Beautiful Francis alone on a hill
He heard the call to build
He worked alone in the winter chill
A pledge that must be fulfilled
Barefoot in the snow
His fingers worked to the bone
The spirit dream must grow . . .
He bent to pile the stone
Sister Sun, My Sister Moon
You build with words not stone
Get me a cell and a line to the muse
You shall not build alone
Edwina Peterson Cross
Raven has taken me by the hand and led me to the place of one of the first structures founded in this ancient land. There is an icy wind and dusk’s cloak surrounds us as we arrive at the Lemurian Abbey.
The place has been quiet for a long time, yet you barely need to tap the stone walls to coax words left my travelers who passed this way, stopped to savor and who, in doing so, were inspired and in their turn, inspired others.
There are a growing number of souls wandering the Abbey. Finding their way….making their way.
Early in the morning I wake, if I have slept at all, and lurk the vast hallways. Scarcely seen as I slip silently past the moonlit windows of the great hall which lead the way into the abbey gardens. As I enter these gardens I hear behind me the quiet hum of the Abbey coming to life as it welcomes in another day.
It has become my habit to slip down the stairs almost unnoticed. To wander in the dawn of the gardens, letting them imprint their beauty on my soul and infuse my heart with inspiration. The lights and shadows, the early morning mists that rise up with the sun reveal the forms and textures of the gardens as no other time of day can. As I run my fingers across the wrinkled blankets that enfold the trees my arms ache to create. The nature of the mother, the greatest artist of all, humbles me.
A Stone, A Bit of Bone.
The past lies beneath our feet,
A piece of stone,
A bit of bone,
An impression in the ground,
All it takes is patience
And careful observation.
Digging often in the heat,
In dry and parching dust,
The past clings to itself,
Does not come easily
Into the light of day.
The earth protects its secrets.
They elude our
And often, even then,
The secrets lie
Just beyond our reach,
Beyond our sight,
Beyond our ability to know
As if they were our own.
They’re not ours, you see,
These secrets of the past–
Although we’ve built upon them
And learned from scraps revealed.
It’s not our time.
They’re hidden from our sight,
Revealing only what they will,
Enough to tantalize,
To keep us digging,
And so they lay, these secrets,
In the shadows,
Out of sight,
Beneath Earth’s protective cloak
A stone is turned,
A bone revealed,
A story finally told.
©April 10, 2005
Sonnet to the Abbey
Be welcomed in these hallowed halls
Let all your burdens go
Feel peace within these hollowed walls
Beneath the lamp lights glow
Here time is quiet, time is slow
Soft time to think and be
This healing gift the walls bestow
And in this time creation flows
From fingers and from quill
Here art is born and words compose
Deep essence to fulfil
For a time now, cease to roam
The door is open: You’ve come home
©Edwina Peterson Cross
June 23, 2005
The Abbey is my comfort zone
My writing skills I’m here to hone
My heart is filled with love and reverence
For here, there is no need for recompence
The gifts I receive are far beyond measure
Wisdom, humor and mischievous pleasure
Do you know you are conduits of life’s blood and energy? Bind me to you and I’ll feed off the synergy
So write on wanton word warriors
take off (straight up) adaptable Harriers
I’ll bring along my feathers and stone
and holding on tightly-come into my own