It was as though I was watching a dance,
The music of the pots and pans, jars and bowls.
And then the silence of the rolling pin signaled that
the pies were almost finished.
I felt I was at the opening scene of an opera,
or a theatrical drama, that proceeds to a long table
Where family and friends gather to eat a festive meal,
prepared with love.
Assunta Grace Ripa Welch
15 August 2010
Assunta Grazia Ripa Welch
15 Agosto 2010
Anticipation rises, and a story unfolds.
Some are short and passive,
Others are quick, punchy spurts,
as a good short story crashes to a climax.
Long-novel friendships, engaging at every level,
Can go on for a lifetime, and hoping never to end.
Unbearable bores are like badly written books,
No matter how much time you spend with them,
They never give back enough to save the friendship,
or the book.
Sparkly, upbeat, grab-life-by-the-tail friends
are like whirlwind travelogues,
giving pleasure with slice-of-life stories.
Quiet, reflective books and friends soothe the harried spirit.
Good friends, like good books are to be cherished.
Penciled in are doctors visits, shopping trips, job interviews
pending transformation into daily drama.
Weddings, baptisms, divorces and custody wars
scribbled amongst work-a-day scenes.
Those chancey twins, sickness and death,
not known for scrupulous planning will, in time
serpentine into the record.
We order our lives on pristine pages,
harnessing time to our dreams,
Resolved to master the randomness of fate,
by cataloging its schemes.
28 Dec. 90
Lying in my cot, listening,
Imagining someone a million years ago
in the very same space
would have heard the exact same sounds
But last night the sea was speaking to me.
G. Welch Feb. 2004
Sivananda Yoga Reteat
Paradise Island, Bahamas
Riposato sul lettino ascoltando,
Imaginando qualcuno millioni anni fa
nello stesso spazzo
devessere sentire essatto rumore
Ma ieri sera, il mare era parlando a me.
Raging and roaring, she tugged and strained,
Face red, tears streaming -- until exhaustion caused her
to let go --
She was free!
When I was a young woman,
thoughts would surface
and I would wonder
where they came from.
I recorded a recurrent fragment,
and saved the tattered note
through the years --
"Bring up the thoughts that lie
deep within you,
But put them not away,
for they are you."
Forty years later, in the mountains
on a spiritual retreat,
I read a fragment from Guradev,
"Begin to experience your inner source,
Sadhana takes you back to your source,
where real transformation is born."
The circle of life continues
First learned of Durga on a cold, windy Saturday
in the Catskills.
Small, square temple, corner of field,
Multi-armed icon astride tiger,
Flowers, food, water at her feet,
placed daily by devotees.
She is our protector, said the aspirant,
our nature walk guide.
She is a very powerful diety,
a fighter for her children.
She rights the wrongs of the world.
My identification was immediate.
Five thousand years, on the other
side of the world...
There exists a vacancy so broad,
so deep, they've given it a name,
That emptiness where women's existence
has been denied,
Her achievements unrecorded,
her courage usurped,
Her pronoun excised.
Who will speak for woman?
Who will write her story,
her wondrous talents,
her irreplaceable Gaia connection?
Women must speak for women,
Sing her song,
Dance her dance.