Sculptures - Large

The Menhirs - Ian Williams

Who is this that walks among us now?

Can he hear our singing?

Can he feel our voices echo the earth’s creation?

He stops to touch us,

Runs his hands over our skin,

Places his cheek against our sides.

Does he feign connection?

Is he true or false?

Is his the touch of possession?

Does he think he has bought us?

Or is he one of us?

Part of the universe,

Destined to be burned and sent out into the cosmos.

Does he have hope of some salvation,

Some other life,

Some meaning?

I think not,

His hand is cool and tentative,

I feel his presence.

It is not the presence of hope,

Nor that of yearning.

It is that of simply wanting to be.

Perhaps he seeks instruction on being from us.

We who have stood here for millions of years,

We who were formed in the earth’s primal cauldron.

We whose substance was formed in distant galaxies.

Yes, I can teach him that.

I can teach him how to simply be.

I can tell him about time and impermanence.

But can he learn?

These are a few of the more than 80 sculptures located at Standing Stones Farm in Ledyard, Connecticut

Video by Jordan LaPlaca

Stone

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight,

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before

Now become laborsome events of will.
Weariness invades your spirit.

Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The tide you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.

Something within you has closed down;

And you cannot push yourself back to life.
You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self

You have forsaken for the race of days.
At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.
Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.
Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.
Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone

Until its calmness can claim you

Be excessively gentle with yourself.
Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.

Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.
Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

John O’Donohue