Once upon a Time

“Once upon a time”. How familiar these words are to us, even though it might have been long years ago in our childhood that we last read them on the printed page. The words conjure forth a sense of events about to unfold for us, of ‘what is going to happen next’, and we know then that we can settle down and listen captivated to some magical story filled with heroic daring and romance. 

Beginnings are full of promise. They hold something that is at the same time majestic and delicate, grandly unfolding and yet also fragile. We might not always know what is to come, but that ‘not knowing’ is the very thing which creates a sense of tension. But because this familiar phrase finds its place at the beginnings of stories, and because these stories have already been written, we know that we are going to find out ‘what is going to happen next’. All that we need to do to find out what that something might be is to sit and listen or read further.

And so we accompany a little girl in a red cape as she goes to visit her grandmother in her cottage in the dark woods, or we journey with a mixture of courage and dread with Beauty as she nears the castle of the Beast. The variations are as infinite as the human imagination, and it is our imagination that defines these stories. 

But whatever their individual variations, these stories always begin with “once upon a time”. But so do they always end with another familiar ringing phrase as well. There waiting patiently at the end of the story like an old friend is the reassuring phrase: “…and they lived happily ever after.” Even as we experience all the adventures and setbacks with which the characters must contend along the way, we know that things will work out in the end because ‘happily ever after’ will be the story's concluding words.

Our life, as we know all too well, tends to have a rather different format from one of these stories. What our imagination cannot define, but only wonder about, is what has yet to be written down. “Once upon a time” could also be the commencement of our own lives, or of the coming year, or even of the day that is about to unfold, but whose events have yet to happen. We can guarantee that it will begin with this phrase. How our own story might end is less certain. Those words ‘happily ever after’ are so imprinted in our consciousness that they might lead us into a sense of false expectation, into thinking that this is the way that things ought to end. But perhaps the words offer something more significant than false expectations which might lead only to disappointment.

Perhaps these formulaic story phrases also offer us promise, of a sense that events are unfolding as they should, even if these events are very different from what we had imagined for ourselves. “Once upon a time” is always the beginning. And if we allow ourselves the space, and perhaps also the compassion and forgiveness for our circumstances, it is always possible that “happily ever after” will be the conclusion.

Illustration: Snowwhite and the Seven Dwarfs by Lidia Postma

The Crossing: Hallelujah ~ Russian Orthodox Choir

Following his video of my poem Invocation, my husband David Bergen has now made a second video featuring my poem The Crossing, with an animated version of the beautiful painting by Abram Efimovich Arkhipov which originally inspired me to write my poem.

The poem on my blog can be read on
The Crossing

The Daughter of the Air

Is it possible for a daughter to come before her mother? It is, but to find such an example we need to visit the world of myth. Today, 28th of February, Finland celebrates the day of its national epic, the Kalevala. As with Homer’s epic stories, the verses of the Kalevala originally would have been sung to an audience by a bard. Such performances not only kept these stories alive; they also helped to give their listeners a strong sense of their national identity, of being aware of who they were as a people. 

Sitting listening to their bards of long ago, the Finns would have heard the story of Ilmatar, the Daughter of the Air. No one knew who her parents were, or even if she had any. She was simply there, living alone in an airy palace of eight thousand rooms. Beyond the palace there was nothing to see except drifting mists and the shimmering curtain of the Northern Lights. But the Daughter of the Air felt that somewhere beyond her echoing palace there must be more. She was sure that if only she could just reach out of one of the windows far enough, she at last would be able to catch a glimpse of what might lie far below.

One day, determined at last to satisfy her curiosity, she stretched herself as far as she dared from her window. Too far. Suddenly she was falling, falling. It seemed as if she would fall forever. She fell so far that when she turned to look above her, the airy palace which was all that she had known already had been lost to view beyond the Northern Lights. She fell even farther, until at last she felt a watery stirring beneath her. Suddenly a great wave seemed to rear itself up to meet her, and in the next moment she plunged into a vast ocean. 

Half-submerged in the ocean, buffeted by the huge waves, she drifted for long centuries, feeling at last the mysterious stirrings of life within her. No longer the Daughter of the Air, she had now become the Mother of the Waters, who eventually would form the land so that all creatures would have a place to flourish, both in the seas and on dry land. In time she would give birth, and her son would be the great Finnish hero Vainamöinen, whose father was the wild wind and the waves, and who himself would play his own part in further creating the world and singing new life into existence.

The daughter comes before the mother – because the daughter becomes the mother. It is the story of our generations. A young girl grows to womanhood and has children of her own. What makes this story from the Kalevala ‘mythic’ is that the daughter apparently had no mother to begin her life. She simply was. Perhaps there is a sense in which this, however mythic it might seem, could also be true.

