here. listening. trying to anyways. it is a tall task to listen in this life – which is so unbelievably short. the next task and the next will alway be pressing on the part of the brain and decision process that has carried me so far, but without soul. the numbering of days is so apparent – how many more do i get? how precious these days as they wind down toward the end of the the tunnel. i drag my feet here, not in a hurry to meet the light of the next incarnation-or the light of the unveiled transitioning. you might laugh and call me young to write this way, i get that, but the later half of this journey is a reckoning that i will not allow you to dismiss. i’ve an appreciation of the map and for the tracking and i’m open to seeing it truly so to not miss the rewards i can gather in each spot. i’ve worked hard to reach a certain emptiness in my guarded sanctuary that i’m not in a hurry to move out of or to fill with the knowns that lead to no where. i am a bird woman at heart, i meet your eye with a certain intensity that is steady and flittering at once. i look forward to meeting where one can meet that wordless gazing. most i meet are projecting out what they wish others would see in them; i know this dynamic well and have compassion for it for having played it for years (and still I slip into it occasionally when I forget). how do we shed the self and deepen at the same time? no answer is forthcoming for my question, yet all becomes apparent as i walk it. the deepening is a happening that seems to be the side effect and not the directly hunted objective. deepening is ripening, which fruits know how to do – are made for doing. Also occurs to me is the fruit’s apparent purpose in being consumed or for wasting and rotting on the ground, turning into a seed, for starting it all again. the drum of traffic in my tiny house reprimands me – scolds me for stepping away – places to go, purposes, motion, yet i make effort to hear the bird in the urban landscape on a mission in its song. a salamander, a ferrel cat, herbs, a sago palm tossed off by a neighbor, i’ll take what appears and bow. here now for me is a space for typing words, for listening to a train whistle, and the splattering start of rain on roof and road, I’m lingering before the shower and before my day. to you, i bow as well, in your day, aware of the appearing phenomenon where ever you may be, your sharing space beyond the words with me here is a communion that i can’t explain. love to you, there.
dressing the BEing
13 NovFrom an early age, I picked up from the environment the importance of looking acceptable on the outside in order to be included. Most of us have conditioning in this area, right? All of us, really; how could we not, or else we would probably all be wearing pjs or even going about naked based on what feels good to us. I’ve lived in some places where the outside appearance was more important than other places. Perhaps these environments of my earlier days reflected my own understanding in these areas as well. I was shaped by (or reflected in) some strongly conforming environments and some strongly class-conscious spaces.
A really great outfit is a relative thing. One might judge a great outfit to wear based on comfort and craftsmanship. One might also judge a great outfit to be what others will perceive as cool or as pricey. These examples are just a few options on a whole spectrum of variety in the land of belief in a personal self looking for practicality, comfort, value, reflecting group think, class systems, sub culture, in short, all relating to separation. The clothing of Adam and Eve suddenly becomes a myth in my mind today with a practical fallout in apparel all beginning with a misperception of separation.
Oh goodness, what a long way to get to a little anecdote from life recently. A momentary flicker across the screen of self, but interesting to me nonetheless, so much so that I find myself writing much more than I would have imagined about this micro-moment in my day.
My friend invited me out to explore a plot of land that she and her husband have purchased with several others to develop for themselves. It was a beautiful day and so fun to explore unkempt land full of tall trees and birds and mushrooms. A horse farms on one side brought the sounds of an excited braying horse. My friend’s dog Shelby is 14 and not doing well, so she was not able to come with us, but I got to pet her before and after our adventure into the woods.
On my way home from the visit, I stopped by Lowe’s for some paint I needed for a project. As I made my way through the store, I had several friendly interactions with people who work there, but on an aisle in the back of the store, an elegant gentleman looked me over in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time. He looked me up and down as if to say with his face and eyes that I was not up to his standards, in dress, as I took it mean. I felt a moment of my old conditioning come back; first I felt a shame, then a sort of prideful turn around occurred in my head to myself, saying “Well, I’m just at Lowe’s – I’m sure these clothes are perfectly fine for this errand.” I had a momentary feeling of being a SELF who needed defending against the casual look of a stranger. It wasn’t until a few aisles down that I took a look at myself and I laughed (audibly:).
