Thoughts: Intuition and the Ocean

Lillie Duncan

I have had a lot of thought lately on intuition. From a young age, not only was I aware of my deeply connected and tuned in nature, I had to rely on it. In ways that most just don’t have to in their childhood or lifetime.

While in Ireland last year, a few friends and I were drinking our Irisih black tea, mud still smeared across our boots from a trek in the rain across the Burren, peet burning in the fire, and intimate words floating from one heart to another. One friend broke the feel of the moment and giggled, “I need a shirt that says that says Expensive Personality.” At first, I am sure most would think high maintenance, materialistic...but in fact what she meant was life experience.

That is how I have come to view my relationship with my gifts, intuition, feelings, and grave ability to love deeply. They all cost me a great deal, not one of them came free, or without pain. Each a gift, each a passage right into a knowledge of this life I would not have known otherwise. Each trial I have known since I was 5 years old, each loss, each abandonment, each act of silencing, each moment of feeling unknown and unseen, each life I watched die...they all helped shape and cultivate the God given innate gifts I was given. Each event helped me know what was me and what wasn’t me. Each moment helped me know how to read people, feel them, know the truth, and spot out untruth. It also taught me to hold the balance of all things quietly.

The greatest tragedies have been the moments of doubt, and not when the world doubts me but when I have doubted myself. When I have not listened to that still small voice that I have come to know so well. That knows love, and knows it well. That feels as deep as the river flows. Each trial, each moment of woundedness commits every single one of us to a question? Mary Oliver says it best, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” In the silence, in the moments in between, we are all faced with that same question.

David Whyte once said that not all philosophers are poets but eventually all poets become philosophers simply by what they end up uncovering about life. That is where I stand right at the edge of my first poetry book being published. I see life. I feel life. I know life, and everything in between. I have uncovered so much and will continue to as the years are gifted to me.

I think often about the imagery of the hands of Christ when he came back in Revelations, his wounds now scars, healed but visible. It is the woundedness of our Savior that shows us our wounds are not without great cost, but also not without great purpose.

What is it that I plan to do with this one wild and precious life of mine? I plan to take the risk every time to show up fully as myself: vulnerable, authentic, wounded but not weak, soft, nurturing, intuitive and an open vessel to be used for purposes greater than myself.

I’d jump into that ocean every time and a thousand times more.

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.

This may sound easy. It isn’t.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.