On Clear Skies, Summer Sounds, and the Secret Weight of Words

once upon a time

pink trees flowered under the azure 

of deep, clear expanse

It is almost the end of July, a strange summer of chemtrails, clear skies, heat waves, and wildfires... In recent weeks, I was delighted to again see beautiful blue, clear skies above my head, after months and months of criss-crossing chemtrails.  It was a "Victory of Light" in the hidden war above our heads, a short respite from the chaotic graffiti in the sky. I call these failed artwork "graffiti" -gang signs marking territory where gang enforces its rules - in my photo albums, documenting the shifting patterns, and colors of my California sky. That's how I noticed them, by taking pictures of no-longer azure skies...

no, no, I do not

allow these strange graffiti
to taint my sky

the white haze -

iridescent like fish-scales

in polluted ocean

how deep is the blue?

only the sunrays will know

after piercing the sky

The summer sounds... I was raised with the clacking of the storks and the noise of their wings. Both sets of my grandparents in their villages in different parts of Poland had stork nests on their property: one on the barn roof (a wheel off an old wagon, on which storks piled up branches), and one on the top of a pine that had been struck by lightning and had a bent branch up there... I remember coming out at 6 a.m., sleepy and disoriented after being woken up by the wild ruckus up the tree not far from my window. The wooden porch was sunny and warm, and the world was waking up to yet another day of peaceful summer.

Ambika Talwar, a poet-friend, commented: "This is eternal and true wherever you may be. Claim it! Hold it in your heart. Speak of it. Say it out loud. Awaken someone who needs this now. Sing it so the birds listen to you. Be your dancing self."

Photo from Poland Forever group on Facebook.

The  storks used to follow my uncle in the meadow, about two steps behind, when he was cutting down the grass with the scythe. This is one of my favorite images of Poland, not a photo since I did not have a camera yet: the two storks following my uncle and picking up frogs and what not to eat for breakfast... Peace, and communion with nature, that's what it was (except for the frogs).

Another delightful sound of my childhood was the noise of the bees, and I liked it even though I once had 21 stings in my head and was very sick with their venom.  Maybe, by now, I'm related to the bees... In my California garden the crape myrtle tree is flowering with beautiful purple blossoms that attract hundreds of bees, busily collecting the nectar and making the most heavenly sound I remember from my Polish childhood. When I went for summer vacations to my Grandma's house in the "colony" of Bielewicze (not even a village, but a scattering of houses in the fields by the forest, on the eastern Kresy of Poland), I admired the intensity and patterns of the buzzing of bees in the majestic linden tree in the middle of the courtyard. In Polish, this tree is called "Lipa" - hence the month of "Lipiec" when it flowers. In English: July. Here, under the azure and turquoise cupola of California's skies, there are no linden trees, but the bees sing their songs quite as happily: busy, busy, busy, bzzz, bzzz, bzzz...

The bees go to sleep in the evening. Their familiar and beloved sounds are replaced by another guest from the past, or a couple of guests: crickets that have moved inside the house, sit behind the bookshelf and play, play, play - to their heart's desire.  The Polish village tradition of having a cricket behind the chimney stemmed from the habit of these sonorous critters to seek shelter from cold autumn and winter days in the warmth of village house kitchens: hence the saying, "to be comfy as a cricket behind a chimney," or "swierszcz za kominem."

Here, in the middle of California summer, it is very hot outside, perhaps too hot, so maybe the bookshelf, right by my empty and cold fireplace, provides a shaded and safe shelter from the heat? No matter what reason, I love listening to these critters. They rub their legs to make this lively noise, they do work very hard. Imagine if I had to rub my legs to speak at such a speed! Amazing! What onomatopoeia should reflect the chirping of the crickets? chir-chir-chir is too slow, szuru-buru is too low, so let's leave this translation aside and enjoy.

Chinese scholars used to catch crickets, put them in little cages and make them sing by poking them with a stick. I saw a whole assortment of such cricket cages at the Pacific Asia Museum and was quite offended at the presumptuous human "jailers" who should have set their crickets free, to have them come and play at will, as guests, not prisoners.