This is how I looked. Because of petting Shelby so vigorously, my black clothes were covered in white dog hair. Then because we had tromped through the woods without a trail, I was covered in seeds and weeds and brambles. In short, I was a bit of a mess. The amazing thing was not that one man had noticed my state of disarray, but that no one else had made me aware of this fact in the least. How beautiful that my friend and the workers and the shoppers had not given me any disapproval whatsoever. From my earlier experiences in the posh posh tisk tisk environments of some times of my lives, I now was able to flow in the world unselfconsciously and to be met with the blind acceptance. Lowe’s as a full-length mirror of then and now.
I hope your day is full of unselfconscious joy, dog hair and woodsy remains!
what glorious lonely can do
4 Novhow many years did i run and cover over the hole?
not able to know the wholeness
until I stopped
and felt it–
empty,
nothing there,
alone.
leave me to it.
don’t soothe me,
it needs to be seen–
i’m lonely for —
union.
lonely aches
behind the sternum,
and leaks out of my eyes.
i’ve the courage now to feel it–
lonely,
and I’m pressing into that bruise.
-letting it be there.
letting is
composting me
letting is
squeezing out juice
yet here i am, still asking lonely
grant me
courage without aid
without aspirin
without the phone
without the tubes (You and cathode ray).
hobby callings
flattened.
i am headed to flatline
daring defribulation when
either side of death
is now okay.
the pulse is not mine to keep or lose.
ha, never was.
ARGH,
the tone is way too serious, here.
from lonely comes
hilarity
this serious poem is a
belly laugh!
but first i seem to be
leaning into whatever
had me running
to begin with.
for years.
good god
what!
night walker
7 OctThere is a small blooming algae
that has come to the creek
that I walk over,
that I cross in the night
carrying my little baggie of bread for the turtles of all sizes.
The blooming has covered the surface in chartreuse
which swirls now as the turtles swim beneath.
Oh, the mystery of a turtle’s mouth as it lunges
beneath the psychedelic dance of green.
Where to toss the bread becomes a guessing game
of chance. How can this night so much the same
as every other night be a world transformed yet again?
No sky is ever the same;
no tide rises to the exact same spot, ever;
all pleasure is solitary and small and everything.
There are so very few who could understand
how secretly happy I am, in the dark,
so alone,
at last no one to tell about my small, singular,
exploding life.
A woman is a powerful being
in her blossoming
which comes long after
anyone can see,
yet her fragrance
is a potion
blessing invisibly, generously
behind her gypsy grin and laugh,
she, a twirling skirt of ascension.
hit me
26 SepI have to do my grading online. I have to read the essays, correct and give feedback, all online, on this lovely little laptop that I am happily typing on right now. I often do this task at home, and I am learning so much about myself and addiction through the difficulty that I often have in this task.
The inbuilt tools with grading online, with its shortcuts and wonderful ready loaded lessons, would appear to earlier versions of myself as miraculous. However, (and I know you know where I am going next) I find the self-discipline needed to complete the task (of say, grading forty essays) can be hard to find and my work is prolonged by many factors, all of which relate to addiction.
The task is challenging, grading. Even with full attention on the task, I don’t seem to get much faster at it. After years of it, I have hardly ever found it top of my list for activities I wish to do. What is so instructive now is watching myself (some part of myself) cry out for distraction, below the level of surface awareness. This dreaded task is gifting me the view of the characters in me who cry out to the dealer – HIT ME. HIT ME. HIT ME again. There are fractured selves that come up for observation. One of them uses food for entertainment. One of them could nap her life away. One looks for hits in communication. One looks for beauty and art and inspiration in the endless pools of sights and sounds this world offers, now more than ever, through the searching on the web. One likes to be surprised by strangeness. One likes to uncover lies. One plans. One ponders her image, and tries to fix perceived smudges in the mirror of the world. One likes to clean when it isn’t time to clean. One could walk for miles when there are some pressing deadlines. One dives into moments past and rearranges years. Endless. I’ve just named those milling about my living room this very moment.
I’m writing this blogpost while my last 19 essays remain to be graded. How perfect the task, how perfect the distraction, how perfect the one who watches it all without any judgement. The flow of this life somehow always works out, the tasks get done, the life gets lived, well or not well– irrelevant through some views. Improvement does not come from disgust. I am simply learning who is asking for the reigns, so I can choose who drives. Sometimes the car goes in the ditch in the process, but that is all part of the fun.
Reporting from the side of the road, waving to you, reader, as you fly by. Who chooses to do what you do when you do it? Who is crying for a hit? Who chooses to allow the hit or to get to work? Who is calling the mental health hotline and giving them my address right now? The United States of M. 🙂
