The man who rolled the lemons. A poem about alchemy and significance

Ordinarily, the people at the supermarket checkout
take the items that roll easily - lemons, apples and such
and guide them with a careful hand
down that slight incline that leads towards your waiting bags.
But he was different.
He scanned my three lemons
before giving them a playful shove
sending them roly-poly-ing toward me.
I laughed and he shot me a mischievous smile saying,
”It’s the best part of my day.”
Two bulbs of garlic were next in line
but they would not roll on account of their nobbles
and our eyes met in a conspiratorial giggle.
Before I left, I wished for him that many people would come in search of loose lemons this day.
Joy followed me like a light shadow
until the sun slept and then still when it woke again
and I prayed for all people to know
that an insignificant action and, therefore,
an insignificant life
are not things that exist.
He rolled three lemons and made joy and poetry;
a master alchemist in disguise.
We will likely never know all the ways our lives reach beyond ourselves
But we can be sure in our hearts that they do.

Love and courage,

Leah

Rebellion, mischief and originality in a world that favours conformity

Offer me all the material success in the world. Sew my bedsheets with golden thread and hang diamonds from my curtains. Fill my bank accounts with rubies and embed emeralds on the tips of my shoes. Kiss my hands and bow deep at my feet. Speak of my great achievements with respect and awe. Fly me business class around the world and wait dutifully in line for a signed copy of my international bestseller. Quote me in journal articles and invite me on Oprah. Sing my praises to all who will listen. Know my authority and expertise.

Offer me all the material success in the world and I will reject it all if it comes at the cost of true expression. What is a life for if not to be oneself?

The light of rebellion, mischief and joy glitters in the eyes of my young twin nieces. I pray it never dulls. Born but minutes apart, their differences make up the utter beauty of this world. A unique expression of one, indivisible whole. The gift of each of us births rivers of salt from my eyes. Perhaps we will never know just how splendid our originality.

Yet with time, most of us get smudged. A little rounding off here. A little smoothing off there. Recruited into groups that blend us into one another so much that in the end there is little left to tell us apart. We feel relatively safe. Maybe we are pretty successful. People like us. We fit in. We move with the crowd.

But just beneath the dry, tired surface, true expression still flows. A creative force that’s hot like blood pushes at the door of your heart and begs to be let in and then up and out!

When a baby is born, an artist is born. The world is full of artists who have forgotten their gifts. Heavenly blessings smothered under rules, authority and fear. Find your way back now. It is not too late until the last breath is taken. Cut the cords that tie you to a flavourless life. Discover the truth and words your heart alone wishes to speak. Risk your reputation for the fire of your untamed creativity. Rejoice in the vulnerability of standing alone. Let Love burst through your red-rich veins and colour this world in the way it can only ever do through you.

What is a life for if not to be oneself?

Love and courage,

Leah

Oblivion for the light

I have never known an emptiness like this.
Motivation left me for other lovers long ago.
It returns, but with dwindling frequency
and only ever
to steal a clumsy kiss in the dark night.
It rouses me with its passionate promises of becoming
and for a brief moment
my pulse starts up again with hope.
This time, perhaps, it will stay;
reignite the rudder to drive this life.
But it does not stay and is never sustained.
It plants itself on my lips only, it seems, as a cruel tease;
a reminder of how we used to be.
Surrender to the oblivion is the only door out.
That, I know.
Yet like a floozy I keep falling for the old tricks
and find myself too often back in bed
with desire and hope.

Love and courage,

Leah

A radically different approach to New Year

Year end.
Imaginings of new beginnings.
Vision boards, desire lists, longings, I wants.
Goals, focus, commitment, plans.

And yet
what year, ever
turned out that way?

Are we worried, maybe
that without our lists, life will give us nothing
but bad apples?
That a good life is one
we have to dream in advance?

Do we dare imagine the possibility of
stopping?
And instead
submerging ourselves in the Now.

Could beauty not be found that way?
Or dreams beyond our imaginings come true?

Would life stand still if
we laid our pens down to rest a while
and took the hand of the moment
outstretched in an invitation to dance
intimate and passionate
merged and sweaty
until the clock strikes midnight
and a new year begins.

Then, perhaps, we will take up our pens again
and return to our old ways.
Or,
perhaps,
those fiery moments spent in tango with the moment
were enough to convince us
to keep dancing this way
the whole year through.
Moment to sweet moment
what might we find?

I guess we will never know unless
we try.

Love and courage,

Leah

The emptiness we feel: Love's longing to know itself once more

The navy blue satin camisole shines under the lights of the Christmas window display of Marks and Sparks. Outside, a homeless man sits in a doorway, hunkering down against the unforgiving winter wind.

The man might want to fill an empty stomach, whilst the shopper makes an unconscious attempt to fill an emptiness no number of satin camisoles can make full.

Blame flies from ready mouths about how we ended up this way, with hungry humans in doorways, a planet suffocating under the strain of fast fashion, and people who don't seem to care.

Yet where can blame really lie? Do the satin seller and the satin buyer not operate from the same unconscious emptiness, a desperate longing for a home they don't yet know they've left? Blame does not come readily when one has travelled to the depths of one's own emptiness. As we inspect our own lives, we find we each have a place where the satin camisole lives.

We are united in our disconnection from Self, the manifestation of that disconnection appearing in innumerable ways. And even that disconnection is found to be filled with sweet innocence, for it seems, at least for now, to be part of this human voyage that we forget the truth of who we are.

Yet the forgetting is not complete. A memory exists within each of us of the wholeness we once knew, and whilst we are asleep to what drives us, that memory powers the motor of our seeking to return to ourselves.

The satin camisole is Love's longing to know itself once more. As it exhausts every possibility in the outside world to rediscover itself, it finally makes the journey inward. And as it becomes conscious of itself again, it pours itself into itself until the remembrance is complete. Knowing now its wholeness, it pours itself back into the outside world, a firefly of light whispering to all those who are tired and ready, 'This way'.

Love and courage,

Leah

Take me to a place where the robin sings

If ever you should find me
On the brink of wanting 
To put an end
To this human body
And this phase of life limited 
To heavy matter
Full of certainty that joy
Has fled forever,
Gather me up and
Take me to a place
Where the robin sings.
Seeing his red breast
And hearing his ever hopeful melody
I shall surely forget every woe
And burst into flames
Of gratitude for 
This strange gift 
Of human life.

Love and courage,

Leah

Gather your pain like a posy of wildflowers

We have spent a lifetime fleeing our pain. We have turned away from the rivers of sadness. We have pushed away the furnace of anger. We have denied the shame. We have rejected the depression. We started running and we never stopped. We thought we could outrun it, the pain. If we just kept running we would run to a place where it didn’t follow. We would run ourselves into freedom.