A Cricket Sings

The intricate opening

carved into patterns

of ancient elegance

lets feeble light

into the ornate cage

the smooth brown cask

is a luxurious coffin

for insect freedom

How sad for the cricket!

Tickled to sing,

it awakens in a box

held by sweaty hands

of an imperial scribe

who listens to the memory

of distant farmlands

in his own gilded cage -

a tiny room hidden by

the splendor of ancient

palace walls

How sad for the cricket!

(c) 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk

I'm sure that the songs of the captive crickets was not as happy as the one that I'm listening to right now. Alas, I cannot record it, as my house is filled with another, somewhat louder noise, that of the old. fridge. While I tried to come closer to record my evening music, the result was silence: the cricket realized it was not alone and stopped its night-time serenade altogether.  Thus, I learned that "the presence of the observer changes the phenomenon being observed" - a variation on the Heisenberg Principle, heard in my living room, on a summer evening! And my friend tells me that, had I been able to record the cricket and slow down the recording I would have heard singing, just like human voices: http://truthseekerdaily.com/2013/11/someone-recorded-crickets-then-slowed-down-the-track-and-it-sounds-like-humans-singing/.

As physicists have told us, the Uncertainty Principle, a characteristics of all waves, states that you can either know where something is, or how fast it is going, but not both at the same time. In other words: "the more precisely the position of some particle is determined, the less precisely its momentum can be known, and vice versa."  This explains the position of my keys, sunglasses, and stick-drives in my reality, since I do not know where they are at the precise moment of leaving my house, they must be accelerating with intense momentum to reach the speed of light and disappear forever on the other side, in the universe of left socks, assorted pens, hairpins, sunglasses, keys and umbrellas. There must be such a universe, given the hundreds of items that disappear without trace each year.

Seriously speaking, we do have to be serious when speaking: words have weight. So few among us understand the power and potency of words in creating realities. Millions of people have read "The Secret" where this idea is popularized, yet they sought another "get rich quick" scheme and overlooked a fundamental principle of human reality. Words create Worlds. Is it said in the Gospel of John:

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not..."

Manuscript in the Badische Landesbibliothek, Karlsruhe, Germany, 1220.  Cod. Bruchsal 1, Bl. 1v 

That's a pretty important statement about  the true significance of words, filled, as they are, with the Divine creative power. Words create human reality.  We live in the Universe we made of words. Poets do, philosophers, scientists, scholars, politicians, business people, do, parents and children do - we all define our realities in words. Spoken aloud, words can become enchantments or curses: "I hate you, go away" breaks the heart of a child, and may lead to a life-time of trauma. "I love you, you are beautiful" brings an instant flowering of gladness.

On the website of Dr. Masaru Emoto (1943-2014) we read: "We all learn valuable life lessons at our own pace, but there is one basic truth we all learn early.  Positive, compassionate words comfort and heal; negative words and insults hurt. Until recently, we knew this only because we could feel it.  Now we can actually see it.  Thanks to the experimental work of Dr. Masaru Emoto, we can look to water, and its frozen crystals, to confirm the healing power of beautiful music, positive thinking, uplifting speech, and prayer."

"By exposing water to a particular word or piece of music, freezing it, and photographing the ice crystals formed, Dr. Emoto has shown that from beautiful words and music, come beautiful crystals, and from mean-spirited, negative words, come malformed and misshapen crystals. What is the significance?  It becomes clear when we remember that the adult human body is approximately 70% water and infant bodies are about 90% water.  We can be hurt emotionally and, as the water can be changed, for the worse physically, by negativity. However, we are always closer to beauty when surrounded by positive thoughts, words, intentions and ultimately those vibrations."

Dr. Emoto’s theories are articulated in his books: The Hidden Messages in Water, The True Power of Water, and The Secret Life of Water.  Some of his experiments involved writing or saying "I love you" and "I hate you" to various samples of water, with the effect showing the creative, organizing power of love and the destructive, chaotic nature of hate. In other experiments he compared crystals formed in frozen samples from pure stream water  and from microwaved water. Just looking at them makes you want to throw out your microwave... It just is not right.

