On the French version of the website this space is called LKB Coach
Club and it is dedicated to those coaches from the LKB network who
come together in Paris once a trimester to have fun and network.
It is a space where they can share with “the world”
what they are doing, sharing and selling. I have decided to rename
this sister space LKB Coach Salon and invite coaches from the English
speaking world to contribute whatever they have to tell “the
world” about themselves, their businesses and their friends
and relations. It is, if you will, a blog that is not a blog and
the only real question for visitors to this section of the website
is “to blog or not to blog” so please ……………
blog away !!
If you want to post anything up on this page - and I’d love
you to - please click on
this addres, email@example.com,and
it will be treated by my webmaster immediately.
The Poets' Corner
Thoughts around the Tree of David
« Tell me there is no death!” she said…
But David, you are no more here? And we do seem to be…
Thank you for espousing the human form
Long enough to share
Through human warmth
The expression of unique thoughts-
And with us!
David, if wisdom is a tree, thank you
For nourishing its roots:
Thank you for passing this way,
We cherish what you have left behind,
It grows with us.
Maurice Brascher 071108, “a cold & wet afternoon…”
My heart cries
and my eyes are dry.
Your soul journeys,
while I wait, still,
in the sadness of your departure
And will you be revealed,
in your unveiling?
What will you whisper
from the coldness of stone?
How sings the song
of the irresistible Self,
from the grave?
London to Paris October 4th 2008.
Full of Grace
Deep in beauty
I cannot not follow
You are my direction
You are my deep heart
Love boundless, unbidden
I cannot not follow you
You come now
I cannot not follow
Fields in preparation
London August 2nd 2008.
Power of Six
Six responses to the question, « What do you know now about
the relationship between stress and habit? » This was in the
context of a wrap exercise in a workshop run by Jennifer de Gandt
and Lynn Bullock at Philip Harland’s house in Crouch End,
London Oct 3rd 2008.
1. Nothing much
2. stress wears a subtle habit
3. chaos lurks at the back door
4. habit maintains an ordered universe until the silent stranger
glides across the threshold and fear gathers in eddies in the corners
of the unlit house.
5. Arms held wide, vulnerable and in pain. The wind screaming, the
heat searing, jerking, wrenching. There is no safe place.
6. And gently expiring, the breath tumbles sweetly into your arms.
“On setting out again in August 2008 on the Way of Saint
James this time between Toulouse and Puente in Spain, these lines
from 2003 & 2005 still ring true for me”
Ode to an Ordinary Pilgrim
To you, Ordinary Pilgrim
What are you doing here?
You, with no cross to bear,
Visitor, tourist or wandering soul,
What brings you thus far?
Your pain a daily affair
between you and yourself,
Questing the next refuge
Where life’s burdens are unloaded
and washed clean with no more than a shower.
The day’s landscapes recorded and counted,
maybe photographed –
for deeper memories.
And you offer your celebration to the ordinary, oh Pilgrim
You, who would travel to far lands
with far hopes for all that lays beyond
the rising and the falling of the sun
and the turning of the hours,
find the days passing routinely marked
by the rising and the falling of breath;
the getting up and the laying down
and the interludes
filled with each step along the way
broken with eating and the taking of water.
And where, oh Pilgrim of the Ordinary
Is the mystery?
Where is that day of “other than today”?
Knowing finally that it is none other than this,
Where is the quiet joy in the step well taken?
The smile delivered freely?
The eye alert to the ordinary, the daily, the journeying?
It is here.
It is now.
In this breath.
In this celebration
Oh Pilgrim of the Ordinary.
Talking with the Lord
Sweetly the step that sings to Thee
Softly the voice that calls to Thee
Saranam – Saranam – Saranam
Hear me, Lord of gentle landscape and stony path
As I walk with Thee
Swinging the weight that clings to me
Breath, the gentle song of Thee
Saranam – Saranam – Saranam
Whisper to me, Lord of hedgerow and straw bale
Sing to me, Lord of field and lowing cow
Soul of spider
Spider of soul
Spirit of silence
In stillness you come
Brown, large, creeping
In fear and power
Barely a quiver
And in the stillness
of no fear
I ask your name
Reveal yourself to me
And in the still
And I see
And I know
To weave a cover
Of multi colours
Draped in silky fineness
To the belly
Of spider soul
Of her power
Of her being
Her terrible knowing being
What may I ask of her?
Weaver of webs
Spinner of fears
But in stillness We sit
Side by side
Head to head
And I ask
To know you
Soul of spider
July 11th 2005.
La Bouvetière - Normandy
Death of David
Sorrow lurks, sneakily,
around the edges of my eyes.
My soul, an open wound, weeps.
Loss spreads its wings,
Casting shadows on memories:
the giggles in the garden,
the freezing cold,
Gratitude wells up,
clogging somewhere in the throat.
Words fall in platitudes on willing ears.
It is thus.
And no more.
for your soul to explore.
Journeying through wind and sea,
Let your ancestors embrace you.
And in one pristine moment,
Be, at One, David,
Healer, Shaman, Provider of Grace.
She gave me life and wrapped me well
I gave her legitimacy and carried her well
She loved me well without being loved
She taught me to stand and I kept on running
Her father died before she could remember
She gave away her son before he knew her
And I carried her pain
And I carried her loss
I called her “mother”
She called me “daughter”
I was her gift
I honoured her well
Beauty came with skill
At 18 months she was wordless for loss
At 18 months I knew nothing of her mourning
her son’s silent wound.
And I grew to magnificence,
Much later when
The house was bought and the rates were paid,
Her lower leg swelled
Curious, in its refusal to heal.
His lower leg swelled too,
Furious and red, screaming for attention
No plausible explanation,
Pain no longer silent.
Her father did the “yard”
Left his lungs
in the care
of the camp
that killed him.
Dead at 24.
She never asked so I agreed
To carry the burden
To hold the pain
Ignorant of mine and thine
Innocent in the noisy silence
So, now, I return the “gift”
I place the “burden” at her feet
I ask her to embrace her nostalgia
I ask her to be my mother.
He stands first in line in front of our mother
I stand second in line on my father’s side
My sister stands third in line, centre.
And I am free
And I am weary
I am beginning
My lines are lost
The spotlight is off
The show is over
I hide in the wings
I die into the newness of this silence
I have no fear
I am free
June 15th 2007.
In Autumnal grace she came,
dressed in mellow hues.
Spiralling mists kissed her fairness.
Time enough for love
In the shade of innocence
and river quiet, green fullness.
Ripe feather forests,
Hushed hearts –
summoned to endure fruitfulness.
Lost in endless kisses