words.

We of this world have now been taught the stranglehold on life itself, on truth, on goodness, beauty and the unity of being that once we knew to be our destiny. We recognized it from the way it mirrored the depth in us. Each morning now I wake wondering. How can I meet this thing that slouches towards us? Resisting it seems not to work. Is there a possibility of calling forth from it that bird with broken wings? And if so, what is the charm that must be worked, the song that must be sung?

If anyone knows the answer, leave a message underneath a stone or in the knothole of your favorite tree. If you still can sing, let your voice be heard humming in the grocery line. If you are even now blessed with flight, soar, and let fall upon the cities, on mountains and deserts where the hermits live, and let drift across the yards of people in small towns pearly scraps of hope, green faith, and the translucent rain of love.