Bearing Witness

I'm sitting by the fire with Bene the Cat, soaking up the warmth of our collective, purring bodies and reading poetry (Mary Oliver). Contemplative poetry has always been a tremendous source of inspiration to me, and I made a connection as to why. 

A few hours ago, I attended a training, diving into the 3 tenets of the Zen Peacekeepers Order: 

~ Not knowing

~ Bearing Witness

~ Loving Action

Bearing Witness is being purely present to an experience without judgment, with no attempts to fix, shorten or lengthen the experience, but to fully engage, as open-hearted as possible. Bearing Witness to life as it unfolds seems exactly what a good poem/poet achieves. Mary Oliver was known to just head out into the woods each day with her journal and write about what she witnessed. Here's the poem I just finished: 

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings —
five feet apart — and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of snow —

and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow —
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

Raw, condensed, and so very watchful, a full witnessing of the owl, and then, the turning inward, the contemplation, becoming one with this expression of life (and death)--Bearing Witness. 

I can't imagine the owl was an uplifting sight, and yet, it filled her with awe-inspiring wonder, and she reported faithfully without any interference. Bless the poets in our midst--those who practice Bearing Witness: to the owl, to Israel and Gaza, to the baby taking her first steps, to the lengthening light of Springtime. May we practice allowing life to unfold freely, greeting what arises with respect, dignity, openness and wonderment.