Those Who Remember

 

Those who love you
are not fooled by mistakes you have made
or dark images you hold about yourself.
They remember your beauty when you feel ugly;
your wholeness when you are broken;
your innocence when you feel guilty;
and your purpose when you are confused.
Alan Cohen

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My Counselour, and the Poem directly following

My counselour is a living miracle.

I have met many who have the moniker…counselour…therapist…and they are practitioners of a learned skill set, and as such facilitate a lot of things, and often even break through the miasma, the myopia, the confusion and clouds of dark unknowing.

But many of these people have pre-existing agendas, unconscious cookie-cutters of inner assumption, and they end up herding people into places and forms that do not result in wholeness.

Some, hide behind the title, wolves lurking in wait for the vulnerable, the victim, desiring to bite and rend and devour to feed their own perverse appetites for destruction.

And of course, the journeymen, working everyday in the field, maintaining and being faithful.

But the counselour I have been so incredibly fortunate to have come into my life…well, she is another story entirely.  She belongs to the company of  spirit warrior-healer who is counsel, who is help!  It is not what she does…in fact it is mystifying to me how when I leave our time together I am so alive, so revitalized and almost trilling with vibrating and pulsing life!    I cannot remember anything earth-shaking she said, there were no pronouncements on high of the deep mysteries of my fucked-up-ness…no magician’s tricks to make me feel better to get through more days…

…no, I find myself a bit different, qualitatively!  My essence is better, rendered, stripped away and yet dressed up…really words fail me to describe the presence in that place of long robbery and absence.

This woman is Help, is Laughter, is Sparkle in Death’s face and Light on lost and lonely roads, and I will be forever grateful.

I wish you all could know her.  Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers, and know that the poem below, Heather is dedicated to her.

Thanks Heather…your loving friend and ever grateful sister,

Charissa

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Heather

Like the shell pink linings
that tinge dreary drab storm clouds
gathered like fists
on my soul’s horizons,
she extends, she bends,
she surrounds, abounds
and help bleeds from her
with no thought or effort
like the meadowlark’s theme.tumblr_n2vhgxP40F1t5g5c1o1_500Like Polaris,
unblinking and steady
in my soul’s dark night                (river with no eyes following gravity’s destiny),
she beckons, and reckons,
she glimme
rs and hope shimmers
from her gentle tough wise voice
wreathed in honey-bee buzz
of comforting words.tumblr_n2rkfeJTvG1qayerpo1_500Like the Redwood,
full of unassuming majesty,
royal presence in the Black Forest
of my gendertangle
she smiles, she styles
with eyes, she scatters chaff
with 
health and giggle-laugh tilth
that runs and waters
where only dust of death
reigned.sequoias.bigMagic Wise-Woman
of simple mystery!
How can you help so,
without sweat,
like…
like…
bibbity-bobbity-boo!!!
And I rise from ashes
with shining eyes and limber joy…photo1You find niche,
beautify cracks
with persistent roots,
bristle with cheery brush
to scratch the prideful
and bloom with slashing swipes
across craggy expanses
of 
human misery and mournings.North CliffsYou are Heather,
and I am
Ever Grateful.

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