On staying with
/Whenever we feel pain, we want to run. This is a natural, normal, even understandable condition of human living. Isn't it curious how the pain that we encounter, for most of us, evokes a sense of "no;" our habit, from birth, has been to push pain away and tirelessly seek its opposite. And in a way, no doubt, this makes sense. But like most of those old, conditioned ways-of-being that worked for us in our younger days, there may come a time when running and hiding from every painful situation stops working. We may begin to ask ourselves: "What if this isn't the way after all?" What if there is a deeper magic, a more profound process that can cultivate real healing instead of propagating the same old habitual, never-ending cycles of fear and rejection? What if there is something to be said for staying with our pain?
This is precisely what my poem "Stay" proposes. Let us be clear: these words do not suggest any type of masochism or martyrdom, but instead asserts, from a more spiritual perspective, that staying with our negative experiences and emotions is an act of courage. And within that fierce bravery are the fires of transformation.
The rainstorms that rage throughout our lives may appear terrifying, threatening. But the truth is, every single one of them is an angel, a messenger, a teacher. If only we could actualize this truth, we might reap more benefit and insight that we could possibly imagine. The only thing being asked of us is that we learn how to stay...
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Stay
one can learn much
by listening to a rainstorm
have you ever
from beginning to end
sat without ceasing
and let it take you
on its wilding
journey?
at first
the orchestra only tunes
winds and brasses and strings
the rumble so far off
it can scarce be heard
some say they can smell it
on the air
that's the time
when most men run
into the comforting arms
of leather sofas and
frying pan melodies
those who are braver
feel the first foreign droplets of sky
on their necks
but rarely stay with the storm
long enough to watch
water turn soil into
yellow clay puddles
a morning cocktail for treeroots
they drink and smile and stretch
their showered limbs
while the half-brave man decides he's
seen enough, and,
content with himself
finds another distraction:
a god he worships more deeply
than the one just
outside his window
rare is the man
who holds his seat
until the last thunderclap has passed
he is the one who welcomes
the discomfort
of soaking, clinging clothes
who'd rather brave the roaring wind
and stinging pour
than sit in separation
in a sterile dreamland
built
to help us forget
who we are
it is not always easy
to be with a rainstorm
and you will want to run
stay
and listen
as she tells you
all
you need
to know
© 2015 Brandon Thompson