Wintering

/ Chloe Kyle / 1 Comment

Torrents of rain beat down incessantly.

Day after day, week after week

Thick grey clouds unburden their load.

And yet more cumulonimbus roll in,

Forming a never-ending deluge,

Under a dense, dark, menacing sky.

Winter walks are sodden underfoot,

Woodland paths transformed into gushing gullies,

Coursing through sticky, saturated Sussex clay.

Rivulets of rain stream down my cheeks, neck.

My wellies squelch, slip and slide,

Striving for purchase on shifting ground.

I feel the density, the pressure within too,

Like I’m wrapped in a tight cocoon 

Of thick, sticky, congealed threads.

They press me down, suffocate my essence.

A deep ache permeates the cells of my bones,

A weariness pervading my being.

Each time I try and force myself through

With well-thought-out strategies,

I’m met with a dark deluge of resistance.

Today I have no fight left.

I call in to Grace,

To the flickering candle of Divinity within. 

Here in the depths of my being,

A warm glow of Love abides.

When I rest here, 

Radiant beams course through my cells, 

Soften my body, lighten my load

And illuminate what blinds and binds me.

These strings of protection enveloping me,

The desire to meet expectations of others,

To serve and please when my body says no,

Are no longer needed.

Deep in this impenetrable darkness, 

Lies a growing trust that I hold the light.

Homecoming is a stripping off,

Of wet skins and clay-caked boots,

A hosing down of muddy paws,

A continuous cycle of scrubbing away

The dirt that clings tenaciously—

A grapple with an impossibly messy task.

With Grace, homecoming becomes

A shedding of skins, of identities,

A falling away of the silken threads,

 Of needs to improve and desires to become,

A laying down of effort,

An opening into Love within.

As snowdrops sprout in muddied ground,

Golden crocuses rise and daffodils bud

To the merry chirp of wren, robin and song thrush,

Joy bubbles up.

A sense of grace and flow sing through my being.

Such is the alchemy of wintering.

A sacred reclamation of Divinity within.

The Rainbow Portal

/ Chloe Kyle / 1 Comment

The December air feels heavy and grey,

Laden with the earthy scent of oncoming rain.

We burst out the door, wrapped in winter coats,

Eager for our dose of nature before daylight fades.

Star, our one-eyed spaniel, 

Darts and snuffles her way along the lane

Flanked by majestic oaks and beeches

In the midst of shedding their gems.

We pass through the kissing gate and

Crunch through the leaves and acorns on the woodland path,

To the bubbling brook which beckons Star in for her ritual swim,

And soaks us in fairy drops as she shakes herself dry.

We squelch through the mud to the cider farm 

Where the aroma of fermenting apples wrinkles our noses

And rows of bare trees stretch out to the horizon.

We’re walking through mizzle, cheeks damp and rosy,

 Into dark, looming storm clouds. 

Night’s creeping in.

It’s time to turn home.

Robert Boyce

An astounding iridescent arc of colour greets us,

A fainter opalescent reflection arches above it.

The surrounding air is startlingly blue.

We’re spellbound by beauty and clarity,

Dazzled by the immense power of the pivot,

The dichotomy of heading out west into the grey drizzle

And turning homeward into a clear blue sky

Lit by the astonishing radiance of a double rainbow.

And so it is with attention:

The more I place it on the Divine,

On my Beloved inside,

The more the dreary mundane world fades into obscurity.

And my inner world becomes lit by an unfathomable light.

The practice of the pivot is a lesson in devotion,

A magical bridge between one world and another,

The art of connection within.

It’s a divine alchemy, drawing me closer

To the pot of gold, my Beloved within.

We’re heading home.

We smile, a warm glow of joy spreading inside, 

And follow Star as she leaps through green fields of sheep,

Tail wagging, nose wet, eye alight with excitement.

 We skip through rows of Sussex vines,

Bathed in the glimmer of polychrome light 

Shimmering through tiny droplets of rain,

Towards the magnificent double rainbow portal.

Embraced by effervescent arcs of Grace and Wonder,

We are guided by a growing inner knowingness of faith and trust,

Borne through hard won trials and tribulations,

Of dead-end adventures and overwhelming storms.

We’re brimming with hope, promise and divine presence,

And feeling so Loved.

Homeward bound.

