Have you been to the sanctuary?
The one with no walls or doors
that arises when you slow dance
with the moon, meet the eye of a beetle,
sense the tender touch of two hands,
walk the street among those who move in protest?
Have you been tending an entry to a holy place,
keeping the candle lit in a time of epoch change–
when prayer feels restless and old forms whither?
Have you been making art though fatigue beats at spirit,
busy days disarm grace and leadership agitates
for its next holy trouble?
Have you been praying because you don’t know what to do
but trek up and down the mountain of study and practice
and share ritual meals with friend and foe?
Have you been to your spirit hideaway to make offerings
to the One who calms religious anxiety and quells your
over-heated compassion born of Love’s insatiable desire?
Have you been working backstage as one of Joy’s stage managers
cueing the lights and sounds that awaken the solace begged by every breath?
Have you run to the edges, to the Well, the Rock, the Tree
any place where Holy eyes meet, moist cheeks are kissed,
wild souls are hallmarks of beauty, and courageous love is daily work?
Have you gone on in spite of being ignored,
laughed at, told you want impossible things?
If so then you are a monk of a hidden monastery
who like ants in collective obscurity
create and recreate the billion sanctuaries made by ears
inclined to a flute players breath, a deep hummed conversation,
and the blue tears falling into a common bowl.
I celebrate the way you enshrine with holy affirmation
the decay of silent forest beings,
light blazing from a baby’s crown,
and the beating breasts of dancers
for whom every move is soul speech.
I sing your praises, you who erect temporary altars
greeting others who travel the world
so that at these markers all can bow
at the feet of our Unsolvable Life.
How lucky when we gather in twos or twenties to dance, eat, and tell stories that spring from the ER of soul, poems not shared at the office, visions too big for a single body.
Beloved mystics, snakecharmers, master artists, fire tenders,
water bearers, gardeners, inventors of prayer arrows
dancers of rare rituals, anything that lights The Way,
who make prayer strong with art,
blessed are you when you let go into Love all the way,
abandon your seriousness, laugh with relief when
you feel safe enough to expose the ridiculous tango
you do when Devotion throws you upside down and sideways.
Beloved sisters and brothers who know the joy of 1,000 golden suns and the power of children singing, young initiates of beauty everywhere I see you. Do you see me?
If so, let’s pray for wings to carry us when violence looms and
night waves come hurtling, that our tasks stay simple enough,
that our holy strongholds grow in grace and glory,
perfect like weeds, low to the ground, hearty, persevering.
Let us pray that Great Love rise in justice beauty, dignity, health, that freedom bloom insanely feral everywhere, making our work effortless, humble, and hilariously holy each Sacred Night and Day, now and each day forward. And so it is.
Cynthia Winton-Henry, Mystic Tech