I want to bathe in the river of beauty,
to dip below the surface of a world
in perpetual strife.
I want to dive into the depths
and rise again with understanding
and grace.
I want to bask in the trilling of a songbird
I cannot name,
serene, secure,
singing atop an ancient ash:
a tree made stronger by storm and stress.
***
I want to float in midnight waters
and awaken to the moonlight of awe:
To dip my toes in pure wonder
and wish upon a star.
I want to feel the gentle undercurrent
of a deeper, wider,
undiscovered hope
tugging me along to landscapes I have not seen,
and music I have not heard,
and colors not yet combined and contrasted —
transformed into new creations.
I want to be amazed and humbled
by all I do not know.
***
I want to cleanse myself with compassion,
to feel again the depth of Soul,
to swim against the current of our time
and understand the pain in another
without judgment.
I want to be the river,
the wind,
the mackerel and the blue heron,
each struggling to survive,
and know the world
through them.
***
I want to bathe in the river of beauty,
to immerse myself in the divine waters of
tenderness and togetherness,
and feel again
the joyful connection of earth and sky,
creatures and me.
–Patricia Adams Farmer
Patricia Adams Farmer 
I’m sitting
Blessings to you, Tim! You are a light in the darkness.
Thank you Patricia,
It is 4am here in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. I’ve been awake since 2.45. Yesterday I conducted the Brisbane Symphonic Band in their final concert of the year. The echoes of that music still swirling about in my mind as I lay in bed, hoping I’ll go back to sleep, but, alas the busy head and sciatica in my left leg contrive against slumber. And perhaps I’ll have to settle to 5 hours sleep … I can always have a Poppy-flop (think Nana nap) now that I’m retired.
Lying in the darkness I pray.
I’m mentoring a young father, Paul; well, he’s young to me, 43 actually, who is an alcoholic. He’s in the early months of his recovery and is full of anxiety, racing thoughts, driven by unfounded fears, scared he’ll fail, filled with remorse and guilt. I pray for him. I send my thoughts out to the Universe. I hope that there is a greater something that cares and picks up on my hope.
I move on to pray for Jody, she’s in her first year of recovery and doing well. Her daughter, and consequently her grandchildren are back in her life. She’s employed again. She’s involved in the local AA. She’s got a sponsor. But, a huge darkness falls upon her occasionally and she is beset with suicidal thoughts that scare her; an ominous self-hatred that threatens to drown her. She plunges herself into the AA program and try’s to fervently pray herself back to the surface. I pray for Jody. I ask the ‘greater kindness’ to illuminate her to her inner child and expose the twist that was laid down in her formative years -the incidents or harm done- that is behind these visitations from the ‘black dog’ (depression). I’m not sure my prayers are appropriate. I’m not sure my amateur diagnosis is correct. I shape my prayers to be generalist, ambiguous, hoping that the ‘greater good’ will discern what’s what.
I give up on the bed and rise to make a cuppa, an infusion of camomile and honey. I’m greeted by the steady thumping of the dog’s tail upon the floor -she pleased I’m up.
I open my phone and there is your poem. Thank you Patricia.
Your poem, your heart, your mind – reaching over to me; touching, moving, empathising with me. Thank you Patricia.
Into my mind drops this little haiku. A wanting to answer your Art with Art; your touching with a reaching back to touch you:-
A net through water
Catches not the water, but
Those that dwell therein.
It’s about how we reach for God. We cast a net in hope of catching him only to bring to the surface his children. The Higher Power remains elusive, but in the meantime we’ve people to help and be helped by, music to make and musicians to guide so that they can make that music.
And now, as I draw near to the end of this email, -tediously typed out with one finger on an older, smaller iPhone-the full moon has disappeared, the dawning light is easing through the clouds, the morning chorus of Rainbow Lorikeets is squwarking their songs over an accompaniment of Honeyeaters, doves and distant Butcherbirds, Mud Larks.
Thank you Patricia.
Robert Burrell
Sent from my iPhone
Thank you, dear Robert! I sent you an e-mail