Comments Welcome

Beware The Ember Season

/ Chloe Kyle / 2 Comments

It’s Ember season and the veils are thin.

The warmth of summer and September days long gone,

A golden harvest gathered and shared.

Nights lengthen while damp, dark skies creep in.

Ghouls, ghosts and goblins rush out to play

In a frenzied riot around Halloween.

Tomfoolery, deception and delusion abound,

Tricking the mind in a maze of distraction.

Old fears resurface to haunt and spook,

The inescapable trauma, the inevitable bouts of chronic pain.

False beliefs rear up their ugly heads,

Entrapping you in a quagmire of fear, panic, shame.

Until you remember,

To return to the source of the Beloved within,

Feel the boon of His Presence and find the courage 

To look the reaper of death in the eye and wink,

Dance with the troll of doom,

And tickle the furry belly of the giant spider,

Dispelling her web of illusion.

For all this dross that is surfacing

Is yours to burn on Bonfire Night.

Effigies of past selves that no longer serve you

Feed the flames of fire, turn to embers

And transform in the crucible of love

To become the fertile ash of your awakening.

A Re-membering.

November nights draw long and autumn hues dull

As the stark chill of mid-winter approaches.

It’s time to reflect on your harvest

For all is laid bare in December,

A reckoning for the Soul,

Where you glimpse your truth,

And choose to step into your magnificence.

Or not.

Behold the Ember Season,

Trick or Treat

Fear or Love

Be aware.

A time to Re-member

Your Divinity.

A Carpet of Pearls and Treasures

/ Chloe Kyle / 6 Comments

The oak rains down her acorns and leaves

In a cascade of rustles and plunks,

Layering the woodland floor in an opulent carpet

Of crunch and colour.

Trees dressed in outstanding autumn finery,

Are shedding orange, green, yellow, copper leaves,

In a fluttering dance of startling hues.

It’s a mast year of exceptional abundance,

And the trees are in the process of a magnificent unrobing.

Months of bright sunshine and bountiful rain

Bring forth this sumptuous celebration of nature. 

I feel a sense of enormity too, an overwhelming fullness,

A resounding call from Grace to let go.

The vestige of head trauma haunts my left side,

Inflammation and pain flaring again.

Grief wells up, the loss of a friend,

The shifting tides of being a mother, wife, daughter,

A bewilderment of how to move forward.

The oak’s glorious unrobing looks effortless,

A wonderful retreat to her core within her bark.

On the woodland floor lies a splendid banquet,

Nourishing squirrels, robins, beetles and the tree itself.

I, however, have a pillar of resistance inside,

A pressing need to release a multitude of age-old beliefs. 

Subconscious patterns hold me fast,

causing me to wallow, distract, or seek outward,

For answers, relief, direction.

I reach deep into the beloved source within,

And see my leaves of creation from all angles,

The red tinge of despondency, bronze glow of misspent hope,

The headstrong tendencies behind them,

And the golden beam of divinity that runs through all.

A kaleidoscope of revelations lights up within,

A sacred gift that ushers such yearned-for release.

I too am laying a carpet of pearls and treasures,

A path of Grace to walk me home.

The Flight of the Blackbird

/ Chloe Kyle / 8 Comments

Claws entangled in webbing,

Wings and head strain against a crisscross of string.

A dog paws and pounces in play towards its prey.

The blackbird careens desperately,

Gold ringed eyes wide with dismay.

Recently tempted by juicy strawberries,

Now he’s helplessly caught in their net.

Werner Baumgarten

Hands reach in to hold and untangle,

While his yellow beak pecks in defence

To escape the restraint,

Only to dive into the net once more.

Again, hands hold, scissors snip at binding,

A wing is set free and he bursts away,

Still anchored by the net trailing behind him.

I too am stuck in a net,

A complex tangle of my mind’s creation.

Lured in by the desire to be 

a great mother, teacher, writer, homemaker,

I’m bound by the fear of not meeting the needs of others,

Threatened and toyed with by illusions of being better, 

Caught up in demands of society.

In chanting my mantra

I’m held by the hands of Grace within,

Who deftly loosens the cords that hold me.

Time and again I rail against them,

Unmoored without the age-old concepts

That have held me fast for so long,

Taken in once more by false whisperings of the world.

This time two hands hold the blackbird,

Another cuts away at the twine that binds him.

