lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard
yet always present.

When all other things seem lively and real,
this one fades. Yet the notes of it

touch as gently as fingertips, as the sound
of the names laid over each child at birth.

I want to stay in that music without striving or cover.
If the truth of our lives is what it is playing,

the telling is so soft
that this mortal time, this irrevocable change,

becomes beautiful. I stop and stop again
to hear the second music.

I hear the children in the yard, a train, then birds.
All this is in it and will be gone. I set my ear to it as I would to a heart.

by Annie Lighthart

A few things went different from plan this week, resulting in some unexpected time to do… what? Combined with a spacious retreat day and special time in the company of horses and their people, this made for a week in which I’ve been more aware than usual of what Annie Lighthart calls ‘the second music’.

I know exactly what she means although I’d never have thought to describe it like that. It seems to be connected with the knowing what is happening while it’s happening, that subtle but important shift in perspective that is accessible to anyone but definitely seems to happen more with practice.

Makes me feel grateful, and alive.

And you? Does it speak to you? Can you hear it… now?

by Rumi, interpreted by Coleman Barks

A little Rumi snippet from a longer poem ‘Burnt Kabob‘ (as translated/interpreted by Coleman Barks) that’s traveled with me since my early days on Holy Isle nearly two decades (!) ago. It jumped into my head yesterday as I was getting ready to leave my family in Holland again and I felt myself contracting a bit in defence to the feelings that were around…

One of the habitual reactions to difficulty that I see in myself and others, seems to be a kind of closing down, a curling in to a sense of isolation and separateness. And so I don’t think Rumi is saying here that there’s anything wrong with sadness, but more an invitation to drop the story and wake up out of being lost in thoughts and emotions.

Mary Oliver tells us in Wild Geese that ‘meanwhile, the world goes on’ and similarly invites an opening to the magic of life around us, even though there might be despair. Rumi, in true 13th century mystic style, points at the ‘blessings dropping their blossoms around us’. What does that even mean?! My rational mind may question this, but it does lead me to opening, to noticing, to reconnecting. And that made it easy to count my blessings of the last few weeks and the love that is glittering between us. Thank you Rumi…

Photo by Vanessa on Unsplash