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Thousand Petaled Synchronicities

*I am still having uplloading dilemma. Changes in formatting are aplenty, so these stanza are not set exactly as they were written.

A Thousand Petaled Syncronicities
By Rose-Roberta Pauling
6/7/05

This year's rain seems to last forever. It is thundering outside.
Inside
There is a well that is full and brimming asking to be spent,
but with ease.
Silence circles round in wider and wider spirals
like an eagle flying along a mountain nest in some far off tree
till I am left only being.

Yet, still the storm rises like an unruly child and traces its way
backwards
to a spot
uncared for in knowingness.
It is the Medusa's head with snakes unfurling in a thousand worlds
within a single life?
each world's core in a central beingness
that took an excursion
somewhere
to the great unknown.

How not to make a journey from disconnectedness,
but with congruency?
Isn't that always the question? God seems such a far away thing to me.
It is like the unfathomable journey to another universe,
but a life met with a thousand petaled syncronicities
is something
one can attune to
and unearth its splendidness.

Sweat drips down and pools around the neck--
the supposed signs of discomfort--
but it is just sweat and nothing more.
The train goes by louder then usual.
I listen to its sound,
let it stop me
with no resistance and
it goes by on track and so am I.

There is something indelible in life--Quarantined
and off limits from disturbance-That penetrates all traumas.
It is not speakable in words. There is no language for it
and yet the keys tap tap tap out words intertwining
with the unspeakable
like a wave particle
on a field of nothingness
where there is everything. A nothingness
That quenches one's thirst
and leaves one full and without longing.


Part Two: Potential Possibility:
This thunderstorm

out there like the world,
but it does not have to be
a reflection
It can be there.
We do not need to need
to be a part of it.
How far reaching is this life, if a butterfly, flapping its wings in China,
affects the weather here?
To think in such a way already alters the course
like the physicist in his chamber watching the waves
disturbed by the movement of his beard.

I sense that knowing what I want is critical these days for
it will come to me. Knowing--not to deny knowing--not to deny wanting
through knowingness. There lies the rub, the peace, the serenity.
Like a water drop
becoming crystallized--by the intent--of its environment.
I am the environment of my intent.

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