12. Day 14: Easy As Pi

I couldn’t not comment on today’s date of 3-14-15, the biggest Pi Day  (in USA) of them all.  And how perfect to remind myself (and you) that Love is just as easy. Delicious or mathematical as is needed.   Or let’s just say that yesterday’s pickle is today’s relish.  My blocked sensibilities melted away in light of the warmth and welcome of Holy Spirit’s Voice.  I realized two very important things about my writing and my poetry.  One, is that I can write ekphrastic poetry given time and permission from within.  The second, more important thing I learned was that my reason for writing in both forms is that it is how I feel connected to my inner Truth.  I write because it is one of the most delicious ways I have discovered for me to express the divine love I am. In writing I feel both process and processed, loved and loving, divine and divined.  It is where and how I feel that integration of life and love and moment all at once.  If I forget, I just extend love to whatever I am feeling (or not feeling as it was yesterday) and Love is revealed once again to be my partner and presence.

In case you were interested to read the poem I took to class and indeed read aloud without shame or explanation (though possibly with a well meaning quiver), read below the subject of Louis Legrand’s “Dancer with Red Hair”:

Louis Legrand; “Dancer with Red Hair”

“A Certain Satisfaction”

My hair escaped its tortured capture of pin and coil

In my final dervish pirouette on stage.

I come alive when this happens,

This tumble bunch of tresses glowing and flying

Like the shower of pulsing embers in the grate last night

Spraying out onto the milky tiles in front of the fireplace.

Feeling my hair clinging

To the sweat of my own prowess

Like so many read hatted schoolgirls

Clutching on to Madame’s hand crossing a dangerous road,

Reminds me why I dance.

I dance because I can;

To feel the speed and pounce

Alive in my own body

Yearning, aching, begging

To be free.

I am the fox who gave birth tonight

To her fevered bundle of kits

Within able earshot of the hen house.

I knew exactly what I was doing;

one ecstatic disheveled moment

In order to feel,

My heart lit by the flint of purpose;

A fire of my own making