He’s momentarily still, surrendered to the process,

Until, finally untangled, the hands open.

He flies up over the oxeye daisies, meadow peas and clover,

Skimming the flower-filled field and

Soaring into the clear blue sky beyond.

Today as I tune in to Grace,

I lean into His hands and resist

The habit to escape to my mind’s desire.

Instead, I ask His Will for me, and hear

“Be still and know that you are God”.

My liberation depends on this belief,

On my trust in His skill to break the bonds that bind me.

Days later, again a blackbird

Is trapped in the net.

Claws ensnared, webbing overhead,

Dog teasing him playfully.

Hands reach in to untangle.

He stills and offers no resistance.

Moments later, he’s free once more.

Such is the play between entrapment and emancipation.

With practice, the balance between 

The lure of the old snares

And the trust, belief and movement into Grace begin to tip.

His hands gently open and I am set free

To glide up and over the roses and thorns of mind’s creation

And soar into the boundless blue sky of Grace within.

Comments welcome

The Grace of the Hare

/ Chloe Kyle / 4 Comments

She sits aback a hazel tree in serene repose

Exuding a quiet, gentle grace.

Her soft, tawny fur melds into bark and earth,

Long black-tipped velvet ears upstanding, nose twitching,

Two oval amber eyes ever alert to the surrounds,

For to lapse in attention is to invite peril.

JMrocek

Grass snakes weave through the lush meadow,

Hawks and kestrels scour the earth from above,

Foxes, weasels and stoats prowl the fields,

All dangers of the natural world

On the hunt for prey.

Speed and awareness are her antidotes, her gifts.

In the blink of an eye, she tears through the grass

Joining a drove to race and chase,

Twisting, turning and leaping around each other

Like fallen blossoms swept up in a spring breeze.

Gambolling and pirouetting with fluid grace,

In an instant, she melts into the landscape once more.

Daily I sit in humble reverence

Amidst the highs and lows of life’s harshness,

Practice receiving the wrath of a mother or loss of a friend

With due respect, yet remember to effortlessly pivot

To the eye of Grace and play here in His sacred field,

Where Love is all and all is Love.

Comments and insights welcome

Soul Fire

/ Chloe Kyle / 8 Comments

She has fire in her feet

And sparks in her hair

But nobody sees the furnace inside.

The crimson flames burn through

The entrenched roots of her grief.

The bright orange blaze incinerates,

The bindweed of her anger.

The wildfire consumes the shackles

 Of not being seen, not being enough,

Which have held her fast to the muck and mire,

Of mismatched ideals, beliefs and concepts,

Borrowed from others, 

Embedded in the fabric of society.

All this dross buried deep in her cells,

Finally set ablaze.

MISHA

A torch flares deep within.

A white beacon of truth and love

Ignites the radiance of her soul and 

serenades the flickers of light in her eyes.

This is the passion that fuels her purpose,

Fanning the flames that twirl and swirl,

Burning faster and faster through all that is not true,

Dancing on the ashes of what once was.

She has soul fire in her feet

And divine sparks in her hair

Alchemising Her presence,

To Reveal her essence.

Lighter, truer, stronger, more vital,

Effervescent Love in the 

Music of the spheres.

The Tremble for Love

/ Chloe Kyle / 1 Comment

I hear it in the rustle of the Beech hedge

 As the chill nip of autumn air loosens her leaves.

I see it in the heaviness of November clouds

As they gather to release their burden.

I sense it in the fabric of the world,

The unrest, the tumult, the upheaval.

Do you feel it too? This tremble inside.

A hard knot of unease

 You’ve been endlessly running from,

Growing bigger, more demanding of you.

Yes, you, sweet one, with your lion’s heart, it’s asking you

To draw up your courage, turn in and tend.

I reach in for Grace and it flows up through me,

Bidding me to feel the grip of panic,

The fire of anger, the smothering of shame,

To name the ways they pin me down,

Or sway me sideways, trip me up,

And to love them for this.

I see the truth of it now:

The vital role these wayward parts play

 In life’s divine orchestra,

How they bring me to my knees, 

Bruised and battered, bare and broken,

To this holy ground within.

It’s a sacred summons to dig deeper into Grace.

