Past Life: Healer in Russia

Tags

death, healer, Love, past lives, poetry, Russia

Nineteenth century

I had no words for what I did;
born with a light shining
in me, I knew, even as a child,
I was to help everyone
in the village;

their well-being was my work.
Snow everywhere, always cold,
those are my memories, as I walked
from one home to another,
wherever illness called me.

I was small, too slight
for the fire in me, a candle
burning much too fast. Thin
and always thinner,
I never bore a child.
My husband, big and brown
as a bear, expected me one day;
I never came. He found me
—only time for a kiss.

The light in me so great,
my body was warm for days;
I looked like I was sleeping.
Everyone wept.

Sundays at Elaine’s

Tags

blocked emotions, emotions, Oakland, soul, writing

Oakland, CA 2014

In late afternoon, we gather in her kitchen,
six or seven women, sometimes a brave man or two.
Light-filled room, beyond the back porch
a patchwork of trees and other houses,
a feast on the kitchen table:
bowls of nuts, plates of cookies,
cups of coffee, glasses of lemon-mint water.

Our voices laugh and murmur, rise and fall,
until Elaine suggests that we begin:
a topic is chosen, timer set,
silence descends, and pens are put to paper.
She gently guides us as we move
from one subject to the next; we write
of secrets hiding in the chambers
of our souls, frozen fears, old aches
and open wounds, the stream of love,
flowing or blocked; memories that
charm us, haunt us, move us; courage,
how we bear the unbearable; and finally,
the desires that call to us, that float us up
to the blue heavens. We read our writings aloud,
unless reading the outpourings of the heart
to ourselves is more than enough.

Sacred time, when we invite our souls
to come forth in a ritual as old
as the dawn of language, when the tribe gathered
around a fire in a cave and gave birth
to myths and legends; now we sit in a circle
and tell our stories, rewriting
the myths of our lives.

Peaceful Journey

A woman stands on the banks of a river
in the painting on the wall. She dreams

of crossing over to the other shore. I take
off my clothes and lie down for my journey.

The scent of the oils takes me to gardens
where roses and chamomile blossom

at dusk and iridescent music shimmers.
Jessica is a healer, descended from women

healers of old. Her fingers speak
my body’s language. They say, “Here

I must prod and push, here soothe and calm.
Here I add blue, here I add gold.” Her touch,

the colors, the scents, and the music
are one and butterflies are everywhere.

When my body and soul are soothed,
I am the woman and I am the river;

I have crossed over to the other shore
And my journey is complete.