We carry ourselves forward in time, through the passing years. In his poem ‘The Rainbow’, William Wordsworth famously declared that ‘the child is father of the man’, meaning that we as children, in our upbringing, and in the values which are instilled into us, bring these values into our own adult lives. The child is also the mother of the woman, and it is this awareness which needs to guide us in the care and upbringing of our own children. We as mothers might not always give birth to mighty heroes such as Vainamöinen, but we as parents - and as children – always have the chance to be heroes in some way if that is what is needed of us.

Painting Ilmatar by Joseph Alanen

The Light of the Year

Child of silver, child of white

sunrise pale and sunset amber

lace from the dew of a thousand dawns

woven by the meadow’s slumber.

In your hands a precious light

to step the pathway’s coming year

with all that time and light adorns.

For all that happens on the path

By you is blessed and meaningful

whether for me is bliss or wrath

and whether clear or not-so-clear.

One thing only I would ask:

release your treasure gradually

through sunsets’ gold and seasons’ turning

so the pathway I may see

in a perfect twelve-month burning.

Painting by Gaston la Touche

To Her Mourning Daughter

To Her Mourning Daughter

My keening daughter, stare not too long

at the darkness of the grave.

Avert your eyes in time

and do not lose yourself in kindred’s tears

your veil too thin, your skin too sear for this

and you, too young in years

to bear such bitter bliss:

you, who have no need to be so brave.

Rather, be a bone as hollow as a birds, and as light,

see in the stars’ sweet drift the one who knew you

and let these currents of a dark and sadder night

flow through you, through you.

Do not assume the tint of faded leaves

do not allow the kindred here to cast you

as the one who ever grieves.

But rather, channel the water

where you wish it to follow.

Carry it with you, willow daughter

give voice to the pain

keen for the silence

be a flowing river

meander full and hollow

be both carrier and giver,

and life will surely flow

into your soul once again.

And only shed your mourning weeds

and casually toss your hair

when you are once more safely in my arms.

My daughter, I fear I abandoned you there

to a life of mourning and dark armbands

but life has other charms

and you have other needs.

Freely rewritten from a fragment of a 16th-century Hindi poem.

Artwork reworked by DutchPuh from an original painting by William Adolphe Bouguereau

Conversation with a Butterfly

I am sitting relaxing in my garden. The day is warm, with a few fluffy sheep’s-wool clouds sailing through a sky of piercing lapis, although the shade of the young maple tree under which I am sitting offers me some relative coolness.

A butterfly alights on one of the maple leaves, close enough for me to reach out and touch it. I do not do so, of course, being glad enough of its company. Its wings match the blue of the sky: a little piece of heaven flown down from above. ‘How are you?’ asks the butterfly courteously. I feel the need to be honest. ‘A little down’, I replied, ‘but rather better since you have come to visit me. ‘Ah,‘ said the butterfly unsurprised, ‘that is to be expected. I tend to have that effect upon those whom I visit.’ I noticed that I felt better the longer the butterfly remained with me. ‘Perhaps you could stay with me, then I would always feel better.’ I suggested.

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed the butterfly emphatically. ‘It just doesn't work like that. Were I always to stay with you, my attraction would diminish to the point where you would not even notice my existence, because you would then simply take me for granted. In my experience, that is what tends to happen, which is why I prefer just to visit, rather than remain.’ I had a mischievous thought. ‘Then perhaps I could capture you!’ I said. ‘That way you would have to stay with me, and I would always have you close by!’ The butterfly smiled knowingly. ‘No, that would not work either! As soon as I am captured, I change. I become something else entirely that you would not even recognise. So you see, there’s no point in trying to catch me.’

‘Then when you fly away, I will follow you wherever you go!’ I laughed, rather smugly pleased with my own persistent ingenuity. ‘That way, you would always be free, and I would always be near you.’ ‘Still no good!’ The butterfly patiently explained. ‘You may chase after me for as long as you want. But if you chase me, you will discover that I always stay just out of reach. Better to just be still in yourself. That way, if you are lucky, I will come to visit you as I have now. Besides,’ the butterfly continued with a flutter of its azure wings ‘my little life is over soon enough. My visits tend to be brief ones, sometimes short, sometimes a little longer. And sometimes those whom I visit do not even realise that I have visited them until after I have flown away. That is the way it is.’

The butterfly fluttered its wings more vigorously, and I felt that it might fly away at any moment. ‘Please wait just a little!’ I asked. ‘’Won’t you tell me your name before you go?’ The butterfly smiled. ‘My name is Happiness.’ It replied. 

Painting by Odilon Redon

Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning’s early light,

meadow lark on the rise

cotoneaster, feverfew,

wild thyme and bramble rose.

Step by step, each to each

to where the other goes:

hymnals and unison

seated in rows.

