Tag Archives: detachment

I’m incapable of love

17 Nov

I have never loved another.  I am incapable of this task alone.

I have not even loved a cat, a dog, a tree, myself, no one.

There may be channel for love through release, but I don’t have to look around that corner.  That corner will come to me, not my business.

It is arrogant to imagine I know what love is.

The ones I am supposed to love by all earthy definition walk by me and at times I feel nothing but annoyance.  I might get a painful inner heart squeeze even at the sight of them, but is that love?  At times I only see reflection.  At times I don’t even see.  I am unable to define and perform in accordance with what I think that love is.  I love no one, no thing, nothing!

I release this idea of love.  I release the word.  I release.

And when I do, I am just here.

I can get still enough to stop doing what I think love should look like.

I’m left with only the senses, not the thought.

I am free to not love ever again as me.

Yet I am still here;

nothing has changed visibly,

though perhaps I sit up more as the weight of performance is taken off my back.

Mirrors mirrors on all sides

you magnify what is not

and let me simply be here.

need want both

20 Sep

the movement to fill the belly is a vow

at least for now

to continue on in the journey of the body

to fulfill the need

that being human

makes me have.

we play the game

we all must do the dance of chewing

and swallowing

and pleasuring in taste

but at times

it is just a chore

like bathing and peeing

like flossing and dentist tripping

part of the musts for taking care of this bod

this minivan – no  truck

I’ll look under the hood, and change the oil

get enough fuel to do the things I want to do.

I cannot hike or paddle or swim without reserves –

eat to live

live to eat

I remember those days

when going without I thought would make me faint

and now sometimes I forget,

I forget and get the signal from the gauge

hey girl, you’re riding on empty

and you got miles to go

you know…

and then at times

a taste,

a whiff even, is enough

to begin a longing

to flood the tongue with taste

and the brain – endorphins

what is this drug?

the charring, the sweet and salty?

the perfect meal

a bit like heroin, never quite measuring to that first high

but definitely worth the try –

so many roads to go down

some necessary, most by choice

I enjoy the pleasure and the denial

I am a ambidextrous consumer

I can dive into pleasure

without needing it to show up daily

and I can dive into denial

without a nagging voice of need

yet still,

a cup of tea is champagne

a basil leaf,  a boat to shangrila –

may we ever hunger for that which truly fills.

doors and windows

10 May

I come here

as the officiating observer of this life form,

me, the eyes in the cave behind the waterfall of activity,

who watches impassively –

it is a fact that there are eyes behind

even these so deep into the cave,

only perceive them in my dreams

nevertheless, this is not the point of typing words today

the point is closer along the lines of trust

of openings and closing

of movie reels of life happening

of living through a body so entirely

that the wheel of time allows forgetting

and just being

of reaching out to feel if I have hair

form

am I still here, as she?

waking in rooms, piecing it all back together

an identity necessary to walk around

to get to work

yet expendable enough to be left on the closet

floor every night, and even more often of late

and still this is not the point either

gather yourself darling

your point,

it seems the point that motivated you

to type at all

was this idea of doors and windows

the clichés of our day that get us through

the idea of rejection –

when we’ve already agreed, nothing real can ever be threatened,

in lesson one

this idea of rejection is not real…

still the slamming door in the face can cause an imaginary sting

enough to make

the body ask, Why me?  or maybe more like, Why not me? 

And tears can be a natural release.

But man have the windows been flying open around here

windows we didn’t even know we had – whole floors

above this single story house are being built –

hear the carpenter hammering away as we talk?

The sky is the window these days.

One momentous slamming door for dear Eden in April

felt, traveled through,

a tumble down stairs

into a bell jar basement cavern,

followed by an attic visit and skylight opening

onto the showers of blessings of possibilities —-

will i ever doubt again?

the blessings in waiting,

dolled out of god’s pocket

candy in the sky

bitter greens in every field

breezes on every back

dorothy’s red shoes

showing that every place

is a home –

and we can fly out from every nest

we’ve ever made,

every moment an open window.

we’ll see, won’t we

4 Apr

The bell of truth will never stop ringing.

I may try to silence it, hanging out where I hear no truth, trying to mingle and fit in, but the authentic self will never let me settle for less than what is real – BUT real is strange.

Real can look so many different ways – real can look the exact opposite of what was expected or wanted.  The me who went to the party and met the expectations looked more the part. I’m addressing that one.  Nope.  Not it, not for you.

Praying certain prayers, signing up for the truth at all costs, handing over the reigns to the ineffable, brings about a certain intensity.  The one who makes this prayer finds herself first in line for the ride that starts at the mouth of a dark cave with an imperceptible track, which starts out with a stomach dropping descent  – which would be exciting if it didn’t look and feel so much like death.

My path doesn’t let me hide in my bed,  for long.  My trajectory doesn’t allow me to tie security down or live a life for safe keeping – it allows the reality of what naturally unfolds to rule – which might mean giving away my last dollar, or giving up the dream of what I thought would happen, or standing at the fancy party unavoidably in dirty, inappropriate clothes, sneezing embarrassingly in public so the woman next to me can hand me a tissue, crying in empathy or standing open yet unmoved.

