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the buddha breaks a sweat

9 Dec

Buddha in Black Sweats,

I bow to you in retrospect,

you who awakened my Nosy Rosey

eyes that noticed

you

rushing to beat out others

to be first

while dripping sweat

AND

not cleaning up after yourself.

It was that final straw that arched my back

ready for a war—

Harumpf!

You got me, I wanted to reprimand you, I did.

I’m in 2nd grade tattling to the teacher,

Billy didn’t put away his cartoons to do the lesson.

I  watch  some ME giving you the stink eye,

ha, all the while,

you in your infinite wisdom

hold a mirror to my angst.

Now, I can see—

so easy for me to wash the machine before and after

as a great service for me and to me

all the same.

I couldn’t even see you, if you were not me, as well.

I am you, sweaty man, and

I am Goodie Two Shoes who follows the rules, and

I am the machine,

passively waiting for each one who will sit on me

and sweat holy water for us all.

 

shit may or may not happen

29 Sep

It seems to me tonight

that I can’t get it right.

I have tried so hard.

It also seems

that I can’t mess up.

I return to a

seat

wedged between my heart

and solar plexus

on which balances

a space between

striving and not.

This seat does not totter

or teeter

but provides a solid spot

from which motion or not

is clear.

Every effort and every allowance

can be seen in joy.

May the Protestant work ethic

in all its good intentions

burn brilliantly into its own footprint.

Work Happens.

Stillness Happens.

And Shit Happens

from another seat

altogether.

 

 

brillo breath

21 Sep

Forgive me

all

for when I step on your words,

for my imagining that I know what you are going to say.

Forgive me for the tight holding

I have done

and keep doing

in uncountable seconds

of my personhood.

She imagines she has something important

to say

(any words in time are flowing water)

and she has a poorly acted way of pretending to know things

from her limited exposure.

Only ever each moment

to release into this soup of being.

My psychic muscles are tired

of holding self together.

Breath,

thank you,

enters

into the each

last

holding,

of this construct

scrubbing away the clinging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

how the future comes

16 Sep

Shush

compromise.

Remember,

safety above the mess

is a slow death.

Knowing what is next,

assuring myself

I know

what is next,

stomps out miracles

and silences sirens:

closes the door on what

can be.

i will not go through days

the same from morning to night

in and out of slow sliding seasons

as the she who thinks

in square units of measured time.

i will dive

into the murky mud

of what longs

for birth.

Growing

are fierce buds

through my rocky soil

with fists

tight with determination

into next

and next

outside of tidy

outside of known,

I hope, though, shy of disaster.

Inappropriate Creation,

comes forth,

and I let it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

wink

26 Aug

I have found myself describing my interests as leaning toward inner growth or inner discovery. Language fails, but this description of inner seems a tidy way to signal to someone who may be along similar paths as I. But actually, along the way, we begin to find that there is no separation between inner and outer. Synchronistic winking in the perceived outer world reflects back this truth.

I found a song similar to one that I have been searching for for months, so I wanted to share.  Here is my best sync in my flow thus far in this marga life.  A few months ago, actually in May when I was driving my daughter home from college and she was unable to help me with the long drive because she was so tired she passed out as soon as we hit the road, I needed to find stimulation to help me stay lively in my driving. I began to wonder if I could learn to “unhear” English. I began listening to the radio talk stations to see if I could stop my mind from deciphering the words of my first (and only:) language, to only hear the sounds but not the meaning. I was unsuccessful; my mind kept jumping right to the words meaning so automatically, I couldn’t stop it. So I kept changing stations to see if I could get this automatic process to loosen in my brain.  It was a long drive. 🙂

I turned to a favorite satellite station that has stories from NPR, not news, but human interest stories all the time. The story that I caught mid-stream was about a French musician who loved American music but he did not understand the words since he didn’t speak English. He had composed a song with words that sounded like English to his ear, but these words were in fact gibberish. Hearing his song on the station at that very moment allowed me to have the very experience I had just been playing with inside my head for the past few minutes. SPOOKY from the human lens, but a solid and loving wink from the way reality actually works through a different lens.  I have been wanting to find the song again, which in my memory, seemed to have been written in the 40’s, but this morning, I found a song by an Italian pop singer who is practicing the exact same exercise with language.  I’ve linked to this campy, delicious play in the field of experience.  Wink!

Then, as I was listening to a video this morning, another sync in the practice this man is talking about in this video.  Wink!

