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Vitae Curricula

Vitae Curricula
Vitae Curricula 
 
The bell sounds.
Class is in session
like nothing we’ve
seen before.
 
 
Long has it been said 
that we humans, we sentients
of mother earth, 
are at school.
 
Earth School.
 
Our 'course of life,’ 
a journey to light upon
what has been only 
dimly understood
through our
narrow 
passage 
of time.
 
It is not 
a destination.
 
Of this we seem aware—bricks 
and mortar “institution" housing little 
of real import, we come 
time and again 
to witness
 
—but do
we see?
 
We are being
shown.
 
It is a trillion times
Everest, and crampons
won’t cut it.
 
For this 
expedition
into the wild uncharted 
range of our divine expression
can only be accessed, scaled, 
by a vision that supersedes 
that of the eye, by 
a perception
that finds 
its way 
on 
its 
knees.
 
Trusting
the lead
of the
muse,
not the 
sherpa.
 
This 
takes
guts.
 
Undeterred by 
standards and disciplines, 
maps and satellites of old, 
true to a willingness 
to see what IS
yet to be
alone. 
 
It is found
in silence, 
in subtlety,
in stillness.
 
We cannot find it
in the ‘reality' we see 
outside of us, for it
doesn’t live 
there.
 
It is only to be
glimpsed under
what is seen.
Within it.
 
Through it.
 
The husk protects, 
gives safe passage to
the kernel, the germ
it holds on its way 
to become 
what it will.
 
Univers-ity
is not as distant
a campus as 
we think it.
 
This 
colossal 
library,
observatory,
curio, art school 
whose galleries, studios 
overflow with form, 
color, texture
dwells 
within.
 
Made from 
pure thought.
 Imagination.
Inspiration. 
Insight.
Vision.
 
Our degree program—
a master of these 
fine arts:
 
to see
 
ourselves,
each other,
as we truly
are: invisible
to the 
naked 
eye;
 
to be
 
ourselves,
with ourselves,
one another, as
we truly are:
vast.
 
Brea(d)th.
 
Grasp.
 
It is the work 
of art, the artist.
To express that which 
has yet to be 
expressed.
 
We are 
here to learn
how to 
do 
this.
 
Carte blanche. 
Tabula rasa.
Sui generis.
 
And as we do,
we learn how to be
the resources, 
the tools 
of the 
trade: 
 
receptivity.
Openness.
Reciprocity.
 
Applying
patience, 
presence, balance,
surrender, peace no matter
the distraction, the labor of
the labyrinthian quest,
love—the 
greatest 
of these 
 
lessons, 
intensives,
immersives
we undertake
with each and
every breath of
moment infusing 
this live experience
of creativity.
 
Tests? 
To be sure.
Examinations
of all, to feel,
tactilely 
feel,
ALL
this world 
of form enables 
us to feel. 
 
Good 
and the
heretofore
‘bad.”
 
It is all energy.
 
The beauty, 
the envy, the lust; 
the greed and its bloodthirst; 
the joy and grief, the hunger and plenty; 
the division, veiled separateness 
from the all that is so that we
might come to know union
within us, among us.
 
And so we are given 
the great gift of occasioning 
the aloneness, abandonment,
the depths of disempowerment,
the unlit nethers of shadowland
in which we are simultaneously 
steeped and trained to avoid, 
sidestep — do not trespass,
to learn what it is to openly
CHOOSE—light upon,
the course of our
most attuned
inspiration, 
action,
desire.
 
Contrast
confers difference,
distinction, conflict,
consideration,
illumination,
choice.
 
Contrast is the 
agent to bring us
clarity, not just in 
seeing, but in
being.
 
The only way 
to know ’that’ 
is to distinguish 
’this’ from it. 
 
BUT not in the 
disservice, the
disfavor of one 
over the other,
this would not
meet the learning
inherent in the study 
of contrast.
 
It is a symphony,
not just airies of the strings,
but the necessity of the brass, the cymbals, 
the sharps, flats, 
the snare.
 
It is to find the meeting point 
betwixt, streamed through the polarities 
of this plane and observe how the 
peaks and trophs of waves, 
even tsunami, become
particles right
before our 
eyes.
 
