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

image

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.

 

image

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.

 

 

 

 

Holy – A Poem

Saguaro Spines ©2016 Bo Mackison

Saguaro Spines ©2016 Bo Mackison

Holy.

No cavernous urban building required.
No echoes of voices preaching or admonishing.

Holy is sunlight sprinkling luminous colors throughout the land
and voices raised in song, joyful or penitent,
in praise or petition. Mix with rushing wind
through canyon slots, desert grasses. Add thunder. Holy.

Have you ever heard the wind whistle through cactus spines? Holy.
Inhaled the rain scent of desert dust and creosote shrubs? Holy.
Watched rock turn to glowing orange as sun sets over desert lands? Holy.
Praised the stars, ever-present and infinite in their number? Holy.

Holy is vermilion rock, gray-green plants,
black varnished cliffs, the soaring of a red-tailed hawk,
the skittering of a wood rat, the trill of a cactus wren.

Holy is the search for one’s inner calling, listening to a voice
nearly silenced. Holy is breathing fierce with full-on living.

Holy is exuberance. Holy is gratitude.
Holy is despondency. Holy is hanging on.

Holy is emotion.
Holy anger. Holy outrage.

Holy is not held within godly boundaries;
holy is the full embrace of one’s humanity.

Holy is the extra-ordinary in the ordinary of the everyday.

This moment. Yes
this very moment.
Holy.

~~~~~~~~

Annie Dillard writes, “In any instant the sacred may wipe you with its finger.” I find the sacred in the swipe of nature’s finger…in the desert, in the writing of poetry.

The Journey Between Two Homes – A Poem

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

Dichotomy

Flying. I request a next-to-the-window seat. Always.
So I can stare into the sky, lose myself in thick cloud cover, or watch the country far below,
farmland platted in tiny squares, river snakes,
mountains erupting from plains, sunlight slides across the face of the earth, disappears.

I watch cities and towns morph into bullets of lights.

Each time I board a plane, I haul my soul into the heavens
breathe with calm intention until I reconnect with land, my return,
my soul again searches for desert red. And settles.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

There are no guarantees.
I came to the desert Southwest for its sunshine years ago,
sunlight that promised to flip a switch in my brain, drench it in
neurotransmitters, make smiling easier than weeping.

I come still.

For that sunlight boost, yes, but just as much
I come for the tree cholla with golden auras
gleaming in the waning sun, beyond breathtaking.
Reflection of sunlight burrows deep into my being.

Saguaro with a freakish coat of snow are as mystical.
Desert mountains – green riparian corridors,
yellow in a blaze of autumn sycamore leaves,
or black in the desert night –  all are my magical potion.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

I talk to trees. Tree connection is energy.
I rest my hands upon their bark, lay my cheek against their rough grain.

I have leaned the art of calming under the influence of this land –
sky islands stretch – from Sonoran Desert habitat, saguaros and mesquite,
to near alpine conditions, bald rock above the treeline of firs.
Like traveling from northern Mexico to southern Canada.

But always. Always.
I yearn to return to the desert floor, to the spaciousness
and solitude that warm my spirit.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

Moments measure time; maps measure travel.
As desert spring blasts its way into desert summer,
comes my time to leave the desert.
Each moment becomes more precious as I cross off the remaining days.

I spread maps upon my desk and ponder routes,
choose the blue roads, the dotted roads,
roads with mountain passes that may or may not be snow-packed.

I’ll take that risk. I travel the small towns and villages,
stay in court motels, feast at diners where conversation never stops.

This is the way of easing into my return.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

The journey. I anticipate it even as I mourn my leaving.
Anticipation and loss held simultaneously.
I’ll hold the days of travel in my memory,
scribble in my journal as I cross the country.

Place notes. A town and its motto, the population,
a story-telling hand painted poster in a shop window

The washes and dry river beds I cross.
Dead Wash. Red Wash. Car Wash. Dirty Laundry River.
Humor found in geographical monikers.

Washes disappear, meandering creeks appear,
then singing streams, raging flood-stage rivers.

As I travel, mapping the earth,
there is joyful, bittersweet.
Palpable. My heart pounds with unexpected sights.

I am exultant and saddened, hesitant and expectant.
I want to slow and speed time concurrently.
There is much to practice, this being in the moment of traveling.

Journey between two homes.

~~~~~~

Flying Across the Sky

Flying Across the Sky © 2014 Bo Mackison

There was an afternoon when the desert floor was still and heat rose like fire. I went to a nearby sky island to write and create…and to explore my desire to be in two places at once – to be in the desert where I feel a deep, soul connection and be with my loved ones in Wisconsin.

A book and poem were born.