The Diver. {poetry}
{source}
Being catapulted into a lengthy personal journey with physical illness a decade ago has been the catalyst to chaperone me into deep reflection, making me question what it truly means to be alive, and inquire into mortality, purpose, and ultimately, the nature of my own true voice.
How delicate can it be? The act to express or suppress, reflect or distract, and how thin, in fact, are the veils of duality and the polarities of the heart itself?
In constant exploration and contemplation of love’s definition, I recognize fragility in the gamuts of our human emotions — the elation and all-consuming experience of love, and on just the other side of the same coin, raw grief and loss.
A phrase used in many Muslim, Arabic and Persian cultures that poignantly differs from our Western How are you continues to find and follow me as I ask this burning question of myself and others, innately drawn to forever know the answer:
“How’s your heart?”
I wrote this piece of poetry on rising one day, after a visceral dream-state that had followed a conversation with a dear friend who had recently lost his young, beloved wife and soul mate at 30 years of age. The knowing of my dream took me into the awareness of such emotional mirrors and the blurred lines between us living, losing, and be-ing love.
The Diver
Going under…
Dreaming last night… I am a participant of the heart, no longer a bystander
A deep-sea diver, in cascade — raindrops, like liquid parachutes, finding their call
Suspended in the moment of remembering — I find myself inside that point, where we all dissolve
Dropped into and becoming the low, low alpha waves of rhythmic ocean, I can wear my heart on my soul here, instead of merely a sleeve.
Cloaked with the dive of my own submersion, emotions dragged out, underneath.
I am sinking, surrendering, enveloped momentarily, until passive motion turns into a spin.
I somersault till irises cast back upwards to stain-glassed surface. Here, like a cork — bobbing in half-immersion, wrung out —
I am suddenly oxygenated… by you.
I sense you, know you… as the inky depth itself uncharted,
just as equally; the endless air aloft.
Not there to play judge to your boundaries — I have simply fallen in.
Then as tides are turning, I am swept up, unabashed — held in a torrent of internal adoration,
All I can feel is you.
Turned inside out and back to front, your waves are my own confrontations. Underworld lashings and sandstorms, you do your best to wash away all my bearings.
I am drowning…
grief-stricken, suspended in the shackles of space-time, this is the memory of you.
Ripples and tides of my dear one’s face, your life — and life itself — revealing the best of examples,
of the imprint Divine…
of love…
and in the deep sea, knowing that we are diving, diving into heart and spirit, the irony…
the irony that joy and grief are but one and the same, for a broken heart is surely an open one…
Your existence — like any that walk, that live, that breathe, that dive — an echo of the only, it-self.
Not separate from the storm, this pain, this grief, for it is too a kink, knotted tangling of the ever-love, contorted, yet still entrained from the One, the imprint, the Source.
The same quest to be seen and held, reborn through the darkness into the warmth of lover’s light.
And in the astral, before I wake, I’m learning to breathe again,
in tepid water, seas are calming and my naked feet, so close to reach
but then, and only then, the many secrets of your sea floor… revealed.
***
An ongoing journey with life and health has led Ange Sang back to her true creative therapy, through the written word and the lens of the camera. Ange is a devoted lover of all things nature, a tree-hugger, and has a heart that feels utterly compelled to shoot arrows of word and image, straight from her mystical experience of life to as many receivers as possible. On a unique path of physical illness, Ange began to share her written and visual arts as tools of thanks — a nod to an ever-rising theme of gratitude, in recognition of those around her. Her heart-vision continues to find its solace and drive in the grace of Mama Nature and the aim to recognize and articulate the grapple of the human condition.
***
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