That Central Sun

Spring pear blooms, with blooming peach trees behind, in Judy's orchard.  This year they came in March but survived several frosts.

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A THREAD OF LIGHT VI. September 8, 2013

... The jewel in me,

the fire I have hidden all these years and

guarded, like Prometheus hid the fire

he stole for naked, hungry man, in

a fennel stalk–the fire is safe.  And

my suffering, like his, punished for

sharing with mortal man, a god’s prerogative:

fire: my suffering did not destroy the fire.

The fire is still safe.  I felt, though, how,

as I returned, in thought, to all those

years of being devoured and restored, as

he was–chained–and eaten–but not

destroyed–how I was losing something.

I was losing my hiding place. The fire

was showing.  It was in the bush,

but I knew–I don’t know how–

that it was safe.  Inside this ugly

rock that had clasped a precious stone,

I had been safe, my burden safe;

what I carried; what I was.  And then,

a knocking, breaking; a shattering

of that ugly rock–the rock loose–

and my tears flowed because of the

pain of what I might lose!  I was ready

to fight to the death.  But the pain

instead was a release, and the jewel

which had been mine, had been me,

which I had nearly died to save, to get

through all the dangers, lay in my

hands, yellow–and catching in its

facets, light: the yellow light of the gods,

the light that gives the day, every day,

that gives the spring, every spring;

that takes the grey and brown of winter,

the death, the outside of rock, the leaf

protection, all of it, and releases green,

yellow in its first eager intensity,

and in certain lights, ever afterwards,

when seen and held lovingly, aloft,

lovely always with yellow light.

Susannah, Teach Me to Love/Grace, Sing to Me.  1985. pp. 38-9 

The fears come and go, but I keep

walking past them, through them,

finding again that central sun in me

that casts out fear.  I called it a

jewel thirty years ago.  Many names I’ve

given it: Deep Self, God, My Inner

Voice.  It’s always there, steadying me,

helping me hold on when my spirits

bottom out, when I wake afraid in

the night.  I see it everywhere:

in the perfectly ripened fig that is so

fragile and luscious I have to eat it

on the spot; in the morning glory vine

that has crept up the back porch

railings and now gives me its welcome

with multiple pink trumpets; in the

spider lilies’ carelessly flung rosy 

whiskers suddenly there at ground

level under the high stalks of the 

yellow and orange cosmos suns.

In the hens running across the 

orchard to see what I’ve brought 

them, and if it is afternoon and I’ve

come to weed, they stay and circle 

nearby. If I’m there, they believe

something good is about to happen,

and it does, because they companion

me.  I may feel alone, but this

inner sun, this jewel in me, this

yellow light won’t let me believe it.

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Look closely and you can see the pears.  Photo by Mark Schmerling