In any case, believe it or not, water, or not water, the healing power of self-talk, affirmation of one's own value, beauty, goodness, and happiness is well established. But then, what about all these curses, uttered at random, casually? So many "F-bombs" dropped on the waters within the listeners and the speakers alike... What is the damage? We do not know for sure yet, except that "grating" effect, that feeling of being "taken down" a notch, somehow diminished.  I was cursed out by someone not long ago in a phone message I saved, thinking it would be a good start of a book, and not realizing that words could be used with such venom. But then, I thought - why bother? If I transcribe and publish those curses, I'll add to their hidden power, I'll make them go out to the world and do the work that they were designed for: to destroy, to diminish...

Instead, I decided to write an entirely different book, of "Poems and incantations" leading the readers Into Light, with its 30 poems and 12 prayers... I wrote them for myself, but also to share. Enjoy!

Crown Jewels

I am an onyx of grounding
I am amber of attraction
I am a topaz of resilience

I am a rose quartz of affection
I am a turquoise of expression
I am an amethyst of insight

I am a sapphire of faith
I am an emerald of hope
I am a ruby of love

I am a crystal of clarity
I am a pearl of understanding
I am a diamond of light

This book is now available in the following formats:

Paperback (trade, 6 by 9  inches), ISBN 978 0 9963981 8 3
http://www.lulu.com/shop/maja-trochimczyk/into-light-poems-and-incantations/paperback/product-22829841.html

Pocketbook (4.22 by 6.88 inches), No ISBN, available on lulu.com
http://www.lulu.com/shop/http://www.lulu.com/shop/maja-trochimczyk/into-light-poems-and-incantations/paperback/product-22810285.html

and E-Book in ePub format,ISBN 978 0 9963981 9 0
http://www.lulu.com/shop/http://www.lulu.com/shop/maja-trochimczyk/into-light-poems-and-incantations/ebook/product-22830071.html

My Favorite Wildflowers in California - A Photo Essay (Haiga Sequence)

When spring stretches its days and falls into the hot weight of the summer, it is time to visit the heroic blossoms of the chaparral  yucca, reaching up to the sky, against all odds.  This flower, so abundant in the valley where I live, is a survivor on the go. The plant with thin, blade-like spiky leaves (with extremely sharp tips, like needles), sends up one thick stem that grows and grows and grows until it starts unfurling a cascade of white flowers, off white maybe, ivory or cream, and the whole valley fills with these gigantic candle-like blossoms. Then they go to seed and die, and the seeds sprout anew nearby and a new flower points at clouds, and the cycle continues...

in a green desert 

yucca blossoms open -

a skyward ladder

tall yucca blossoms

point to cloudy desert sky -

magic without rain

spring desert delight

coconut and whipped cream  -

yucca whipplei

sharp spikes and shadows

the silver galaxy of yucca leaves -

enter at your peril

the magic of symmetry

moves in a blur of  lines

into yucca's heart

a blue jay in the blue sky

watches the world go round  and round

from the flower top 

serene after sunset -

aqua, fuchsia and violet sky

pierced by whiteness

flower triplets 

born of sand and rocks 

reach for the sky 

this dot is the moon -

prim yucca patiently explains

to disheveled clouds

yuccas at sunset -

spikes and blossoms unfold 

against the dark

here it is 

my yucca on the tip of my finger

in my valley

My other favorite flower grows here and there in the wild, but it is also planted in garden. This is the white and yellow poppy growing on two meter tall stems with silvery green leaves: The Matilija Poppy (Romneya coulteri). I like it so much, I put it on the cover of the anthology, Meditations on Divine Light. It does look like a sun with a corona of light, and  rays, doesn't it? Or maybe the ballerina, or Marilyn with her skirts floating on the hot air from the subway vents? But certainly not an egg, surely not an egg...

breeze lifts the skirts

of a shy ballerina -

Marilyn reborn

the thrill of frills

unfurling from a tight ball

into a sunburst

petal and clouds

float above my head - I squint, 

flooded by sunlight

Hello, Ms. Bee

we both love gold nectar and honey -

I eat yours

...but then, there other flowers growing in the wild, including the rare Plummer's Mariposa and the Humboldt Lilies (Lilium humboldtii) photographed high up in the San Gabriel Mountains by Kristin Sabo. Both lilies are endemic to Southern California and extremely rare. 

