Author: MARK BERRY

Mark is a Pioneer and a Creative, with over 20 years experience. He is a founder of the safespace community.

to talk to you

most days I find a space to talk to you,
I never quite find the right language to use though.
my words often pause in the depth of my mind,
as I wrestle with their appropriateness.
they shuffle on feet that don’t know where they stand,
like a stranger who has found themselves in a conversation,
they are not sure they have truly been invited in to.
do I even need to speak?
is silence enough?
is it too much?
without seeing your face it’s hard to know.
sometimes I feel the need to shout,
to wait to hear if there is an echo,
a bounce-back when I cry into the emptiness.
so sometimes I just sit,
sometimes I am still,
often I fight the urge to shift and resign,
I struggle not to impose upon the secret conversation,
and play in sand of my choosing,
or stare too long into the water at my own image.
my senses are wild beasts that run and roar,
as I become still they strain and pull,
for a moment I let them lead me,
and then return to the silence.
sometimes the silence speaks,
images painted,
melodies playing,
words form that are not mine,
and I listen.
and I listen.
most days I find a space to talk to you,
because some days you talk back.

The Raven

A small digression… my 14 year old Son’s first go at Lino printing! (unashamedly  proud dad!)

The map

The map on the shelf was new. It cracked like a distant storm as I pealed it open and smoothed it out on the hard floor, a seductive letter of possible adventures. I take a moment to picture it’s contours shifting, hilltops and valleys finding form. Rivers begin to flow and roads harden against the landscape forming in my mind. My attention always pulls away from the structures and habitation and instead begins to follow paths out into the empty spaces. It traces them up through concentrating lines through the black angular evidence of crags and cliffs. Out onto the lighter open plateaus and mountain tops. I can feel the wind flowing in the pale gaps between the mess of lines as the paths follow ridges and moorsides, the patches of water.  The tarns and the lakes are deceptively uniform and unmoving, offering oasis amongst the detail of track and fence, rock and tree. Tiny triangles and numbers tempt the eye with challenge and vista. It’s these that draw the heart, they are the objective, they call. The lengths that cut the contours heading for these pictorial summits string together, they offer opportunity but at the same time they only show where others have already been. Before long a trip is planned, a starting place, a top to reach. But that’s all the map can show. As the map is folded back up and stowed, the journey can begin to unfold.

Unplanned dreaming

An opportunity embraced as we sat on the hill with cigar and cognac. This was the beginning of a conversation. It was a gift we didn’t expect. A street table ringed by dreamers, sketching possibilities and parties. The steps and avenues coming to life around us as we sat under the sacred heart. A gathering of misfits merging from cheap hotel rooms and packed cars. The plans had been lost somewhere along rural rail tracks and we were free. Free to share stories and find common energies amongst the night life of Paris. So many years ago now, but such an important time. Troubadours and story tellers, God speakers and pioneers, partners and priests forming new worlds, moving in the neon shadows and giving birth to something still growing. As the trains stood still paths were woven together momentarily and then off in new directions, setting sail across oceans spiritual and physical, reshaping institutions and sending others on pilgrimages of their own. The drinkers and smokers, the prophets and poets that sat together that evening became friends and collaborators. We’ve sung and celebrated together, we’ve painted and written, we’ve changed laws and reimagined the future, we’ve dreamt of heaven and seen it on earth. For all of that and moments shared I thank you.

Picture : https://www.flickr.com/photos/pedrosz/

Scattered gold

Scattered gold,

Tiny morsels of treasure,

So small and delicate,

Flaky, broken, worthless,

Just as beautiful,

As any fashioned piece,

Perhaps more precious,

In their raw fragility,

A breeze could take them,

Static lift them,

And they are lost,

Taken, gone,

No king could gather them,

lock them beyond sight,

Hold them, hoard them,

No one can own them,

Scattered gold,

Tiny morsels of treasure,

I can see them,

As the light bounces,

Some can’t,

They see only darkness,

But I see riches,

In you,

In each of us,

Some buried deep,

But visible,

to those who choose,

I choose,

I see flashing brilliance,

Glorious sparkles,

I see your gold,

Our gold,

Scattered gold,

Tiny morsels of treasure.

The lamplighter

The lamplighter, the man who beat the march of night with hardened soles on cobbles and brick and reached deep into the gloom to bring life.  Who turned the dampened streets a safe and sickly green as he walked. My grandfather told me of about the sacrifice of the lamplighter, to give the gift of light but to always face the dark.

But there are no lamplighters anymore.

New year prayer

I don’t make new year resolutions, I don’t believe in saving up change for one day a year…

So my prayer is that whenever the need for change happens in your life you will find the courage and the confidence to make it! May you be surrounded by people who love you for who you are not what you give to them or what you might become. May you have friends who want to journey with you and who allow you to journey with them. May you know when to jump in and take risks and go on adventures. May you know when to be still and to be in the stillness. May you know what to give up because it drains you and what to pick up because it gives you energy. I pray that the next four seasons will flow with blessing, learning, grace and love for you and those you love.