To grow the roots of the mighty oak,

Feel the flow of this immense Love, and welcome,

The grief-stricken child, the pain-ridden teen, 

All the sweet children of human existence,

To the infinite warmth of this hearth within.

In lovingly listening to their stories,

Through the eyes of Grace,

Comes the beauty of revelation.

Dead leaves of age-old concepts, 

Worn out beliefs and mistaken ideas,

Fall away in the magnificence of autumn.

Tinged with orange, red, bronze and gold,

Fluttering gloriously in the winds of change,

A kaleidoscope of human experience,

In a divine dance with the Beloved within.

A letting go of all that is untrue,

A stripping bare to essence, to Love.

Take heart, dear one, this tremble inside

Is an invitation from the Divine

And it is wonderous.

Comments and contemplations welcome

Rewilding into Grace

/ Chloe Kyle / 5 Comments

There’s something about her, this magical pond,

Deep in the heart of acres of rewilded land,

Where the farm’s fences have been pulled down,

Penned-in animals are no more,

Once-ploughed fields left fallow,

Taken over by brambles, dog-rose and sallow.

Now Longhorn cattle are free to roam,

Droves of Tamworth pigs rootle the ground and

Herds of wild Exmoor ponies run free, 

All tending the grass, the bushes, the earth.

Wild swimming pond at Knepp

Within this magnificent splendour of nature,

The pond invites me into her autumnal embrace.

I glide with mallards, bask with moor hens,

The ice of the water chilling deep into my cells.

The branch of an oak extends over us like a graceful arm,

Adorned in leaves tinged with orange, yellow and brown,

Gifting acorns in gentle plops, rippling the still reflection.

Squirrels scamper by our side, a robin hops, a redwing watches.

A peregrine falcon soars in the sky above,

Where gathering clouds roll in to drop their burdens. 

From deep within, I too am replete with harvest.

The depth of Grace from this year’s reaping, 

Has given space for so much grief to surface.

The grit, the muck and mire of life’s daily toil,

Past and present, float like jetsam to my attention,

Where upwelling Love recognises the gifts they are.

The bile, the aches, the pain my body holds,

All just a signal to call in the Grace,

To look Grief in the eye,

And walk me home.

I hear Love’s whisper in the wind as I swim,

Feel Her soak deep into my being.

Allow Her to rewild me to my true nature,

Surrender to the breaking down,

Of boundaries within,

Unshackling beliefs, concepts and unhelpful patterns,

That have gripped too fast for too long.

There’s a lightness now to my stroke. 

I too am living wild and free,

 Immersed in this boundless pool of divine Love.

Comments and contemplations welcome

The Grace of the Apple Tree

/ Chloe Kyle / 10 Comments

Her silhouette tilts, limbs askew,

Trunk leaning, gnarled and knobbly,

Hollowed out from base to branches,

By feasting termites.

Gaping holes laced with cobwebs

Pepper her battered bark,

Streaming rays of sunlight in, 

Through the very core of her being.

Yet she stands before me now

In a graceful side bow,

Branches laden with bountiful fruit.

I wonder at the depth and strength of her roots,

How far and wide must they reach, 

These intricate, internal networks of nature,

Under soil, out of sight. 

The abundance of connections they have made,

In the ecosystem of the earth, the field, the sky,

For her to weather perhaps a century of storms, 

 Onslaughts of drought, deer, disease.

And the hand of Grace that flows within,

Gifting ground, bird, bee, butterfly,

And all that lies in her wake.

I close my eyes and reach within, 

Through my weary body, my wayward mind,

See my tangled roots, my engrained patterns,

 Shackled by shame and anger,

The untrue beliefs that form their foundation.

In the quiet beyond, I too feel this flow, 

The power, the wisdom, the love.

And hear a tender whisper to let go.

Such sweet surrender. What Grace would it take to

Split me open, feel the flow through my being,

Be His vessel, gift His fruit?

For now, I pick these beauties to cook and gift,

Green orbs of wonder tinged with red,

Stewed with butter and cinnamon,

In a crumble with blackberries, 

And with each step along the way,

Each gentle stir, each juicy taste,

Marvel at the Grace to bear such majesty,

Give thanks for my small part in this divine play,

And yearn for more.

Such is the wisdom of this ancient apple tree.

Take a bite; a box awaits you outside my door.

Comments and contemplations welcome