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dressing the BEing

13 Nov

From 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!

i’ve a new name for it

8 Nov

–the vast neutrality.

 

what glorious lonely can do

4 Nov

how 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 Oct

There 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 Sep

I 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.  🙂

 

windexing the back wall of the cave

24 Sep

There are no other caves besides the personal one.

There are no other shadows but my own.

Aloneness at last reflects back to me a clue in separation

that togetherness can mask

for now I see my own puppet story skills

for what they are.

I put on a wicked good show.

This cave seems to lack an exit

so the way out appears to be in —

into the muck of my own waste.

Submerged and miserable,

there are only two options—

drown here or

stretch for breath

and reach untainted ease, at last.

Perhaps i’ve grown so old that the shackles no longer hold my wrists

or the flattery of the shadows is no longer true enough

to hold me sway, awaiting impossible union.

The drying out of this body

a time bomb that I ignite.

The eyes that meet beyond the bomb

do not shadow play anymore,

and once the cave is left

the dark draw has no pull.

 

 

 

leap of faith

30 Aug

Something became apparent yesterday.  I discovered the leap of faith I’ve been dancing around for years.  The leaps of faith in the religions I grew up with were more up front.  I found them early on and leapt with abandon, perhaps from conditioning for being good, perhaps for the love of mystery and the possibility that true goodness did exist.  In short, I believed.  I was not much of  a Thomas.

The one I just discovered might be so obvious that my mention of it will have you shaking your head with my slow processing speed.  No more beating around the bush, here it is:  If everything that I see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and experience in this world changes, the knowing of the thing that doesn’t change for me is a leap of faith.  The direct experience of the unchanging can not be known because (and here is where I am using my mind to try to solve a riddle that stretches out of the realm of mind) to know it would be an experience of it and experience is a changing phenomenon, by its very definition.

Stand up, flag me down, you who can answer my riddle.  Can you send a lightning strike to the heart that makes the unknowable known?  I’ve had experiences of beyond and daily I flow in a realm that meshes with the mundane, but is not of it.  BUT tell me tell me if you can what is the mystery in the heart of a man.  Is there a black (w)hole of connection to the unchanging within my heart, within every heart, within every quivering bit of matter?

I am not distressed.  This little epiphany just has me pausing.  Sitting sitting feeling feeling all to know what is unknowable.   Must we always leap to reach?  Is this why there is no where to go?

Love to anyone kind enough to tread in this unkept field of blossoms.  I love that you are there and here. This expression is me, moving beyond my knowing, allowing the questioning to come.  I am not separate, and yet this body being has existed from within this marga spot only, seemingly.  Can she merge with knowing before she’s gone from this body?  Oh, the strangeness of it all.

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