And I who walk behind them

to the valley down below

must trust in common wonders

and hope that it might be so.

Noonday shadows at their feet

mistle thrush in the hedge

hillsides and riversides,

saxifrage and sedge.

Pace by pace, side by side

each trusting in the way:

parables and stories

in the highest light of day.

And I who walk behind them

to the valley down below

must hope for common wonders

and trust that it might be so.

Shadows of the afternoon,

fieldfare and sage

measure out the silence

of another time, another age.

Tread by tread, step by step

each timing with the other:

sister blesses sister soul, 

brother blesses brother.

And I who walk behind them

to the valley down below

must pray for common wonders

and hope that it might be so.

Twilight shadows lengthen

with the evening’s lowering sun:

veiled shades and violet shades

as the long day is done.

Step by step, each to each

to where the other leads:

beatitudes and blessings,

miracles in the meads.

And those who walk behind me

to the valley down below

place trust in common wonders

and know that it will be so.

Painting Sunday Morning by Angelo Morbelli

Rhythm of Life

RHYTHM OF LIFE

Wait, have you not understood?

Feel how the earth now warms you

when night has passed.

Time stands still ..

Sand slips through your fingers,

and in your hand still rests

the crystal glow

that once lit up your day.

You are still connected

to the current of your existence.

When will you understand?

It is not yet too late

to let your spirit fly.

Listen now

to how your wishes and desires

perform their symphonies,

how heavy drumbeats

in your heart's orchestra

shake the ground beneath your feet

to life once more.

Let the strings sing!

And pluck all the chords

of your soul ..

Do you now understand?

Painting Hope by George Frederick Watts, 1886

The Way to Heaven

We know by his sword and a glimpse of grey steel armour that this is a knight who is being borne heavenward. His dark shroud billows around his bier, which is carried by four of the heavenly host. All around are soft cumulus lit by the rosy light of an evening sun, and the whole mood of the painting suggests that this is a noble hero going to his rest.

How did this knight die? We cannot know, although we might presume that death came in battle, or as the unexpected climax of some adventure or undertaking. Our imagination might reach to the idea of a betrayal, or even an unexpected but peaceful death whose cause lay far from the field of battle. But the knight died, and his deeds in life have assured him a place among fallen heroes. 

But who are these heroes? In George Eliot’s novel Middlemarch, the events in the village of the novel’s title weave and swirl around a character whose deeds of common humanity go largely unnoticed by her fellow villagers, but whose mere presence among them constitutes a state of grace. Her simple existence represents something ineffable, something beyond the worldly, as she moves through the distractions of the everyday chatter and gossip around her. Our own humanity recognises this character as a good person. The author gives her readers the space to draw their own conclusion about this character: that in her own way this pure soul is also a heroine, although her own deeds are far distant from, and more subtle than, the more obvious heroic gestures of our knight.

What we respond to, what we recognise, is a sense of ‘doing the right thing’. Many who do good work, or perform some selfless act to help others, are noticed and acknowledged for their actions by those others. Perhaps such recognition might even happen through mere chance: that their actions were witnessed by the media, or for some other reason of circumstances. But we also realise that for every individual who might receive recognition – perhaps even a civic award – there are many more who remain unsung, never receiving acknowledgment for their selfless humanity.

We might wish to think that their reward lies along the way to heaven. But this is a matter of belief, not certainty, and death remains an unknown, even for those who might believe passionately in an afterlife. It is here while we live that we must seek to find that state of grace, whatever our personal beliefs or non-beliefs might be. To move through the world in grace, neither looking to right nor left, with all their distractions along the way, is the way to heaven, whether such a way ultimately exists or not.

Painting: Avatar, by Henry John Lintott, 1916. 

Cycle

For one brief day

my misty blue

fluttering veils

reflect the sky

in which I dance

Velvet blue

I wander midst

the flowers of

the realm of death

requiem

First egg am I

caterpillar

nymph am I

transformed

butterfly 

In pearl grey light

urgently quivering

with life, with death

I tear myself free

from the earth

I glide the land

through rings

of light and shade

and sense

the twilight calling

Knowing my time

is ending soon

I will fly north

lay off my wings

become a soul once more

Resurrection

Birth, life, death and resurrection. These are the eternal themes which are reflected in the great myths. A hero is born miraculously – perhaps from the union of a god with a mortal woman. That hero lives his life, performs his heroic deeds, dies a noble and dramatic death, after which he is resurrected as an immortal constellation among the stars.

In nature as well these epic themes are played out in the cycle of the seasons, as we – and our remote ancestors who were crucially attuned to these things – witness each year with the awakening of new life in the spring after its seasonal death in the cold soil of winter. Even in those desert places which have no temperate seasons, the dried husks of seeds can lie dormant in the hard sun-baked ground, sometimes for years, before an infrequent downpour awakens them to sudden life, and the desert blooms like a garden.

