Poem · Poetry

Storms

Rain on me,

get me wet!

Give me that helpful push with your

blustery force!

Wake me from slumber

with winds that push me forward.

Baptize me

once again –

help me remember

that I belong to you.

Remind me that storms are

necessary.

They come and they go.

Each one bringing something new

into my life.

Let me not brace against

or resist.

Get me wet.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

rain on window

Poem · Poetry

Under the Weather

 

Nothing like a virus

to help you appreciate

normal breathing.

Wheeze, sputter

blow, cough.

Normal comes to a stop.

Voice exercises?

Ha!

Good luck with that.

My pipes are clogged –

making my voice

sound like a cat about

to hurl a hairball.

Hydrate, hydrate.

Rest and sleep –

Being sick sucks.

I am not good

at slowing down –

interrupting my patterns.

I prefer to stay on track

to be in my well-crafted groove.

Huh.

Damn.

Maybe that is the point.
More tea, Honey?

 

Copyright © Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2017

 

storm image

 

 

Poem · Poetry

Noticing

 

The way it feels

when I dare to step away from patterns

long held onto

with a tight knuckle grip

as a way to hold me up,

glue me together.

 

The look in your eyes

when I am really paying attention,

allowing my heart to open to you.

 

The soaring freedom that sends me

to new depths and heights

all at the same time

when I get out of my own way.

 

How pain disappears

when my attention turns in a divine direction

instead of towards my navel,

so clogged with repetitive angst.

 

How a long walk by the sea washes me

of all the garbage

I have allowed to enter my soul –

a baptism of surf and sound,

wind and grace.

The thunder of the surf rocking me,

holding me with an eternal embrace.

Oh, how healing that is!

 

How the voice of a great singer

sends my spirit soaring

and beckons me to use my voice

with full expression and power,

freeing it

and healing me from the multitude of ways

I have held it back.

 

How Love is present,

when I am present

whether with the dying,

my love,

or my cat.

Turning away from the moment

robs me,

robs us –

of God’s company.

 

Waking up is a beautiful thing –

a peeling of the layers –

that so strangle and constrict.

We think these layers are important

but they are all false construction.

I love the release as they fall away

allowing a deeper joy

to be found.

 

I am noticing

two openings:

my eyes with inspired vision,

my heart with a tender softening.

Both are wrapped up in deep peace.

 

Copyright © Cynthia Cady Stanton 2017

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Poem · Poetry

The Opening

It is the space between
what I hear
and how I receive it.

It is the time between
what I think
and what I do.

It is the moment of rest
I sometimes allow
before the next thing.

This is the place that needs enlarging.
But I tend to keep it small,
even though it beckons me
with sweet whispers
and gentle nudges.

I hear it in the rhythm of the waves
and the rustle of the dancing leaves.
I see it in the glide of the seagulls
and the ballet of the small shorebirds
as they float across the shoreline.
Be like us,
they seem to say.
Float through your day.
It is easy
if you let go
and feel the flow.

The invitation is always there,
expansive and inviting –
a huge place of calm and beauty
waiting to hold me
with a comforting embrace.
Waiting to lead me
to the unimaginable.

But I am distracted.

I know I am not alone in this.

Thankfully,
Grace is a beautiful and patient teacher.
She has taught me many things.
I finally know that
You are in the space that calls.
You are in each breath –
especially the deep ones.
You are in me.
You are around me.
You work through me.
You need me as much as
I need you.

I have learned that turning away from you
and ignoring your sweet beaconing
is akin to a slow and lonely death.

Opening to You –
and the spaces between,
is like coming home
to who I am.

plovers in flight

Copyright© 2017 Cynthia Cady Stanton

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem · Poetry

I Am Not My Body

I am not my body.
I am not the wrinkles around my eyes,
nor am I the deep lines forming under my nose.
I am not the softening of my belly that is thickening my waist and
now spilling over my waistbands.
I am not the annoying chin hairs cropping up.
Every time I look in the mirror,
I notice the things I am not.
My eye goes right to anything that screams aging at me,
especially my now droopy neck.
Or the brown spots forming on my face and hands.
“Damn it!” I say to myself.
“I am getting old.”
And I turn away in disgust.

But I am not even the parts of my body that I like.
I am not my pretty blue eyes.
I am not my fit arms or my perky ass.
I am not my feminine hands
nor am I my white teeth
and nice color treated hair.

I am not the bad,
I am not the good.
I am not my body.

I am much more than what I see in a mirror.
I am more than how my clothes feel on me.
I am more than any pain, any tension or ache.
I am more.
I go deeper than all that.
I am larger and more expansive than any image I see as I walk past a mirror,
or window.
I am above and below the skin
I am not the skin.
I am the spirit that gives my body life.
I am the sparkle in my eyes,
the warmth in my voice.
I am the tenderness in my touch.
I am the deep tones of my hearty giggle.
I am the strength behind a sincere embrace.

I am made of stardust.
I am connected deeply to all living beings.
I am energy.
And most of all,
I am divine love expressed.

I am not my body but
I live in my body.
My body may be weathering on the outside
just like any home would.
The paint may be flaking
but a warm light burns within.
A house is not a home
without that inward glow.
Shine on.

Copyright© 2017 Cynthia Cady Stanton

Elderly-woman-holding-hand-mirror-reflecting-young-woman