Breathing Light

Breathing Light

Of course it’s hard work.
Of course.
It’s terrifying.

It’s immense,
Doing the monumental task of lifting;
Of lifting the grave stones;
Of heaving the box covers;
Of prising open the trunk lids;
Of sweeping heavy damask wrapping out of the way;
Of wrenching off swaddling clothes in unwilling lengths at a time;
Of course it’s hard work –
lifting the heavy settled weights of my history.

The weighted covers had their purpose.
They protected any thought of re-living.
They protected from moments (and swathes) of history that no one would want to remember.

And they were beautiful!

The covers were so wonderful.
So effectively sheltered and archived all that held pain.
Stunning colourful, classical - stones, covers, lids, wrapping … swaddling.
You might have been one who commented!
You might have been one to compliment,
To positively critique,
To say how magnificent they were, how well they worked and how truly beautiful all crafted coverings were.

Profoundly and creatively, the murky dark effluent locked into dark, unlit spaces.

Of course it’s hard work.
Moving everything which held a life of its own,
Well beyond the reason for its creation (and keeping in place).

But on a day when I could not speak, and the lids began to move themselves, I had no choice.

Take a breath. Take enormous lungful, steel muscles and heave.
Move.
From darkness to light.
In this light I breathe.
The light of all life flutters and shudders in my lungs.
The stones cry out.
The covers rattle.
The lids lift themselves.
The wrapping, swaddling slithers its own direction.
Off.

Off.

Lift, move, heave, shift, reveal.

Breathing light,
The monumental task gains wings.
Light as a feather,
Kingfisher brilliant.

Suddenly, in a flash of shocking brightness, all hidden becomes revealed.

And there is light!
And life.
And liberation.

Breathing.
In the Light.
Breathing of the light.
Breathing.
Light.



©E Gray-King 2006

Profile

Another sketch from a sketchbook - all dots if you look carefully and if the scanner got all the detail right.

What of Forgiveness?

Interesting time at Faith2Day at St Columba's today. We were talking of forgiveness, and if a person has to say sorry before they are forgiven. We concluded that there are two parts to forgiveness. One is the forgiver, the other is the one to be forgiven.

To forgive is liberating for the forgiver. To forgive is to let go of painful memory. To put down the burden of always (always) remembering that which was recieved (words, physical contact, or any other kind of personal diminishment) at the whim of another is stupendously liberating. I don't have to keep remembering what I want another to say sorry for.

For the one forgiven, the forgiver truly needs to hear what the forgiven needs to be forgiven for. An "I'm sorry" could cover anything and could be a cover for any real truth. I recall someone telling me about conversations at the near death of another, who asked to be forgiven. The relative said, "tell me what you are sorry for, and I will forgive." The one near death had no words - as the whole of that life was hiding truth. The one near death could not list what needed to be forgiven - to do so would be to acknowledge all s/he had done which caused pain to one other, let alone many others. Even so close to death, this person could not name truth.

Real forgiveness rises out of real truth. One just cannot be without the other. Though I rid myself of the burden of memory by 'forgiving' my perpetrators, it wasn't really forgiveness, as the 'forgiven' never knew. It was me laying down the need for my truth to be named and apologised for by another, which I called forgiveness. Yes it was liberating.

But forgiveness is, to me, a mutual exercise.

Choice

Choice


God, God.

I look up,
I look around.

I see you,
I don't.

I believe you,
I don't.

I wait because there is no choice,
no choice.

My choices go little by little.

Decisions I think are
Big

are actually quite small.

The final and first choice,
the Alpha/Omega choice
is

life or death.


I choose life.

From there,
I have no choice.




2.91

Hands

Sketches.... of hands of mine and others. From years ago. But I love them.

Sides

Sides


Black.
White.
both sides
two sides
flat sides

(fuming sides)
other sides?
more sides?
which side (s)?

Listen.
know
(in)side
out(side)

3 sides
4 points
7 days
8th/eternity

all sides
no sides
all deep
(not flat)

Choose....

sides?

Eternity.



22.7.91

My Sister, our Death

This is a drawing from a photograph taken in South Africa...

For Mark and James

For Mark and James


Ninetendo blips and pows.
Two white pair of socks
balance on the ends of
high, adjustable, hygienic beds.

One bad heart,
the other who knows?

Both cope with the
sounds and smells;
with the instruments
and the prodding.

Not talking much,
they connect even so
to this hitech adventure.

Blips and beeps
cover the creep
of fear held deep.



25.6.92

The Boys, themselves

This is James and Jeffrey, gorgeous sons I have the privilege to (know? mother?). Bad photo, but Pete will do a new one soon. Its composed of sketches while they were little, copies of photos taken at different times and even a poem (the Ghostogator) of Jeffrey's.

Holy Saturday poem

Holy Saturday

This is my waiting time.

You know the time, the day;
that fateful Saturday
between ghoulish, ghastly, deadly Friday
and
exhuberant, exhilerating, life-full Sunday.

The waiting day.

(the day when most thought death ruled
and few waited for promise truth)

The waiting day.
The in-between day.

This is my time.
Much of me has died
(cut out,
exorcised,
laid to rest).

Doctors say the waiting time goes on
(but healing is there).
Creator/Flesh/Spirit says the waiting time goes on
(but the promise will come).

As him who died (and lived)
was still (somehow) life;
I am dead/alive
in my waiting time.



22.7.91

Holy Saturday

This is Holy Saturday - and I still have to get a good image of it. It is much brighter and the fabric is terrifically bright rainbow coloured. We're working on it!