River of Self

Week 4

“This truth is important and its excellence strengthens us to go inward through the symbols

 humble and often rejected though they may be… “

 Gospel of Philip Analogue 70

                This week I am continuing the rich discussion of Self.  I don’t like the fact that I spend ninety minutes commuting one way to work, but I do like the ferry ride.  The water and the expanse of the sky help me think especially if I’m strolling on the upper deck.   The past couple of days passengers have reveled in sun light and clear views of the steel blue Olympics. The air was so clear Friday, we could see layers of hills and winding lines of logging roads.  And then I remembered the gift I received the last time I had been walking the deck alone on a wildly windy commute.  This gift became inspiration to explore the symbols of self.

                During my time on the deck, I became absorbed in the flying skills of the sea gulls following the boat in high winds.  They seemed to need to concentrate.  And then I spotted far away the shape of a large bird that somehow I knew to be a bald eagle flying towards me.
In my twenty years of commuting, I have never seen an eagle fly so far out into the Puget Sound this close to the boat. Mesmerized I watched this eagle fly straight towards the bow and then arch south traveling from Apple Tree Cove to South Kingston Beach. she flew close enough for me to witness how hard her wings were pumping through the wind.

                My recent enjoyment of sunlight on the good ship Puyallup reminded me that I had received a great and humble symbol in that earlier stormy-day sighting.   For me,  the best way to honor the sacredness of a moment and to be strengthened by it is to write a poem.   I wrote a poem including the seagulls and the eagle and called it “River of Self.”

                 I loved my poem as I do all my newborn work, took it writers’ group,  and then became overwhelmed with the revision it needed.   I pile poems and essays in a “to-be-revised” stack leaving their future uncertain.  My office is becoming a mountain range of such piles.  This poem rested on the peak in my growing paper mountain range.

                Last night’s sunny ride reminded me of that stormy day gift and inspired me to go back to the poem.   The Gospel writer, Philip, in the epilogue above deepened my appreciation for the gift and purpose of symbol.  Here is the whole passage surrounding the quotation above:

                Rather, it [the veil] was torn from top to bottom opening to those both above and below that all might have access to the truth of hidden things. 

                This truth is important and its excellence strengthens us to go inward through the symbols humble and often rejected though they may be, and this lowly means to enter in the presence of the fullness of glory - glory upon glory, light upon light, power upon power.

                Philip discusses the Judeo Christian symbol of the veil.  In Judaism, this veil hides the Holy of Holies. For Christians, Christ’s life is associated with tearing that veil to symbolize human accessibility to the divine. I love the idea that the importance of divine access is for strength to go inward.  That eagle was a humble symbol of my access to the divine that day.   Beholding her strong and laboring flight gave me a moment of presence that was full, glorious, light-filled, and powerful.  The poem below shows my exploration of the benefits of wind, water, and animal energy in our complex make-up.  We live a life of many selves.    Be well dear friends - strengthened to go inward.

River of Self

I lean into hard winds on the ship’s deck

alone except for the gulls that navigate

the gusts in jerks and glides.

A bald eagle works her wings near the boat,

heads towards the grey sands and cliffs

 striped with streams and falls.

Perhaps she’ll land on wet shores

where once lived the ancient “ish” clans,

tribes long ago named for rivers,

 Suquam-ish, Stillaguam-ish,  Snohom-ish, 

where eagles and humans drank

the primal truth that many streams

make a river of one.

No one faults the birds’ efforts

 nor the winds they struggle against.

No one despises the rocky way,

 the tumbling falls, or layered depths

of the waters’ path.  Yet we squint

not recognizing the multitude

born in the human self,

 born a force with animal-strength,

 made weak by shame and suspicion,

 born with complex tributaries

that pool and roil behind thick dams

of rules, remorse, and religion.

Some streams run deep

fresh with ancient ish-faith

that knows salvation lies

in loving the mortal self,

knows salvation lies

in becoming a self-ish race

 that flows mysterious,

 persistent on its path,

journeying, tumbling

to  the shores

of its sacred source.