The Twelve Days of Christmas, Eleven Pipers Piping

There is a Place Beyond Ambition by Mary Oliver

When the flute players
couldn’t think of what to say next

they laid down their pipes,
then they lay down themselves
beside the river

and just listened.
Some of them, after a while,
jumped up
and disappeared back inside the busy town.
But the rest–
so quiet, not even thoughtful–
are still there,

still listening.

 It's winter.

Winter tempts,

the soul.

Discontent seeps,
in cracks,
on pockets of cold.

Give into darkness.

New birth stirs,
on dark night.
In the world's heaving soul,

 the womb leaps.

Darkness encasing the Light.
Light encasing the darkness.

   The questions are ever present, they circle around, and come back again. How to create solitude and rest in a world that is always on? We seek stillness. How to get there? The path leads to powering down after the dinner hour and dishes are away. Lit flames glow, imparting rest and stillness. We play games, pray, read, and prepare the mind. Renew.

    In turning off the lights, we see the Light, and each other, enveloped by darkness. The curve to the end of the day, tender, as the sun rounds the horizon.

 Soul,
 the day draws nigh. 
Epiphany! 

Stir, oh soul.

Mesmerized by the Star.

The Angel,
points to Light,

in the dark.