Transcending the mind

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

Easter Gifts

/ Chloe Kyle / 4 Comments

Amidst the dawn chorus, the blue tit brings her gifts.

A twig of hazel, a tuft of dry grass,

Selected with care, placed with intent.

Layer upon layer, day by day,

She lovingly builds her nest.

Today she carries sprigs of moss to soften her bed.

Her mate passes her a slender shoot of beech,

Adding strength, structure, comfort.

Bit by bit she ferries in her treasures,

Ever more immersed in creating her safe harbour.

I too am making a home for myself,

Each dawn I slip into the golden rays of Grace deep within,

Lay down all mind’s burdens and play awhile,

Soaking in the radiant truth of this sunlit glade,

Aspiring to master the dance of this inner sanctum.

This sunrise, I bring the whole of myself,

My fault finding, broken, wilting parts,

Tarnished with resentment, pain and shame.

I light a candle, sip hot tea, and gather around the warmth,

Of my own inner fire, calling Grace in.

Our flame blazes through any perceived problems,

Self-imposed barriers, heavy obstacles to truth.

Grace softens my edges, balms my scars,

Shows divine purpose behind every limitation,

That all is for Love.

Day by day, gift upon gift, a sacred refuge is built.

We are co-creating a hallowed home within,

Where treasures of Grace abound,

As I step up to partner this divine dance,

Love’s miracles of rebirth emerge.

An egg of expanded consciousness, 

Gives way to a new awakening,

Watch me grow my wings and fly.

Comments welcome

Awakening

/ Chloe Kyle / 2 Comments

A part of me wants to stay curled up under the cover,

Eyes tight shut,

To block my ears from the jostle of noise,

To hide from the starkness of light.

fszalai

A part of me wants to wallow in the sticky goo of victimhood,

Enshrouded in pain, grief and shame,

Entrapped in stale beliefs and worn-out concepts,

Of how to play the game of life.

My truth, my essence, is bold and courageous,

She fiercely yearns to live in freedom,

She knows of the magnitude of Love deep inside,

And delights in sweet, tender glimpses of liberation.

Grace nudges me to gently pandiculate my weary body,

To hold His hand as I face the seeds of resistance, 

To be responsible for tending the wounds, 

And loving myself full—to grow.

I call into the deep expanse of my being,

And feel a powerful upsurge of Love wash over me,

Soaking into every cell in my body,

Scintillating, radiant, enlightening.

I sense the cover, these layers of illusion, 

Slip gently away,

Such sweet surrender to be reborn.

To uncover who I truly am.

I open an eye,

And rise.

Comments welcome.

A Scream of Swifts

/ Chloe Kyle / Leave a comment

Some days I feel stuck, rooted to the ground,

Both feet ensconced in wellies sucked into squelching mud,

My mind heavy and slow, absorbed in the mundane,

My heart weighed down with grief and sorrow,

My soul unable to lift myself out of the muck and mire.

Danshutter

Today this gloom is broken by a rush of displaced air,

As a scream of Swifts glides through the sky.

Their piercing calls demand attention.

Black crescent-shaped silhouettes arc and dive overhead,

Their aerial gymnastics a display of vibrant ease and grace.

How is it these intrepid voyagers from far off shores,

Sleep, eat, bathe and mate on the wing,

Replacing the vulnerability of being grounded,

With a life of perpetual motion.

Adapting and pivoting with the natural dynamics of nature?

Could I too, raise my awareness sky high,

Keep it aloft in the realms of the divine,

Withstand the inevitable battering by winds of change,

Downpours of perceived misfortune, storms of anger or grief,

And rise above it all again and again in a never-ending spiral of grace?

I reach up to the kernel of divinity within,

Draw from it the faith, truth and love,

That bring joy and reverence to the way ahead,

And pull my wellies out from the mud.

Comments welcome

Mid Winter’s Gift

/ Chloe Kyle / 6 Comments 

Deep in a frozen pond of murky water,
Encased in hard packed layers of glittering ice,
Under the constant chill of a dark wintery sky,
Lies my greatest burden,
And most precious treasure.
Valeriy Boyarskiy
I've skirted around it a million times,
Distracting myself with life's adventures.
I've sat at its shore a million more,
Tapping its impenetrable shell,
Lamenting a wound too frozen to weep.

Once a mud puddle of confusion, 
Flooded by pain and frustration,
Darkened by misunderstanding and self-judgement,
It became an ever growing well of grief and shame,
Iced over in mistaken self-protection.

Today, in the still silence of mid-winter,
Under a soft blanket of freshly falling snow,
I heed my Lover's call from deep within,
Feel His warm glow in the touch of each snowflake,
And clear the white powder from the ice.

On this frosty pane, I find in my reflection,
His beaming face smiling back at me.
A thousand suns shine through His eyes,
Illuminating this pit of arctic desolation,
Into a treasure trove of revelations.

