Sometimes I think the comedians and the poets are the most aware ones here. As we engage in our lives, it is helpful to remember that we can be any Larry or Bruce we want while we discuss the budget with a furrowed brow (while laughing every chance we get).
we dream that we are choosers–
that our minds can weigh
our lists of pros and cons
and offer us the way for
sensible action.
Lists and justifications and choice
at best
are curtain decoration
for the windows on the plane ride
through turbulence.
We can torment each other with plans for the future,
but we would be better off telling the truth-
that we are surfing
avalanches with briefcases
and nice shoes.
The trees have chosen,
after weighing their options,
to drop off the green,
and then to disrobe,
desperate for a little attention.
Those of us alive are choosing breath
after the pros came out ahead.
What’s next tees up
while we color,
like earnest children
with fancy, art store pencils,
in our sleep.
In essence and bones,
it becomes clear
that if peace can not be found
right here, right now,
a change of circumstance,
place,
or time
will not bring peace either.
This spot
this breath
these walls
this floor
this breeze
this body
this now.
It may seem as if not much is happening – beat –
But water gives me endless permission slips for observation.
Field notes on just water
could keep me busy and engaged from now until the end-
I’m enthralled with:
-the way it holds it shape inside clear glass
and sways back and forth, a uniform surface at the top,
when moved
-its invisibility in the air,
-its collection on surfaces,
marking lines of temperature demarcation
-its presence in my body,
making me an ocean in motion-
just to put a few notations into words.
How I choose to spend and expand my attention
is the only game, once seen.
The abstractions of the world: war, famine, words free then taken
from our use, words to sway, words to limit,
guilt, distraction, MY job, the persona(s) — all is dissolving
in the rain of my attention, placed elsewhere,
on something so intrinsic to life as to be unseen,
now performing a private dance for me
from every where.
This writing feels didactic and I question why am I putting into words a philosophy of one? I don’t know. Maybe just a sticker on a map. Maybe a look in the mirror. For some reason, this morning, I’m covering myself in a humble patchwork quilt of pieces of practice\al philosophy gathered from one set of feet, one pair of eyes, marching through the time of a life in a body.
It’s okay – I’ll let it flow, for no good reason and then move on to the next thing…
Starting here: No matter how much circumstances seem contrary to okay, life is ultimately okay.
Okayness is true as seen from the small still point inside of me that is never not there.
This still point is within, a radiant, patient sun inside the solar system of me around which everything in the show revolves. Remembering this point, learning to dwell from this point, gives me the stability of moving within the world with more spaciousness even in the moments that seem chaotic or in crisis. This space accepts me “back” to this point, no matter how long I’ve forgotten that I am dwelling here; thank goodness, it’s always accessible and open for business. We are always here, actually, but there is some aspect of taking on this life that allows us to forget. Mysterious this!
Life is a ride, “a” not “THE” ride. Here, a clue in the articles – each one of us on a ride, the whole (of me and of us) ride is beyond my comprehension.
It used to seem like a long ride, but it is ever more clear that this ride is not very long at all.
The body has a mind of its own. It is best to recognize this and communicate with it (through it) by learning to dwell in the body’s awareness as much as possible. Wordless wisdom comes through the body suit – profound messages, information, and access to God (our spacious still point again) is through the body, not from somewhere else. Though it may feel like indigestion, a muscle cramp, dread in a seizing stomach, the body has a language all its own. I’ve been learning to inhabit this body garment and finally listen after so many years to the wordless words of a billion cells in symphony to make this ride of me.
I’ve been told I am loved, and I have enormous confirmations of this; however, some dynamic of this ride allows me to forget this, to feel so alone, and so vulnerable to harm, to hurt, to hopelessness.
The shifting of perspective – that’s it – changes what I think is happening. BUT hearing this idea might not help. This life is a 3d riddle, an optical illusion, a Escher painting lived.
What is real is difficult to determine, perhaps impossible to determine, with reason alone. Real is known within – when within is not obstructed by false thoughts which make real difficult to perceive.
Breath centers.
Center knows truth because it is truth itself – our flame that can’t go out.
Until there is not breath, there is still a chance one can clear obstruction to truth.
Other people and life circumstance (including leaky roofs, ahmmm) are a reflection of where I am and how I am perceiving. From the center point, I exist from a space from where, in interactions, I have a room that gives perspective in real time. I can see from this spot the deeper thread and zoomed out view at once more clearly which gives me pause in micro-time before I move with words or action which provides more skill and ease and compassion. When I am not moving from this space, I can observe my tendency to rush or soothe or dismiss or avoid, as well, so all motion in the world is teaching at all times.
This is just some truth from this one spot along the way. Marking the map with “I am Here, Now” this morning, as it rains and shines and the temperature falls and rises – ever instructing our skin. Blessings for us all, sisters and brothers. Which version fits today?
I pulled the entire damn thing off
and started again –
and for a few days I breathed easy
resting on the pillow of my roofer’s assurances –
his reshingling was foolproof he said–
and I wrapped myself in his confidence and
my homework.
this roof is only one thing in a long series of large playings out
for the necessary things
such as air and heat
and water and waste–
a difficult year
in a decade of years
that has me asking the sky
what is the message?
what is the metaphor?
what do I not see that I need to see, please?
Is there a message for me here?
or should I open an umbrella to the raininess of life?
mercy mercy me oh why.
we surrender will
and continue until the last
drop
enters and destroys
what was temporary anyway.
we rise up again and again
against the elements
relearning how to shelter
against the relentless turning of ages
oblivious I am how short my moments are to the trees
to the hills
to the ocean who used to own this land
it is no wonder
me no bigger than a drop
in all of this
that I can not understand
why the roof
will not stop the rain
or any blessed thing
before I’m gone.
to pain
accept the ache
the discomfort
heat that suffocates like a wool air blanket
the past few days and now
the longing moon must be seen
and turbulence felt
belly bellows must shout over softer things
impatience will come and walk the block
with fear of missing out
exhaustion is allowed a nap
awkwardness and surrender silence the mouth…
Welcome to my home
where to sit you have to move the laundry over,
and make your own cup of tea,
I’m busy with the lean in – just now
moving into bruising joy
not done with me yet.
I watch blossom
a flower as big as a steroid house
still growing
beyond my ability to see.