Plummer's mariposa

discovers the triune symmetry

once again

wild mountain lily -

fuzzy geometry of dusk

in three petals

twin jellyfish  -

lilies swim through the sunset

to the night's ocean 

And, of course, there is an abundance of flowers, not so wild, in Descanso Gardens, starting from an forest of camellias, imported from Japan and bought by Mr. Boddy from a Japanese nursery at the time of deportations in the 1940s.  I wrote about those camelias already and even made a collage of the Sunbloom, with a white corona and golden rays:

camellia stamens

dance, twist, wave, turn

seeking the sun

ever calling - never heard

ever seeking - never seen

revealed

  

http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2013/01/happy-new-year-2013-with-sunbloom-and.html

But would there be flowers, if there were no leaves? We had visited the sharp spikes of the yucca already. Here are some wet leaves in the rain in Descanso Gardens. I do not know what they are, but sure they shine brightly, like polished jade.

smoothed by raindrops

emerald leaves stretch and sigh -

a green heart of spring

line after line -

the elemental breath exhales 

oxygen into air

Meditations in Light, for Peace, under the Trees

Try it, just try...

Sit, or lie, or stand quietly, not moving, but not tense. Relax, close your eyes. Imagine....

Meditation on Light

Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Relax.

Imagine a bright, golden-white light right above your head, a miniature sun. Its golden rays shine all around you, through you. You are surrounded, enveloped, protected by light. You are Light. You are Love. You are safe.

Now, breathe in this light. See how it starts to shine inside you. With each breath, the brightness descends into you, deeper and deeper. Light enters and fills you. It shines inside your head. You see it in your mind's eye. Light particles scatter and flow in waves. All your thoughts are pure light. There is no darkness. Only light, only peace.

Now, the white light expands and settles in your heart. A sun shines in the middle of your chest. It stays there. The pulsating sun-heart moves the golden-white, dazzling light into all parts of your body. Your blood and veins are full of light. A warm glow spreads all over. Darkness disappears. Light is everything.

Streams of light flow through all your organs, muscles, and skin. Light rays cleanse, purify, and heal. They flow to the fingertips, the tips of your toes, through your eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. Even your hair is full of light. From the top of your head to the soles of your feet, you are all made of light.

Breathe deeply. Breathe in— breathe out—

Breathe in— breathe out. Now—in this moment—next—

The energy flows and pulsates. You feel lighter, fuller,

calmer, brighter. You are joyous, thankful. Shining with the golden-white glow of your light, you feel vibrant, fully alive.

You say YES to the light, YES to the life this light brings.

You rest in the tranquil rhythm of your breath.  Rest

in the strong, steady rhythm of your heartbeat—

a pulsating, bright, golden sun.

You are light.  You are love.

All made of light. All made of love.

Still— silent — serene—

The brightest sun.

*   *   *

Now, open your eyes. Feel the earth beneath your feet.

See everything around you. You are here. You have arrived.

(c) 30 April 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk

This imagined enlightenment came to me during a reading of poetry in a rehab, for men that just recently left prison or jail and bore the scars of their past lives on their bodies, on their faces. I asked them to close their eyes, relax, sit comfortably and imagine. I said this is a meditation poem for peace... Those that followed the direction, and were able to stop being vigilant for these brief minutes, stop expecting to be attacked, to be had - they were happy, moved by this experience. The mood in the room changed tangibly. So I decided to write this meditation down and start doing it myself. Only in this version, I tell myself: "There is a large, bright, white golden star right above my head..."