Our 
evolutionary
leap rising 
in the
wake.
 
Ordaining
‘all is well,’ within
each and every
moment, stroke
of the brush,
scratch of
the pen. 
 
Instructive
rather than
instruction.
 
Priming us in
adaptability,
tolerance, 
resilience.
 
It is a
liberal 
art.
 
In tuition is free;
it grants full access 
to our manifold 
teachers.
 
To the wisdom,
scholarship, 
process.
 
In formation we
bring the teachings
into our beings to
grok, suss, sense
and assimilate. 
 
There are no grades,
though we are
prone to grade 
our existence.
 
There is no 
pass/fail. 
 
No graduation.
 
It is an open, 
self-determined
curriculum bestowed with 
the ever evolving 
curricula of
co-creation. 
 
Learning, 
it must be conceded, 
is the act of consciousness.
Of looking
afresh.
 
Each moment, 
experience, encounter,
a one-of-a-kind initiation 
into our range as beings, 
into our expansion 
as dimensional
consciousness.
 
Here, time has
no bearing; there
is no past, no future,
there is only the unfolding 
which can only be truly
met, undergone,
LIVED, 
now.
 
It is life
drawing itself
through us, as
we are willing to be 
naked to it, 
before it.
 
It may appear monochrome,
this lead, this charcoal,
this earthen element
employed to bring 
the form of focus
from subject 
to object, 
from abstraction
to concretization,
setting up the structure 
for unfathomable color, texture, 
shape and shade 
to come 
to life.
 
Full spectrum,
even and especially
the ranges of frequency
that are dark.
 
It is the absorption
of all color.
 
And it teaches us
the deepest lessons
of separation, compassion,
gentleness and 
openness.
 
It is defining.
But it need not
be consuming,
defeating, distorting,
nor blinding.
 
Unless, 
of course,
we choose to learn
from these 
states.
 
Learning
remorse, mercy,
forgiveness from
the inside out.
How else?
 
Genius loci:
’spirit of the place,'
re placing old teachings  
not to stand out,
but fit in.
 
Finding our
genius takes time,
allowance, 
noticing,
grace
to unearth.
 
I majored in
communications and
literature when studying
how to be of this world
and it is just today
that I’m learning
how to speak,
when and
with whom.
 
How to 
listen
and 
hear.
 
Finding words
to convey the voice
of the heart when
words are not
her mother
tongue.
 
How did 
Shakespeare put it?
The course of true love
never did run 
smooth.
 
And we 
have yet 
to fully live
— let alone love — 
as human 
beings.
 
It is a
long,
bumpy
path
fraught 
with unspeakable
beauty.
 
Looking to 
a singular event
called ‘ascension'
can lead us away from the
actual day-to-day experience 
that grows our wee patch 
of holy garden
in this heaven
we call earth.
 
It distracts us
from the sunshine,
the rain we thirst for,
the hush of the snows,
the ground that tends us, 
holds, steadies us, as we 
come to be, again 
and again. 
 
Now a root.
Now a shoot.
Now a flower.
Now a fruit.
Now a seed.
 
Perennially
giving and
receiving.
 
Drinking,
bearing.
 
Learning,
teaching.
 
Impart:
a part.
 
A collage,
this college,
a pinata, a tapestry 
whose warps and wefts
defy the constraints
of space-time.
 
It is the micro
that is the macro,
the fractal that reveals
however zoomed our lens, 
pin-pricked or wide eyed 
our aperture.
 
Endlessly
rising and falling 
like the sun,
the moon,
the host of 
overlighting 
stars.
 
Of which 
we are but
a few ever
constellating
life on this
blue orb.
 
It is night now.
 
Pupils dilate
to better see
what might be,
to apprehend that 
there is nothing to
fear in this dark
teeming with
suns.
 
To dream,
perchance
to wake from 
our ancient unrest 
to a new 
first
light.
 
And
lightness.
 
Drawn in
starlight.
 
May it be so.

 

∞/∞

Eve Moore ©2021
© 
Photo: Eve Moore

Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well. 

For more of Eve Moore's poetry and writings, please click herehttp://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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