for the need of ritual — a poem

Blue Fountain ©2016 Bo Mackison

Blue Fountain ©2016 Bo Mackison

for the need of ritual

for greetings. for departures.
for days of fulfillment. nights of peace.
a ritual for dreams. for desires.
for sorrow. joy. praise.

a ritual for dawn. sunrise. morning. day.
for evening. sunset. twilight. night.
for dark skies. luminous moon. stars above.

a ritual for beginnings. middles. endings.
for seed. sprout. bud. blossom. seed head.

a ritual for paper and pencil. for written word. spoken word.
for poetry that inspires. that awes. that bleeds the heart dry.
for the gasp. for the sigh. for the song.

a ritual for gratitude. apology. forgiveness.
for fortitude. for solitude.

a ritual for fear. for grief. for anger. for sadness.
for joy. for ease. for comfort.

a ritual for traveling to places unknown.
a ritual for holding. staying. and release.

a ritual for sanctuary. for rest.
for acceptance. for contentment.

a ritual for the threshold. the transition.
for the need of ritual.

~~~~~~

Ritual practice is the activity of cultivating extraordinary ordinariness. ~ Ronald L. Grimes

 

At Tumacácori – A Poem

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Tumacacori Mission Garden ©2016 Bo Mackison

Look past electric wires, telephone poles,
a coiled rubber hose, the 19th century stone wall
cracked open for a water spigot?

Don’t listen to the traffic on the interstate up the hill,
rumbling cars speeding from Nogales to the Border Patrol checkpoint.

Silence the background and search for sacred silence in this sacred space.
Block the sounds of horns blaring,
ignore the heated words of the couple standing near the rose bush.

Shhh.

Hear rustling leaves, whistling wind?
See shimmer in the cotttonwood trees?

These winds were in this garden, long ago.
The trees now camouflaging sparrows’ nests, they were here.
The fountain — the garden’s heart — it was here with its rippling waters.
Dust blowing from the Tumacácori Mountains – the dust was here.

Those mountains? They stand in silence and watch. They have watched all these years.
Arched doorways still shelter the walkway,
a courtyard protects a painted statue of the Virgin with her Babe.
They continue to watch.

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Tumacacori Mission, Tumacacori Mountains ©2016 Bo Mackison

The yucca, the tepary beans trailing along the earth.
The nut tree saplings,
swaying in rhythm with the winds.
They witnessed. They continue to witness.

The che-che-chee of the sparrows mix with voices
raised in song — of praise and protest,
in elation and humiliation, in gratitude and in mourning.

I hear their voices, I hear the choir lift their voices in song.
Harmonizing
Chanting
The rising alleluias, the longing amens.

Voices. Do you hear them?
Che-che-cheee sing alleluia.
Siss-siss-siss, the leaves dance, twirl along the dusty path.

Hearts dancing, hold your gaze on the star hunter,
poised, aiming his arrow at the full moon.
Hidden voices in the whistling winds.
Hidden eyes, watching Tumacácori.

Listen.

Watch.

Hush.

~~~~~~

It is here that Jesuit Father Kino, traveling north from Mexico (New Spain) visited a settlement of  O’odham and founded Mission San Cayetano de Tumacácori in 1691.
It is here the mission remained for 157 years, a complicated existence of conversion, Apache conflict, disease, harsh conditions.
It is here where I sit in the restored gardens, stand in the mission interior and I listen. I hear.

Cupped Hands – A Blessing

Reverence ©2014 Bo Mackison

Reverence ©2014 Bo Mackison

Cup my hands together,
hands that labor, create, plant, push away,
and hold gently what these days offer.

Cup my hands,
bones aching, muscles cramping, fingers numb.
Cup my hands.

~

There is a vessel, a container.

Two shallow bowls woven of grasses,
threaded together to form a hollow container
cupped like hands in prayer and supplication.

Baskets, bowls, vessels of prayer.

This vessel a sacred tradition.
Ancient peoples wove these bowls two centuries ago,
gift offered to those highly honored, beloved, much revered.

This vessel traveled as companion on the journey
to the place beyond.

The vessel held nothing –
nothing visible –
yet it contained much of great worth.
This shallow woven basket wass imbued with sacred messages
to the honored one from family and community.

Words prayed into the vessel before the last stitches sealed it.

“Respected one.”
“Beloved.”
“Wise one.”

~

Moved deeply by the intention of this sacred ritual,
I cup my hands together. Breathe words into my hands,
whisper my most impassioned blessings.
Words of blessings with which I honor myself.

Sacred words, most valued gift,  held in sacred vessel.

“Beloved one.” “Worthy one.”
“Courageous one.” “Awakened one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

This was inspired by the poem Blessing the Fragments by Jan Richardson which begins:

“Cup your hands together,
and you will see the shape
this blessing wants to take.

Basket, bowl, vessel:
it cannot help but hold itself
open to welcome what comes…”

Praise the Day – A Desert Poem

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Tree in Yellow © 2014 Bo Mackison

Praise the day, first light.

Praise the bird chatter. Cacophony.
Praise that word, a wild word, a burst of joy.

Praise the velvet acacias in yellow bloom,
its yellow fuzz paints the pavement.
Bees and stardust.
The tree alive with buzz and bee swarm.

The desert a sanctuary; the birds its choir.
The tree a storyteller; the bees her audience.

Sing praise. Sing praise.

~~~~~~~

It is good to begin the day with a praise song.

The Feel of the Path – A Desert Pilgrimage

Palo Verde

The Feel of the Path – A Desert Pilgrimage

I walk
Through thorn scrub and desert foothills
follow a winding arroyo into high canyon country.

I memorize my foot fall, draw a map, illusion of being in control,
glimpse lizards skittering into rocky crevices,
hold silent conversations with the crone saguaro.

Canyon boulders balance with precision,
boulders shoulder boulders, a giant’s cairn guiding my way.

 

Road to Nowhere

Tree skeletons loom above the grasses choked dry. Scant rainfall.
Agave, flowers spent, seed heads brittle brown
they remain standing tall, rooted in the ruts of an abandoned mine road.
Dust swirls. Land obscured. It does not require eyesight
to know one’s place. Vision will do.

A rattlesnake coils, rises from the earth,
iridescent eyes level with my belt.
A warning flicker, rattle dry like bamboo chimes,
then he disappears in the thick grasses of the arroyo.

I stand on the edge, breathless. Desert encounters.
Precipices. Edges. Stay in the moment.

 

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This is a rough land, it fits my temperament.

Her wilderness is comfort,
her unexpected lushness is gift,
her relentless demands insist on awareness,
her solitude is rare blessing,
her sun-bleached land a tonic,
her dark night skies a reminder to rest.
It is in darkness that the light returns.

How ancient the land upon which I walk,
volcanic rock cold upon the hot desert earth.
Fossils of trilobites and shark teeth hint at
its story, once upon a time an ocean.

I commit to memory all that surrounds me,
Reminders of being home.

Even when I leave I stay.

~~~~~~~

Terry Tempest Williams writes,  “If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self.” Yes, desert pilgrimage is sinking into the depths of self — getting lost, getting found, sometimes staying in the middle space between lost and found.