One morning, I got stuck in my head, I just could not imagine the light entering my heart and becoming this golden, white, bright star in the center of my chest. Instead, what I had was a hollow sphere of darkness. Nothing, no feelings, no joy, no light. I was very anxious and worried that day, too much to do, too many things to deal with, too many ugly people had attacked me. I felt worn out. Empty. So I left it at that.

Light in my mind, no light in my heart?  Fine, at least there is some light, somewhere...

The next day, as I went for a walk in the Big Tujunga Wash I was passing by gardens filled with trees. Purple jacaranda starting to bloom, with its peculiar shade of blue-violet known as "periwinkle" - the funniest name of any color I know. Big clouds of Italian pine, floppy new leaves forming the canopy of the mulberry already filling with fruit that birds and passers-by like to snack on. The magnolia in one yard, the orange tree in another. Then the oak, the liquid amber, the row of Italian cypress.

Looking at their varied shapes and hues of their leaves, I thought how much I love trees, from the maples of my childhood, lining my way to school, to the towering chestnuts in my grandparents' backyard - the endless source of entertainment, making patterns in their richly-lined seven-fingered leaves. The apples with their enchanting, delicate flowers, and the miraculously soft, sweet and juicy pears, "klapsy" that were so delicate they would not last more than a day...

A Pear in a Tree

In a fruit orchard
By the sandy path
I climbed a pear tree
To watch the road
Melt into the horizon

I ate a golden pear
Juice stained my dress
My day dream of white
softness cut short
by the buzzing of wasps

They, too, longed for
The sweetness
Of warm summer pears
They, too, dreamed
Of endless sunlight.

(c) 19 July 2012 by Maja Trochimczyk

I wrote quite a few poems about the beauty of fruit trees, here's one about peaches:

A Box of  Peaches

You locked your Wisdom in a gilded box

Placed copper flowers 

Where metal bars cross, to hold them

You made a window for Compassion 

To look out onto the silent world 

Glowing with the Unseen

Would the talisman of the Smiling One

In your pocket save you? Draw luck 

To your game of cards?

Let it be. Let the ancient words fall

On a carpet of bronze petals on your path

Dappled with tree shadows 

Walk slowly through the magic

Orchard filled in an avalanche of peaches, 

Ripening in scarlet sunrays 

Stoop down to pick one, feel its warmth 

In your hand, taste the mellow richness 

Beneath the fuzzy, wrinkled skin 

Say to no one in particular 

The sun maybe, or the tree, or this late hour –  

Thank you, yes, thank you very much

(c) 1 August 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

Pears, peaches, oranges, pomegranates, as beautiful as planets... all this lovely fruit. These trees give us a lot more than oxygen, we tend them like shepherds their herds, they are there for us, we planted them for their fruit.

But then, there are the sycamores I see daily outside my office window, from bare branches, through buds, bright green new leaves, to changing colors and those rusty "balls" of seed pods. The purpose of these trees is to give shade, but first and foremost to be beautiful. To be.

The Sycamores

I will take my confidence
from the tranquility of trees

the sycamores stand tall
in winter’s light – silver

leafless branches bear
brown prickly balls of seed pods

like rusty ornaments
after long-forgotten Christmas

the sycamores have strength,
nobility even, a well-earned 

pride I could only imagine
looking out my window in the rain

(c) 24 February 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk

I am connected to these tranquil, ancient giants. Our lungs. They give us oxygen to breathe, we give them carbon dioxide to feed on. I love my trees. I love all trees. I've never hugged a tree yet, I just look at them and love them. I sit in their shadows, admire bark patterns and the endless variety of colors. A strange thing happened when I thought "I love these trees" - my heart filled with light.