The validation of outer reflecting inner through this experience is ongoing, I know you know.  Wouldn’t it be fun to gather and share these stories with each other? In our sharing, we further reflect our lack of separation, not only inner and outer, but from being to being, on and on. Makes me imagine an Alex Grey painting, each of us, a pair of eyes of the ONE. x

beauty in the contrast

5 Aug

I am at a loss about how to capture the beauty in the ugly or the raw.  I moved to a new neighborhood last year.  It is on a boundary.  If I go right out of my neighborhood, I cross under the highway within a block (The sound of traffic is quite noticeable from my yard).  A block beyond the highway is an area of the city where most are struggling with day to day life, many without cars.  The foot traffic and bike traffic on this side are a reflection necessity.  If I turn to the left, I pass by ranches from the 1930s to the 1950s that are being renovated and flipped, followed quickly by a reviving recreational center, followed by a little village with trendy new bars, restaurants and breweries.  The foot traffic and bike traffic on this side of the area are a reflection of recreation.   The trending of revitalization and commerce meets starkly at a highway overpass line a  climate of poverty.

The whole area is a grocery desert, which I had read about before actually moving here.  There are two grocery stores within 3 miles of my house, but they are not the sort of store I am used to.  The closest store has been robbed so many times that they have a security guard who sits by the carts at the front of the store.  The selection is improving due to the revitalization not so far away.  They have begun to have a few organic selections in the produce section.  They have a surprisingly good selection of chocolate bars, suddenly, out of the blue. The prices are several dollars cheaper at times than the nicer sides of town.  I shop here.  I enjoy trying to find things that I want to buy amid the slim pickings.  I hope to skew the selection toward what I want, all the while, in the back of my mind, I wonder if my shopping here will make the prices increase for those who walk to this store from shanty-like apartments and trailers.  Last night a man checking out ahead of me talked to the worried cashier with a backwards, unlit cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.  Many at the checkout are buying only large alcoholic beverages which they keep in their paper bags to drink as they walk away.

I move in many worlds, and I love how my life exposes me to contrast  daily.  I have never rested easy in the priveleged isolation I’ve known so often.  Is there something in me that seeks the downtrodden side of life?    I want to pin it, the beauty I see in this meeting of worlds.

From the parking lot of the Food Lion I can see the paper mill putting billowing clouds of smoke into the sky.  Between the Food Lion and the paper mill exists a marsh.  The marsh is full of tall wetland grass,  yellow, chartreuse, and deep green wheaty spokes  broken up only  with a few leafless dying tree sculptures here and there.  On these leafless trees sit a variety of snowy white sea birds, egrets and herons, decorating the long stretch of grass and water with their elegant bodies.  They look like large white flowers blossoming out of stark sticks. There is trash strewn in places, but the birds pull my eyes up to their pure forms;  they gather here every morning in front of the paper mill  where I sit to wait for the light to change as I drive to work, sublime elegance displayed in the nature and grey, polluted spewing of the industry, rising affluence and surviving poverty, the spectrum looping around to complete a circle.

I am a center point, observing where a range meets.  Salinated and desalinated, clean and dirty, stable and unstable.  Some mornings the wind shifts and the paper mill smell fills the air in the nicer section and seeps into our houses; the stainless appliances and granite counters cannot counter the smell; we all pray for a shift in the wind. But who would receive it then?

If I were a photographer, I could capture and pin it, this contrast.  I could snap the shot my eyes take in, but my photo attempts fail, so I turn to words, which may not be working either, but here is my stab at capturing this unnamable something my soul is attracted to instantly, the contrast available.  I stand in line at Food Lion behind the swaying man, each of us holding the center of love that we share.  I am not anyone.  I am often surprised I have a name.  I sometimes forget that I am more than just a pair of eyes, observing the beauty without definition in all that I can see.

my dating profile :)

22 Jul

I look normal, I seem normal, and I can wear my normal suit as needed.

But life’s journey has led me away from the path of normal.

I am putting my truth out there on my profile into the world of normal, to eliminate most, and to speak to those who will instantly know what I am talking about.

I am not talking about anything overt; I am talking about the inner blossoming.

I am on a path toward self-discovery.

The answers I have sought have been discovered to be within and to be never far.

Breath is the vehicle for me on the ride.

I spend time in silence,

I fall in love all day long, everyday, with ants and trees, and songs.

My boundaries have loosened, my identity has loosened.

I can still dance in the world of normal, but I only do so when absolutely necessary.

I am looking for friends to interact with who have a clue what I am talking about.

I am looking to weed out all who are nice, but still normal.

I leave this breadcrumb trail of nonsense as an invitation to anyone who finds the normal paths of life debilitating; there is more. And it is so much more.

The only clues cannot be named or nailed in directly but can only point, like a mute but colorful road sign.

Contact me if you want to talk of such intangible things, or if you want to watch ants or the leaves dance in a breeze, if you sometimes realize you are the breeze, the leaves, and the breathing eyes watching.

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