QiGong Prison Ministry

Here are three poems from one of my students inside.  The first relates to the man he killed.  The second speaks for itself, and the third was one he wrote after one of the first spiritual circles we shared.  Sorry i am not allowed to share his name, but enjoy his poetry!

 Him

As the Spring time Ends,

and summer sets in,

i remember Him.

As I trace the lines in my hands,

from the ends to where they begin,

i remember Him.

As my heartbeat quickens,

and it's difficult to breathe in,

i remember Him.

As my eyes spill forth tears,

'Cause they're full  to the brim,

i remember him.

When i think of all the chances,

That I'll never have again,

I remember Him.

Now i know that life is precious,

and how to be a friend,

These things I would have never known

if I did't remember Him.

 *****

Inspiration

They are me, and I am them,

Another broken hearted, wounded man,

No matter what they say, or what they do,

It's a manifestation of what they're going through,

And its only to themselves that they can be true,

But they are me, and I am them,

Another struggling while wounded,

Broken hearted,

Man. 

 *****

Freedom Flight

Within this rust-coated birdcage

Populated by Eagles, Hawks, Falcons,

And the ones who wish to be seen as such;

Wings clipped, hooded, and jessed,

There are the select few

Who still yearn for the open sky.

Not fettered or encumbered with the weight

Of preoccupation with predatory pretense,

They instead would be content

To merely fly once more,

Feeling the wind slice through to their innermost parts.

they would forever forego meat

And only dine upon fruits

If allowed one final opportunity

To feel weightless,

The sun warming their back,

And the future as open, vast, and limitless

As the heavens that beckon them ... 

Encouraged by the men inside to stop being so shy about my poetry,  I promised I would get some of my prison related poems out of my journals...  Prison poems for blog 07.do

In taking out the prison poems, I got together acollection of Wandering in the Rubicon poems from my walking meditations in the Rubicon Canyon, Lake Tahoe...07 Rubicon poems 2.doc

And another group of poems from my travels in SE Asian and India Winter of 2007.  07 Travel poems 3.doc

I am drawn inside
Two, three times a week
Driving the distance
Wearing the right colors
Labeled, screened, alarmed

So many locks, so many gates, so little invitation
    And Yet
Way seems to open as I make my way
Beckoned into that core sanctuary
    Drab, gray, stripped of idols and altars.

Beckoned inside,
over and over again,
into the Holiness that is calling …

The Holiness that claims the unique beauty of us all.
The Holiness that weaves us together
trashing the labels
    of saint and sinner, of male and female, of teacher and student.

The Holiness that beckons us further inside,
    further inside,
        further inside,
            with each visit,
                each communion,
                each movement,
                each breath.

Beckons us further inside
the sanctuaries of our own core being-ness
inside the harmonized movement of our group chi
inside of who we think we are.

The Holiness that beckons each of us
    inside the walls and gates,
        inside the guards and attitudes,
            inside our personal stories

Beckons us into the boundless,
    boundary-less freedom,
into the sanctuary of our core spiritual being.

I’ll meet you there
    Ducat or not,
    Gate pass or not
    Lockdown or not
    Capricious guards or not
    Fog line or not

Penetrate the barriers
    beckon yourself inside.

I’ve been home sick for the week with a cold/flu and my system always misses the journey inside (prison) and then in these foggy, sleepy, resting, healing times a variation of a trip inside often seems to happen.  Here are yesterday’s poems written in and out of reading some Osho materials….I always seem to be floating between a deep knowing of the rightness of the work I do teaching QiGong inside the prisons and the contrasts between my life and theirs.
            Judy Tretheway   10/5/07

Who’s going anywhere?

Traveling partners, you and I
    No common route,
    No easy directions
Finding our way between
    Prisons and freedoms

Spiraling inward independently
Expanding out into communion together

My one, solitary, free, female story
    weaving its way among
your many, congested, imprisoned, male stories.

