Once I was the soil,
from which I sprouted as a seed,
I stretched out and raised myself up.

With a straight back, I became a trunk,
branched out and grew leaves on my arms.
There I blossomed, for a lifetime.

Until I had to let go,
was waved goodbye by the wind and fluttered down.
To return to the ground once more.

To become what I always was.

In love and reverence, sven

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When I put my ear to the ground,
what do I hear?
Is it the heartbeat of my mother,
who in her affection
asks her child to return?

That child who,
cast from the womb,
eagerly seeks the breast,
thirsting for the homecoming.

Where is that home to come,
that sheltered source
for which we yearn?

When I put my ear to the ground,
my mother will whisper
her deepest wish to me.

A wish that becomes audible
in the babbling of the brook
with its silky soft caress along the safe bed,
in the fluttering of the feathered
whose wings tell stories of freedom,
in the rustling of the wind
as it breathes into us.

A wish that becomes visible
in the sparkle of the water
when the sun's rays alternate
in dancing shades of color.

When I put my ear to the ground,
there is that loud silence
which tells of a memory of the dawn,
orphaned from my mind
and yet intimately known.

Loudly there is that song,
that heavenly harp
that the rustling of the leaves
also speak about.

May I come home, I ask her.
She remains silent,
knowing that every moment
answers this question.

In love and reverence, sven

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Imagine the desperate hands of a soldier polishing his weapon before going into battle.

Are these hands different from the mother trying to rock her child to sleep as distant bombs shatter any hope for peace?

Are these hands different from the diplomats trying to shake hands to make a treaty?

Are these hands different from the carpenter trying to rebuild all that has been lost?

Are these hands different from the undertaker putting on his tie to guide yet another funeral?

Are these hands different from the florist making a floral arrangement to place on the graves of the victims?

Are these hands different from the children searching through the rubble for something to play with?

Are these hands different from the monks clasping their hands together to pray for the war to end?

Are these hands different from the many scrolling down their phone to read yet another round of bad news?

Are these hands different from the cameraman who is risking his own life to record everything?

Are these hands different from the arms manufacturer who is signing yet another order to deliver new weapons?

Are these hands different from a caregiver who is stitching yet another wound?

Are these hands different from the musician whose fingers glide over the strings, trying to sing of hope?

Are these hands different from the journalist who has taken up the pen to write about all this?

Imagine the desperate hands of a soldier, are these hands different from any other pair of hands?

In love and reverence, sven

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In a bow to all
who have gone before us
in walking the path of love,
on the way to timeless Truth
beyond ideologies,
beyond concepts,
beyond names,
beyond words,
beyond all forms.

Those who remembered us
when we seemed to forget,
those who walked us home
when we were lost,
those who lived in connection
in times of alienation,
those who held the torch high
in times of darkness,
those who continued to see
the underlying unity
beyond duality,
to all who have lived
in reverence
for the mystery.

I bow to you.

In a week like this, when people worldwide reflect on the dying process of Yeshua, on the legacy of a great teacher, I seek to give thanks through this prayer for all the great teachers from many traditions who have gone before us, for the dignity they stand for, for the Truth they represent and for the guidance they have offered us in our journey to remembering who and what we are.

May we all see that the many differences are like a color in a prism, beautiful in variety but One in the source from which it shines.

In love and reverence, sven

This written work is part of Silent Soil.

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