Each frozen layer became a monument,
To the myriad ways we learn to leave ourselves.
Now the coverings melt in tears of humble recognition,
Long held tensions released in gratitude,
As this hardened warrior begins to weep.

He takes my hand and we dive down,
Through the grit and grime of past existence,
His light making visible the teaching behind the pain,
The iron shackles and golden chains,
All distractions from His embrace.

Until, in the depths of this same pond,
Under the countless veils of illusion,
He reveals the magnificence of my essence.
Together, we shine truth and clarity in scintillating radiance,
And step into the omnipresence of Grace.

Comments most welcome

A Murmuration

/ Chloe Kyle / 3 Comments

As daylight fades, and thick grey clouds descend,

A handful of starlings swoop and twist

In perfect unison, a shape-shifting silhouette,

Against the burnished sunset sky.

Marshall Baron

In reciprocation to this flight of freedom, of joy,

More starlings gather and soar and dive,

An intricately coordinated pattern, a collective dance,

To fend off foe, defy the elements through exultant grace.

And I ask myself, is it like those whispers of clarity,

That fly into our awareness and demand,

That every cell inside wakes up and heeds the call,

To pursue our deepest truth?

Energy gathers, uprises to break free, from the binds of,

Overwhelming grief, crushing despair, or not feeling enough.

It fends off each unjust thought that cuts us down or puffs us up,

Discards all unworthy concepts that weigh less than true.

We parry and spar until this struggle becomes a dance.

 We rise in Grace, then plunge to cleanse the depths of our beings,

To soar again with an ever-increasing momentum, 

Of purity, of purpose, of lightness, in Love.

Hundreds of tiny beating wings rise up,

Emblazoned against the pink, orange, and golden hues of dusk,

Then plummet, invisible against the rippling green sea,

To swoop and rise again in a breath-stealing wonder.

A murmur, a wave, of sound, of dance, of song,

Gloriously pulsates in mesmerising harmony,

Lighting up the sky within, in a spectacle of rapture,

Before going home to roost.






If these words resonate with you, feel free to comment.

			

	


			
				


	

							
The Saga of the Pink Door
						

			 / Chloe Kyle						 / 2 Comments
								

			


		

		

When we bought our first house as a family, our son Theo, then aged three, chose the colour of our front door: pink! I remember feeling really self-conscious about it at the time; I would have gone for a muted green to fit in with all the other mostly green/grey/blue doors on the small street of Georgian terraced houses in leafy south-west London. This year, eight years on, we decide to repaint the door and I (my mind) think, yes, I can have my muted green door at last. I mull over different shades of green, and a friend and painter, Neil, messages to say he can paint the door next week. I just need to confirm the paint colour.  










The following day I invite Jill, my elderly neighbour, who lives opposite, over to see our beloved Ember’s puppies. As she walks through our doorway, she remarks on how lovely and cheery she finds the colour of our pink door. Well, this puts me in a spin. How can I tell her that I’m about to paint it green? Perhaps I shouldn’t. She, after all, living opposite me, sees my door as much as I do, if not more. Who am I to take away her cheer? But my mind has been so set on green. 





I mention this dilemma to my Somatic movement client and Jill’s neighbour, Bev. She finds it hysterical and, after a good, shared giggle, assures me that Jill will cope with muted green (a similar colour to her door). Then our lovely friend and dog walker for many on the street, Marshall, pops round to see the pups and chuckles as I explain my predicament. He likes the pink, he says, but would go a slightly lighter shade. Or light blue. These lighter coloured doors are the ones that bring him most joy on his rounds. Green wouldn’t stand out as much with all the wisteria I have surrounding the door.





Oh goodness, what to do, and the deadline to choose the colour has been and gone. I message Neil, tell him of my conundrum. He finds it amusing and gives me another day. When Theo returns from school, I ask his opinion and he states green is boring, pink is ok, but how about gold or yellow! Wow, that could really brighten up Jill’s day! Gold feels too bold but yellow, perhaps this I should consider. 





This seemingly minor dilemma is weighing heavy on my mind; Neil needs the paint colour to mix, so I must decide. The next morning, I ask my friend, Alice, who lives opposite, two doors down from Jill, if she could help me choose. Alice has a beautiful house and a good eye for colour. I explain my dilemma and she is surprised.





 “But Chloe”, she says, “I’ve always seen your door as red!”





She tells me she had painted her door green. To me it looks blue. We laugh. Have I asked a colour-blind person to help me with this decision? We traipse up and down the street comparing shades of muted green and find one close to what I had been envisaging. She rules out yellow, thinks it won’t go with the cream colour of the house. I’m not sure but happy to let it go. We find a pink we like, the colour the door has faded to, slightly lighter than the original. I ask my husband, Tim, green or pink. He doesn’t mind. We choose pink to keep the most people happy. I’m relieved a decision has been made. 





This door saga has been fun, and made a lot of neighbours laugh, even though my mind wasn’t happy with the play. Then, I look at the name of the colour on the paint chart: Blush. This makes me smile. 





