This photo came into my Facebook feed last week. My reaction: “I’m not making things up. I’m experiencing things that you scientists haven’t figured out how to explain—yet.
This morning I read in the paper about a University of British Columbia study that showed that faith diminished after study subjects performed analytical tasks, or looked at Rodin’s “The Thinker.”
These are timely for me, because I spent last weekend in a Healing Pathway workshop. Think Reiki, with scripture thrown in. So, I spent my weekend working with something I could not see or measure.
Now, I am someone who insists on having one hand on tangible science while the other explores the divine. When I don’t have something solid to hold onto in the one hand, it creates some apprehensions and discomfort.
Most times a healthy balance is in order. It’s not wise to launch ourselves into airy-fairy ethereal worlds without ever touching down. But I don’t believe it’s wise to ground ourselves too thoroughly in the science either, for it would deprive us of gifts of intuition.
I couldn’t see or measure what was going on over the weekend, but I could feel it. In fact, I was left trembling by it. I decided at the end of the weekend that I had to let go temporarily of my need for the solid facts on the science side of the equation. Science just isn’t there yet, but I believe it will be some day. Should I deny myself extraordinary experiences in the meantime? Nope. So, out of my weekend experience, this poem came through me to you.
And my message to science is this: Catch up, will ya? Find the way.
The Way
© 2012 Arlene Somerton Smith
A tree waits in a mid-summer field,
shimmering elm arms stretched wide,
refuge
A speck blooms on the golden horizon,
takes the silhouette of a man,
slow
He stumbles to the gnarled grey trunk,
breathes deeply of respite and rest,
slumps
Knees drawn up, head cradled and rocking,
soul carved hollow by pain,
waiting
A figure long of robe materializes,
neither male nor female,
cosmic
At a distance the figure waits and watches
for we must ask, that is
the way.
The man looks into eyes that hold infinity,
reaches out his trembling hand,
“Please.”
Palm to palm, light radiates through the pair from
the sire universe and the birthing earth,
aglow
The man unfurls with peace and power,
receives the healing, for that is
the way
When the light retracts, hands release,
the long-robed figure recedes,
vapour
The man trembles, rises, re-arms,
resumes his journey on his path,
doubting
Along the road he meets a friend. Smiling,
and curious the friend asks, “Who was that
stranger?”
Shrugging, “Oh, that? That was nothing.”
He turns. The tree and the long-robed figure,
imperceptible
Uneasy, two men continue down their road,
laughing and clapping each other on the back,
analyzing
But a tree and a figure wait in a mid-summer field,
when needed you will see them, for that is
the way
