When We Bow Down and The Opening of Eyes

This marks the second time I am sharing these two poems.

I occasionally re-post something when it's relevance re-emerges.  I think it is time for these two.  Many of the people I see in my office in one-on-one sessions, many of my friends and family, many of my own thoughts have expressed or been about this (I think fairly common right now) sense that we may crumble under the weight of the world's (or our own) pain.  Read the poem and see if it has resonance for you.  And even as it meet's us in the darkest places, might it also offer a speck or spark of POSSIBILITY? 

And an other question:
We do know that for many people - perhaps even most - a sense of being met, of being companioned when the going gets rough - offers some solace. But what of those of you/us who are by nature or in essence "loners"?  Those for whom solitude is our comfort -- Does the end of the poem work for you as it might for others?

WHEN WE BOW DOWN
Rev. Sheri Prud’homme
 
There comes a time
When suffering weighs too heavy on the heart,
When powerlessness passes through rage into shimmering
acceptance of brutal truth,
When the terrible uncertainty of what’s to come
Eclipses any beauty the present moment has to offer
Then, there is nothing left to do
But bow down to limits
And to suffering.
All the way down – forehead to the floor,
the soft flesh of the back of the neck exposed.
Is it a prayer? Perhaps.
After resting there on the ground,
We rise up (for what else is there to do?)
And we kindle the flame that connects us
with all who have gone before us.
We remember – we are not alone.

And another poem, re-shared, might be more familiar; it is David Whyte's THE OPENING OF EYES. 

Visit the poet's beautiful website and support his work here:  https://davidwhyte.com/

Perhaps this one speaks more to the ones of you who are not soothed by a sense of being-with, but prefer a more solitary comforting. . .

THE OPENING OF EYES
David Whyte
That day I saw beneath dark clouds,
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before,
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing,
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.