The Great Unknowing

Wine of Words

The Great Undoing arises from the Great Unknowing. Okay, so spirit wanted me to write those words down. I don’t know “why.” Perfect! For I have (and am) in a Royal Funk. Please note the use of capitals, which represent desperation.

The great student has become the one sitting in the corner with the dunce cap. Huh, wha, whozzit? whazzit? Duh.

I wrote a small volume of conversations between me and a man called Peter.

Peter had come undone, as some song says.

He ran naked across the fields of now.

Well, not literally, but figuratively.

His mind ran naked as well.

His spirit body was clothed in light.

It is this that I speak of in my new book, Bigger Than The Sky. Okay, there was a glitch and it won’t show up in paperback on for several more days.

In the meantime, I am being undone. The grave clothes being unwound.


Vicki Woodyard

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A Possible Prayer

Lord have mercy on me,
When in a room and forget I’m there.
When I haven’t a clue and haven’t a prayer.
I’m glad you’re there.

Lord have mercy on me,
who thinks she can write
but still gets uptight
about what people think.
(I think I stink.)

Lord have mercy on me,
Filled with pity and no
longer pretty except when
I forget to think about
this cellulite and what
fell last night.
(I think it was another
layer of myself, a
landslide of the body
quietly giving way.)

Lord have mercy on me,
feeling loveless and shoe-horned
into a small life instead of
the glass-slipper one I wanted.

I’m no Cinderella, Lord,
but I do love pumpkin pie
and pumpkin cheesecake.
I’m getting off-topic now
thinking only of chow.

Lord, have mercy on me,
I don’t know how this knee
shall bow unless you kick
it out from under me.
Go ahead. I’ll count to three.

Vicki Woodyard

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A Starry Field

The body’s made of blood and bone.
I walk the stony sky alone.
The moon a rock;
the earth a star.
I know not even
where You are.

A starry field
that will not yield.
The sun blots out
the twinkling light.

I fall down among the Milky Way
and nurse my wounds.
I’m in full flight.

But wait, within a field I lift,
the wind has taken a new shift.
Something stirs.
I take its hand
and wander far among
the jeweled strands of light.

The night has shown me
countless stars
I once thought
were endless scars.

Silence takes me where it will.
The night has lost its bitter chill.
Awake, my darling precious daughter,
I give you only living water.

The body’s made of blood and bone.
But I am never quite alone.
The moon a rock;
the earth a star.
Inside you dwell,
as love you are.

Vicki Woodyard

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Just Let Go

Somebody said that I needed to let go.
So I sat down and tried a bit
and then I sat with holy writ
but couldn’t get the hang of it.

Somebody said I was too much alone.
I felt my antisocial self
was rather like a stone.

Somebody said I wrote like a champ
but needed to share it with the camp
so I lit a fire and drank some brew
and read aloud to “you and you.”
But that wasn’t what I had to do.

Somebody said I needed to let go.
So I lay down and took a nap
which ended up in quite a flap
as I had my head in someone’s lap.

Somebody said that I needed to let go.
I tried it fast.
I tried it slow.
But I still held on tight, you know.
This precious ego just won’t go.

Vicki Woodyard

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A Radical Awakening

Shy Boy Head Study (1)

“Vicki Woodyard writes close to the bone of grief- a place she knows
intimately- exploring with courage and compassion what it means to be
human, to experience deep loss, to continue to receive life in the face of
what stretches us beyond what we thought we could endure.”

~ Oriah Mountain Dreamer, author of “The Invitation”
Resting in God

These days I rest at the still point much of the time. And that is what Peter and I did when we sent our emails back and forth. Peter had seen through the futility of effort. After all, his body had rebelled in a very symbolic way. It said wordlessly, “Go beyond me.”

And so he did just that. What else was left?

And I would retreat to my Mac at the end of another long day of caregiving to rest in what was also beyond my body.