Touching in,
    Intertwining
        ever so lightly, respectfully

Never suspecting we are going nowhere,
    only being "real" together,

Allowing our ripples to do the traveling for us.

Taking shape

It gives my “ME” shape, substance, to go inside prison:

I know myself as female, when all I see is men
I believe myself to be free, because I have the keys and walk away each night.
I can hear the teacher in me, when you come to listen.
I recognize my value, when your eyes sparkle with gratitude.
I sense my own connection to spirit, when your eagerness beckons the Force  

Pretty much just pretense, no?

We are but clouds,
wandering around one special piece of sky for a moment.

Shape shifting
    between stormy and bright
Pouring out our tears together
    watering the earth
Offering up our flimsy substance
    to reflect a little light today

while waiting to be blown apart tomorrow.

To whoever is not listening to the sea
This Friday morning, to whoever is coped up
In house, office, factory or woman,
Or street or mine or harsh prison cell:
To that person I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of the prison,
And a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
A great roar of thunder sets in motion
The rumble of the planet and the foam,
The groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
The star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
And the sea beats, dies, and goes on beating.
So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
The sea’s lamenting in my consciousness
I must feel the crash of the hard water
And gather it up in a perpetual cup
So that, wherever those in prison may be,
Wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,
I may be present with an errant wave,
I move in and out of windows,
And hearing me, eyes may lift themselves
‘saying “How can I reach the sea?”
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
The starry echoes of the wave,
A breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
A rustling of salt withdrawing,
The grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.
So, through me, freedom and the sea
Will call in answer to the shrouded heart.

        --Pablo Neruda, found in Teaching with Fire
Poetry that sustains the courage to Teach.

“There is an abundant flow available to us all. We must access this infinite wellspring of God-substance. This is done at first in consciousness, and after that in the outer world. Claim it! Tap it! It is yours!”
~Greg Barrette

The reality that is present to us and in us:
call it Being...Silence.
And the simple fact that by being attentive,
by learning to listen
(or recovering the natural capacity to listen)
we can find ourself engulfed in such happiness
that it cannot be explained:
the happiness of being at one with everything
in that hidden ground of Love
for which there can be no explanations....
May we all grow in grace and peace,
and not neglect the silence that is printed
in the centre of our being.
It will not fail us.

--Thomas Merton

To all the incarcerated men and women who are vital part of our human family,
To their families and victims,
To the men and women who serve them, the public, and the prison system,
To all those on parole,
To all who have been touched in one way or another by our penal system,

May we know ourselves as precious children of God,
May we know that our lives matter,
May we hear the message of hope, of peace, of love
That comes to us in the darkest part of the winter.

May we trust a deep knowing that our own future
and that of the prison system,
is in our own hands, our actions matter.
May we each be the message of hope, of peace, of love
that is needed to bring the Light into this darkness.

Outside,
Above
A Moon shines bright
Inside
Under
Clouds of drama swirling inside me,
stories of men
who will never see the moon’s sparkle
murky sorrow binding me and their pain.

 “Wake up! Come Outside!” whispers the Moon.
See … See … See …
Do I really care
Who is in and who is out?
The men locked uptight behind bars
Or you locked in your thoughts?
See … See … See …
Toss their stories at the moon.
Dance with them under the stars.
See … See … See …
“I shine anyway, beloved child”
she winked,
“Come, let’s each dance and choose to be free.”

After meditating Saturday evening, preparing for Sunday Meeting for Worship.

I can not offer myself in a greater way
to the service of another,
to God,
than to listen silently,
setting my own ideas and needs aside,
to wait upon their direction;
to hold them in highest esteem,
to be in Worship.

To be in awe
is to be wordless.
Not words, nor music; no scent, nor image
can reflect God, name God or approach God.

They are self-serving scratches
at a keyhole so vast
only the unbounded silence of expectant waiting
might have a chance at opening the lock,
that was never locked,
And open the door
that has always been open.

Come put your silence into the lock,
Open the door into the heart of God,
Lay yourself in the doorway.
Offer all that you might ever be
And always have been.