I’m moving Moonlit Musings to Silver Moon Cove. The name has a special meaning for me associated with my current visualization meditations, so please join me there to honor it and continue with our mystic moonshowers of healing, renewal, and metamorphosis. I wanted a new name for this spiritual space, but realized it had to come to me in a non-blog related way, not by me trying to force it. It did.

Sharing the prose and poetry posted here has a deeply special place in my heart and soul. I re-read the poems often, savor them slowly, and absorb their meaning into my being. This little sanctuary makes my spirit sing and zing. Sharing with kindred spirits makes it even more delicious.

I dabbled with the black theme at Silver Moon Cove, but black just doesn’t appear to be my color any more. My colors are changing and evolving. This theme, and the changes I’ve made to it in font size, color, etc., speaks to me with the imagery of calm, soothing waters and bright, healing moonlight illuminating a dark blue sky.

I did ask for theme opinions, but I realized my connection to this one was too soul soothing to let go. I do hope you agree!

If you had Moonlit Musings on your blogroll, please update the link to Silver Moon Cove.

See you there…

LoVe! Mamma Moon

Every child has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don’ts,
Not the God who ever does Anything weird,
But the God who knows only 4 words.
And keeps repeating them, saying:
“Come Dance with Me, come dance.”

Hafiz, 14th century Persian poet and Sufi mystic

Admit something:
Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”
Of course you do not do this out loud; otherwise
someone would call the cops.
Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.
Why not become the one who lives with a full moon
in each eye that is always saying,
with that sweet moon language,
what every other eye in this world is dying to hear?

Hafiz, 14th century Sufi mystic
translated by Daniel Landinsky

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

Tukaram

I could not lie anymore so I started to call my dog “God.”

First he looked
confused,
then he started smiling, then he even
danced.

I kept at it: now he doesn’t even
bite.

I am wondering if this
might work on
people?

Landlocked in Fur

I was meditating with my cat the other day
and all of a sudden she shouted,
“What happened?”

I knew exactly what she meant, but encouraged
her to say more -
feeling that if she got it all out on the table
she would sleep better that night.

So I responded, “Tell me more, dear,”
and she soulfully meowed,

“Well, I was mingled with the sky.
I was comets whizzing here and there.
I was suns in heat, hell - I was galaxies.
But now look - I am
landlocked in fur.”

To this I said, “I know exactly what
you mean.”

What to say about conversation
between

mystics?

Tukaram, Marathi poet, Dehu, India. Born in 1608, Tukaram mysteriously vanished without a trace in 1650.

You probably know I’m taking a break from my main blog, but plan to keep posting mystical moonshowers and moonlit musings. It’s my little sanctuary. Time-wise it’s just right. It doesn’t require HUGE hunks of time, yet it satisfies a deep yearning and need.

I had some questions here previously on whether to stay here or move Moonlit Musings to my “blogspot,” but the consensus is to stay. I’m a WordPress Woman through and through! I was going to take down this post, but your comments are too delicious to sacrifice, so I will leave you with some moonlit musings in place of the former post.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

Artwork by The Sacred Feminine

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy,
a quickening that is translated through you into action,
and because there is only one of you in all of time,
this expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist
through any other medium and be lost.
The world will not have it.
It is not your business to determine how good it is,
nor how valuable, nor how it compares with other expressions.
It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly,
to keep the channel open…

Martha Graham

This being human is a guest-house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you
out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi, Sufi Mystic (1207-1273)

In that first
hardly noticed
moment
to which you wake,
coming back
to this life
from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
which closes
the moment
you begin
your plans.

What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.

What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.

To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.

To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.

You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.

Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love?

What shape
waits in the seed
of you to grow
and spread
its branches
against a future sky?

Is it waiting in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the waiting desk?

David Whyte ~ “The House of Belonging”

Browsing the dim back corner,
Of a musty antique shop,
Opened an old book of poetry,
Angels flew out from the pages,
I caught the whiff of a soul,
The ink seemed fresh as today.
Was that voices whispering?
The tree of the paper still grows.

Pixie Foudre