The moment I looked at my trees and loved them, the meditation on light I had tried to force myself into, and ended up with an empty heart, returned. Suddenly, this extremely bright star appeared in the middle of my chest, my heart started pumping particles of light through my veins and I was peaceful and happy, full of love.
They go together, I forgot. Love and Light. That's why spiritual healers, like Kimberly Meredith, ask you to repeat these simple words in meditation: "I am light, I am love, I am safe." Try it. Or, rather, don't try. Just do it. Think of something else, someone else you love, if you do not love trees. Of course, everyone should love trees, they are our brethen, our lifeline, our roots.  But if you cannot, you cannot. Surely, there is something or someone you love? But it cannot be food, something you destroy. A dog, a cat, a person, a parrot - a living being.

What's the point? one could ask. What's the point of all that in our horrible, divided, tormented world? We made it so, we can undo it. If enough people meditate to fill themselves with light, there will be light. If enough people meditate for peace, there will be peace.  And, on the other end of the spectrum, if we teach our children to kill and hate, and spend endless hours killing light-made specters on their screens, filling their minds with images of virtual violence - there will be more and more darkness, hate and violence.

Artwork by Toti O'Brien

A Romance, Pure and Simple

                                                - inspired by the art of Toti O’Brien
the world was on fire
the trees charred already
the sky burning crimson
in my dream last night

Apocalypse did happen
you left, I was in ruins
in an empty landscape
of ashes, burnt feelings

memories that could not grow
into the greenness of new love
its fresh, dewy innocence
denying the char of hatred

I buttoned it up, you see
I enclosed the nightmare
in a magic, handmade frame
with khorovod lines of circles

eighteen and twenty-two
twenty-two and eighteen
minus one – I kept the last
in my pocket to remember

how I poured my words
over flames to conquer
the terror, invincible
to all, but your love

(c) August 20, 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

We made the world we live in. We can unmake it. How do we start? Where do we start? In the heart. Through a conscious effort to not be torn, tortured, tormented. To leave it all behind. I found this beautiful animation art on Facebook (courtesy of Mary Frances Spencer) - it is good for something, not just bragging about publications and honors - that shows it so sucintly:

Peace Starts With Me from Magali Charrier on Vimeo.

Magali Charrier created this animation, called "Peace Starts with Me" on commission from PUMAPeace, alongside 7 other artists, for  Peace for the World Peace Festival 2011. Fascinating, to see the mess of blobs the person becomes when she's not peaceful within, composed into a stellar song.

I have not invented anything I wrote about here. I just rediscovered it for my own. There is an ancient Native American tale, a wisdom teaching for the young, that I particularly like.

Two Wolves. A Cherokee Tale

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandchild about life. " A fight is going on inside me," he says. 
"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego." 

He continued. "The other one is good - he is joy, peace, hope, love, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion. The same fight is going on inside you- and inside every other person, too." 

The grandchild thought about this for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf will win?"  The old Cherokee replied: "The one you feed."

Notice the list of traits that the first animal carries within - regret, guilt, empty pride. Some oriented to the past, some to the future. None focused on the beauty of the present. What matters is expanding the present. Being truly immersed in the here and now. Being here, full of light. Being light.

A Universal Lesson

                                      ~ for Madeleine

Your eyes touch the sky. Look higher.
Over millions of light years, to a constellation of galaxies 
twirling, dancing across the universe.

Your mind stretches – 
Magnificent, magnified, cosmic.
You are the light of the world. You are cosmos.
You are…
at least to the bacteria on your skin
fingertips, tongue.  No matter. You cannot see 
the ones living within you. The billions inside.

Look higher, then. 
Your eyes touch the stars on the midnight sky.
Your consciousness flows towards them,  
dances with them.
Seated in your favorite chair
you fly through space – 
a minuscule dot  on the spiral arm of the galaxy.

Compose yourself 
into the mirror image of cosmos.
A constellation of your own.

(c) 17 April 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk

We will not have to chose then. Life begins beyond "either/or" - that's where we find the Divine, too, as Kierkegaard discovered. It is beyond making choices. It is how we are found. And find ourselves where we have always been.

... from Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot

The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration.
 A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments.
 So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
 Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.

Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

NOTE: Photos from lilies and camellias in Descanso Gardens, roses and trees in Sunland. Poems previously published in various journals, except for the Universal Lesson and Meditation on Light which are new...