Glastonbury Abbey

Glastonbury Abbey
 
 
Rain pelts the curvatures
            of your solemn arches;
            your walls high against white sky,
            your layered bricks thrusting out
            like a broken crust.
 
I listened for your voices –
            in the rhythm of rain drops
            in the sounds of unexpected wind.
 
I listened for the chanting of the monks
            in their woolen robes
            pattering on invisible floors.
 
I propped my ears up
            to the corners of the chapel walls,
            sensing the beat of hearts.
 
Somewhere, from within,
            these ancient surfaces
            an unheard voice answered,
            beckoning my soul to communicate,
            to embrace the materialism of stones.
 
Windows leading into heaven, like icons,
            become secret passages to enlightenment.
           

I was told once, by a fortune teller, that I had been a nun in another life.  I had lived in a convent and had been a healer. The people of the village had feared me, but would not let harm come to me because I was so effective with herbal medicine. I often think about this insight into the past beyond my past, the remembering before my birth, the lives that created the archetypes and memories that shape my life today.  I am drawn, always, to cloisters, to ancient places where moss grows up the sides of the crumbling walls, and the silence of centuries can still be heard.  I am drawn to the sound of bells and to the climbing of towers, to the stillness of libraries with very old books, to the joys of opening a volume that has not been read for decades.  I am drawn to stained glass windows that sift light into colors that fall on the floors of cathedrals and to the quiet reflection of reading, all alone, by candlelight. Sometimes, it is the soul which remembers without words, that translates experience into longings that move us toward infinity.