The act of resurrection is like a truth that is encoded into the matrix of life, and we respond to that truth when we encounter it in stories. For the Christian Gnostics, the events of the Biblical resurrection were not so much intended to be read as simple history, but as events which mirrored these great truths, which provided a kind of teaching aid to remind them of these profound lessons of life. And these lessons carried a deeper meaning than mere rebirth. Resurrection involves redemption: redemption of the inner self, a shedding of those things which might hinder the process of true spiritual resurrection. These could be a breaking through the ego which tricks us into thinking that our mortal selves are the only reality, or even just the letting-go of those ideas that prevent us from seeing such things in a clearer light.

The letting-go of all these things, of all preconceptions of what make our ‘reality’, is the path of resurrection. But to tread that path involves a process of inner ‘dying’ – not physical dying, but the death of those things which might be holding us back from reaching our true fulfilment as beings intimately connected with, and part of, the greater Mystery.
  
It is no coincidence that the Christian Easter takes place at the time of the year that originally was reserved for the celebration of this process in pre-Christian times, for Christianity layered itself on top of these old festivals, just as churches were often built upon the demolished foundations of pagan temples and other pre-Christian sacred sites. This as well gives an added potency to the Christian story, and the events of the Christian Easter, which unfold upon the greater stage of mythic drama which lies beyond the stage of historical narrative. Easter is the time of resurrection, and a person who takes part in that resurrection during his life, has conquered death.

This is the crown of the Christian Initiation Mystery. He who resurrects in a gnostic sense, has it in his power to work through joy, and to take part in the divine plan of creation. It is a grand perspective, and one which we can let ourselves be inspired by – and not only at Easter!

The Crossing

The Crossing

Look: that’s me on the right

with my daughter’s eldest daughter.

We sit on sacks of grain, she and I,

in the white Siberian light,

afloat between the brightness of the water

and the brightness of the wide and hollow sky.

Now we near the shore.

The dip and splash of oars

breaks the slow silence
of the river's run,
stirs spiralled mud in the shallows:

another crossing nearly done.

I have crossed over so many times.

My Oka. Not so great 
as the Ob or the Don, I know,

but still my river, borrowed from God,
born from distant Altai snow
through winter's ice and summer's heat.

‘Are you thirsty, Babushka?’ someone asks.

But I’m used to thirst.

I’m grateful for the thirst

That lets me know I’m still alive.

I’m grateful for the strong arms of the rowers

and for my granddaughter’s quiet company

beside me in the white and silent sun.

I’m grateful to the sown, and to the sowers,
I’m grateful for this harvest-seat of grain.

I’m grateful for my tired eyes,

For the tiredness of my body

that tells me I’ll be grateful for
another crossing soon to come
towards a yet-untrodden shore
beneath another brighter sun......

Painting: On the River Oka, by Abram Efimovich Arkhipov, 1890

Spiral

The spiral weaves the winding path

the dance begins with sacred tread

from field and meadow, home and hearth

the feet are led.

They gather on the cold hillside

in winter silence, winter sun

they dance along the winding form

they dance alone, they dance as one.

All seasons flow into the earth

all seasons flow into the land

they dance through lives

they dance through time

and each beginning is an end.

But endless is the winding path

and timeless are the feet that tread

and silent is the loving earth

on the lone hillside.

Artwork by Valerianna - RavenWood Forest - Massachusetts

Dear Child

Dear Child

Even before you
Could behold the light of Earth
Your mother and you were one
Invisible and inseparable
Enfolded in the Infinite


Breathless
She awaited the tender weavings
Of the threads of life
Till once in the light of day
Your soul awakened, and one became two


Patiently
Time, like a spider, weaves
Its web of silver pathways
Upon which we are borne along
Alone, and yet together


The light of love
Weaves inner threads
That bind us on the journey
Becoming, one by one
In the Infinite, once more... ONE

*

For Marthe
our newly born granddaughter
in gratitude

Art by Iris Sullivan

Walking Toward the Mystery

I am walking toward the mystery

And I am walking slowly

I am in no hurry anymore

For I see both the known

And the unknown

My judgment is sound

And my aims are true

I feel my feet

When I am walking the silent watch

But if you need to cross a river

And it seems too hard to do

Then call on me

And I'll gather my strength

We’ll find a way

Let me tell you something

For I see doubt in your eyes

believe me, my dear child

That now I am old,

I finally see that

Mine is the dark night

And also the moon

And when glimmering pathways

Appear on the river

My boat just follows

Life is that simple

Now I am walking toward the mystery

And I am walking slowly.

Art: "Annual Rings of Life" by Cheng Lian