I see now what the Divine, this burgeoning feeling of Grace deep inside, is showing me here. In my life, self-consciousness has always been a huge barrier for me. From being the shy girl at school, the quiet daughter in a rowdy family, the student in muted coloured clothes or the employee reticent to speak out against a strong opinion, I’m not comfortable standing out in a crowd. This undue awareness of self has prevented me from speaking my truth to friends, family, colleagues, boyfriends, even at times my husband. Like a comforting fog I’ve unwittingly surrounded myself in, it’s smothered my inner glow, blinded me from owning my power and hindered me from fully stepping into life. Now is the time to let this go. 





This saga has been such a blessing in reminding me that when I expand my point of view from what my ‘mind’ thinks is right and open up to the Divine in the moment, I create a wider channel for Grace. I imagine opening up to the Divine enough to Be Grace; transcending self-consciousness and other rigid barriers of my mind. Then, in bounteous reciprocation, the Divine would open the door to make this state of Grace my true home. Yay, what a relief it will be to drop this burden, this monkey mind, and let the true me shine through. 





I now love the pink colour of our door and this saga raises a smile and a giggle from all involved. Jill, Alice and my next-door neighbour have all asked my lovely painter friend to do painting for them too. 





To open to Grace in the moment is truly a gift—to be a vessel to channel this sacred flow of love and joy. Baraka Bashad!










Thank you for reading! If this story resonates with you, feel free to share in the comments.

			

	


			
				


	

							
The Magnificent Storm
						

			 / Chloe Kyle						 / 4 Comments
								

			


		

		





I am a rolling rumbling thunder cloud,


For eons gathering droplets of fear, pain and regret,


Cumulating towering beads of fleeting joy or despair,


The child unborn, love affair abated, sense of purpose lost.


shutterstock_213161116


Source: Minerva Studios


 


This dark cumulus mass, heavy with gloom and anger,


Deadened by the flat inevitability of outer experiences,


Dampens all I think, say and do,


Yet ignites inside an intense yearning for truth.


 


 


Lightning strikes; a bolt of Love from deep within,


Illuminating misplaced loyalties within each globule,


Worn out concepts of what and how life should be.


And in this revelation lies the beauty of each and every drop.


 


 


A magnificent storm unfolds. Flashes of lightning


Shine truth on the darkness. Grumbles of thunder;


A calling to let go. Still, this weary cloud grips tight,


On to the burdensome form it knows.


 


 


Drab grey puffballs smother my vision, suffocate my being,


Gaining in weight as I billow aimlessly. Until,


 A thunderous crack of discontent marks my stand with Truth,


On the holy battlefield within.


 


 


A gift of surrender; the sweet release of mind’s grip,


 Brings forth an electric torrent of divine revelations,


A tornado of chaos, flash floods of loss and destruction.


A perfect storm; an emptying of all I thought I was.


 


 


I am lighter, brighter, snow white wisps of cirrus cloud.


Golden rays of inner sunshine burn through my dross,


Bringing clarity, understanding and gratitude as each speck evaporates,


Into the clear vast openness of the divine sky within,


 


 


Until nothing remains but Love.


 


 


If this poem resonates with you, feel free to comment…





			

	


			
				


	

							
The Playground Within
						

			 / Chloe Kyle						 / 8 Comments
								

			


		

		

There is a bully in this joyless playground,





A tyrant who throws deep belly punches of guilt and shame,





Who slings buckets of mud, sullying me with cruel words,





For not being a better mother, daughter, teacher, friend, lover.










This false friend, who took me under his wing,





Led me on a merry dance of half-truths and false promises,





Dazzled me with dream jobs, exotic travel, fun relationships,





Now shows his rage. And I cower, eyes tight shut, into a ball.










Until, a soft, tender whisper of Love warms my aching heart. 





For I say no to this unending Ferris wheel of outer experience,





The sorrow, pain and despair of these enticing dead-end trails,





The wrath of mind’s tantrum in the face of Truth.










I step aside from the terrorising shadow of my oppressor,





For I am not the hateful coward he would have me be.





I gaze up into the Radiant eyes of my lover within,





Whose warm illuminating rays give me a glimpse of my divinity.










In the scintillating clarity of this graced moment,





All fear, doubt, regret, confusion melt away.





I stand tall, a beacon of Love and truth shining from within,





And with the heart of a lion turn to face my foe.










My tormentor rears his head and puffs his chest,





Then shrinks before me, a mere trompe l’oeil,





His waggy tail, fluffy paws, and doleful eyes,





Beseeching me for love and discipline like an unruly child.










The concrete playground becomes a summer meadow,





Alight and alive with buttercups, poppies, bees and butterflies.





I cartwheel, somersault and tumble with joy, in this Eden within,





The tyrant, a mere puppy dog, nipping playfully at my heels.










If this poem resonated with you, feel free to comment…