In that ethereal air, Peter and I connected by a slender thread of reality. When everything seems broken, we turn to confession.

Perhaps all he and I did was enter the confessional of the keyboard. Now that he and Bob are gone, I find that my life is a respite from effort. I do little besides go to Tai Chi and the occasional kirtan, where Indian chants resonate into the open heart.

Rest is needed more than ever.

The restless thoughts and feelings drum at us incessantly.

Be still and know. Be still and know.

And in that knowing, something splendid can arise.

The unknown finds its voice right here in the knowing.

Silence and rest.

Out of that, everything meaningful arises.

Vicki Woodyard,
Author, Bigger Than The Sky: A Radical Awakening

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Always His

It seems I yearn for inner things
the smallest kiss from what is true.
I miss you most when outer things
demand I give them what is due.

Torn by edges of this sharp world
I wander inward for your arms.
To find with quite a gasp of shock
that you put them there as an alarm.

Wake up, wake up,
the world has nothing left to give.
Go back into yourself and find
the thing that makes you want to live.

I wish, I hope, I pray, I yearn
that things may take a subtle turn
when I will meet with all that is
and find it all was always His.

Vicki Woodyard

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On Publishing Bigger Than The Sky

“Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”
― Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

The grass still green,
A sky of blue,
No wonder that
I think of you.

A robin runs,
a tear as well,
its sweetness
casting such a spell.

This temporary journey
home is never ever done

For God is holding up the sky
and teaching robins how to fly.
He’s painting portraits of our love
so we can carry it above.

A book is written,
pages turned.
And love’s the only
lesson learned.

Vicki Woodyard

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Getting a book out into the world is a lengthy journey. So now I am sitting back in contemplation-mode. September is a third of the way gone. Imagine that! The front yard is bare. Soon Grant will come and aerate and put out new grass seed. The river birches and tulip poplars will shed their leaves. And I will eat anything with pumpkin in it.

I am waiting for the paperback to be on amazon. That should happen this week. If any of you are kind enough to order it, please consider writing a review. Word of mouth is how the book will sell. So don’t be shy. And if you prefer an ebook, it is available now.

Peter said so many wise things to so many people. What he knew, with every fiber of his being, was that everything was going in the only direction it possibly could. So he became flow itself. That way, our conversations grew so gracefully that they became a book.

I am honored to be able to share him in Bigger Than The Sky.


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Getting Offstage….

At this point I have to get offstage. If you are wondering what that means, so am I. I remember Vernon Howard saying that we have to get rid of the showcase personality. We all intuit what that means to us individually.

I have written a beautiful book, Bigger Than The Sky. It is a best-seller. How can I say that? Because today’s paper had an article about a cancer survivor. He was touring with his book and said it was a best-seller. The criterion? “If it changes one person’s life, it is a best-seller,” he said.

Eureka. Bigger Than The Sky changed my life. Therefore I can get offstage and let the book go where it will. It will always be a best-seller, no matter how many copies it sells.

Facebook is eating my face, the one I had before I was born.

The only thing to do is post my work here. Please subscribe to the blog. That way we remain friends and we can have a more intimate connection than on Facebook.

Not that we will be best friends, but that the silence between us will invoke something higher than words.

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The Stranger Stirs

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The lips and tongue have naught to say.
The heart is sleeping in its jail.
But the mind, the mind is up all night
contriving ways to make us fail.

The body drifts to places far
as heaven’s door is left ajar.
By morning light there is no fright
but mind is dead to inner light.

The stranger stirs yet in his sleep
as he wanders over God’s own deep.
The heart, now waking, stretches wide
and something in him casts aside
the stone and then he lives again,
but he lives alone.

The lips and tongue,
the heart and soul
must now contribute to the whole.
For silence spreads the true good news
that love can’t rest but must be used.

This useful love seems like a test
but it is different than the rest.
Once spoken, broken is the spell
and one is led right out of hell.

Vicki Woodyard

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