There is a quality of listening that radiates from inside out
Attunement, entangled resonance with all life and beyond

There is something mystical about this solstice that is not imagined
Mystical, like the word esoteric, means hidden
Hidden from the mind of image an concept
Which is the mind that we consider real, reality

But it is not real
Images are images and concepts are concepts,
And not what they represent

The mystical resonance of this solstice moment
With it simultaneous ending and beginning
Is an open window to something much deeper
Much more authentic
That radiates

This other becomes the star that guides our way through the darkness
of our confusion, self-inflicted conflict, ignorance, and sorrow

There is a quality of listening that radiates from inside out
Exploding with truth, insight, power, and compassion
And in this stillness, we know what we must do


Winter Solstice

I return each winter when the moon is full
and the stars shine bright in the black sky.

I return to a quiet place that has been
in the heart and soul of humanity - forever.

The heavens stand still for just a moment
in this quiet place I’m sure we all feel.

The ever-present cycle of birth, growth, blossoming,
the wisdom of autumn and death of each heartbeat,
breath, each cell, organ, limb, body, tree,
mountain, planet, and galaxy dancing the dance
of transformation and renewal,
we are reminded of in this quiet place.

Strange how the ancient mind pictured this
timeless cycle of living-dying.

Like the Egyptians and Greeks the pre-medieval
mind whispered stories to embody and carry forward
this reverence that we feel.

The cross traversing the perfect circle,
dividing the heavens into four seasons,
of that they made into a symbol of pain
which is what we see today.

And of that ever-new, transcendent spirit,
that force that is born again and again
and again each moment, of that they cast
into an image of ‘a’ man,
which is what we see today.

The metaphysical gifts of love, affection,
of joy, awakening and compassion, of that
they made into toy trains, ipods, and silk ties.

But that transcendent spirit called Christ
pushing the blade of grass through the concrete
of our conditioning remains in this quiet place
that I’m sure we all feel.

The mystic sees what lays hidden from the mind
enchanted by its symbols and its images,
that eternal sea of light turning and churning
behind the stories we tell on this winter’s eve.

May you stop as the heavens do each year
and stand in the mystery that casts this spell
as it has done forever and will forever.

May it touch you, nay pierce you like Zeus’s
lightning bolt – and in that stunned-timeless moment
see the miracle that you are
and will always be.

That is the meaning of our winter’s tale.