LKB Coach Salon

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, lkb@lkb-coaching.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…”

DAVID STILL

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.

WHITE OX

White Ox
Graceful
Gracefully swaying
Full of Grace
Furrows straight
Deep in beauty

I follow
I cannot not follow
You are my direction
You are my deep heart
Love boundless, unbidden
I cannot not follow you
White Ox

You come now
From where?
I follow
I cannot not follow
Silent furrows
Fields in preparation
You plough
I follow
White Ox

London August 2nd 2008.

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?

The promise?

The excitement?

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.

10/8/03 Spain

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

14/8/05 France

Spider

Spider soul
Soul of spider
Spider of soul
Spirit of silence
In stillness you come
Brown, large, creeping
In fear and power
Expectant
Silent
Legs poised
Barely a quiver
Divinely powerful
Waiting, observing
And in the stillness
of no fear
I ask your name
Spider soul
Reveal yourself to me
And in the still
Of stillness
The undersider
Iridescent
Opal
Precious
Tiny door
And I see
I see
And I know
I know
Gossamer threads
To weave a cover
Of multi colours
So fine
Fine
Draped in silky fineness
I come
To the belly
Of spider soul
To ask
Of her power
And beauty
And landscape
To know
Of her being
Her terrible knowing being
What may I ask of her?
Weaver of webs
Spinner of fears
Entangler
Enticer
Slowly
Slowly
But in stillness We sit
Side by side
Head to head
Woven together
Nursery like
Contemplating
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,
Hovers, delicately,
Casting shadows on memories:
the giggles in the garden,
the freezing cold,
a gyroscope.
Gratitude wells up,
clogging somewhere in the throat.
Words fall in platitudes on willing ears.
It is thus.
And no more.
Landscapes unknown
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.

17/01/08. Lynne

Completion

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 father,
her son’s silent wound.
And I grew to magnificence,
in silence,
in emptiness.
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”
Walked out
Left his lungs
freezing,
brutally,
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.

Time Enough…………

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 –
Ourselves,
summoned to endure fruitfulness.

Last Note

Her breasts
Two pebbles
Frayed
Lost in endless kisses
Unseen
Unheard
Resigned

July 2007.