This path might give me a million dollar house and have the wind carry it down into a gaping abyss the very next second.   There is not a way to keep all safe, to bank it away, to know what is next.  I cannot know.   Rhyme nor reason cannot be had.

To not know what is next is the truth for everyone – but there are certain ways of being that seem to shield one from that reality.  Uncertainty will visit everyone, nevertheless.  For those involved in the reckless signing over of the control, there is a flow found in stepping into the great unknowing in every minute.

I woke this morning to find that my college roommate has cashed her chips in for this life.  She had a series of events in a short time that caused her to employ her human right for self-determination, and now she is gone.  I send her and her family love and peace beyond what seems possible to muster, beyond the boundaries so seemingly solid on this locked-down earth.

Defining of what is good and what is bad is way beyond my skill level.

The old buddhist teaching about the farmer and his horse comes to mind; We’ll see  is always the clear view of the swings of good and bad fortune.

Who can ever really know anything at all, with certainty?  Isn’t there great freedom in this not knowing?  Do you ever meet anyone along the way who looks you dead in the eye, full tilt into the I don’t know, one who is more enticing than the ones who think they know, the accredited, the acclaimed?

I would like to meet you in courageous unknowing!

spooky parent

22 Mar

world overlook

A few weeks ago:

My heart hurt – viscerally – i felt tight and achy deep in the chest

and it wasn’t my own pain.

I felt around my world, trying to find the source.  I knew, but I couldn’t help wondering how I could feel the pain of another so personally within.

It seems the journey of a parent is the experience of heart ache, in joy and sorrow.  The physical connection is ridiculous.

I think the cells of my two daughters and my cells mingling in the womb still have action at a distance all these years later – what a spooky happening!

Their cells mingle among my own and go off in alarm patterns in their times of stress or hurt or worry or in life crushing/life growing experiences and in big, joyful times, too.   Each intensity of theirs sends signals to the hormone fire stations in my body, who then rush out with the fight or flight chemicals in me.

How come I am tumbling through 16-year-old emotions instead of holding a steady opening?

How come I feel elation, walking through the aisles of the florescent lit grocery?

Sometimes the phone will chirp, and I find out the answer.  Or I may have to wait until the teary face or bounding joy comes bursting through the door, later.

I found myself typing words out, without a care for structure or meaning, just to take the edge off of my achiness, to sooth the hurt of my inability to change outcome or to walk through with them or even for them.  Each girl has all the tools she needs to deal with rejection, depression, re-creation, but it physically hurts in the process – me.  Detachment flies right out the window, of late.

I was overwhelmed again for just living this life, even as the sky hinted of a spring to come.  Two cardinals outside sang and flashed bright red in the bare winter tree for  me as I ran out in pj’s to take the girl downtown so she could teach little ones hebrew, releasing a song in my heart once again.

These girls and I will learn together about carving out the experiences we wish to have.  We will learn and relearn about finding our passions, our energy, our focus, our innate ability to create our thoughts and watch our thoughts turn into our flow.  We learn to find joy in the smallest of things, again.

My heart may take to aching again.  My hands are tied in this.  I allowed the souls of others to grow in my body and nothing I can do will stop the little cells from circulating in my system as these beings walk on through their own time tunnels.

I want to grab their hands and force timeline jumps – to sunny and cloudless skies – but they both get to choose for themselves.  I will walk my path forever entangled with the gift of these overlapping trajectories.

walking on the fields of slaves

24 Jan

Closing eyes while facing the setting sun,

over marsh and salty creeks,
provides a primitive script
on the inside of my pink-skinned lids.
i was the cave dweller who carved
notches for the ones I’ve been.
i run my cursor over the alligator skin
encoded with the story of all time,
left here for me –
thinking there is no way
she will miss it, this time.

i see the structure of my mundane thoughts
solid like walls built on each side – but i can
push them back with my
shadowy arms.
my house is
a cardboard house, with folding lines preset
to make it gone in a new york minute.
WOLF may huff and puff –
but i tell him,
put your predatory mind at rest:

i

give you my house
and my piggie flesh too
no need for a scene.

i
listen to the drone of rush hour traffic
while my feet touch the land of original settlers.
blood and sweat in the dirt and air,
they are for dinner, whole.
I am thinking again
and the mind conjures
up a rule that I am only pulled down
by that which i have not healed – what
does that mean?
do I/i remember my days as slave,
as master,
beast and bird?

when i move in the world,

i have become
a piece of the sky
in a sports bra.
there is room for every
crazy thing that i can imagine.
the I has forgotten,

but now i remember

the very next person/animal/plant/or insect that i cross
has chosen to cross my path for a holy encounter.
There is only now to

pray as i enter the post office –
talk to my sliver of chocolate –
and study the morse code of the dishwashers whirring
moving my hips to the swoosh:
no need to escape to the cave
any more.
The cave moves within me
as dark and silent
as can be –
a black hole
in motion –
swallowing
time behind her curving path.

the one writing this post is so annoying

21 Oct

for s:

oh, do tell

of losing the self?

even for just a moment,

losing it

drops the muscles in my face;

makes me forget my name.

if i’m not a consistent thang

then why don’t i wash down the drain?

why do my cells keep hugging and clinging,

to the one they think they are?

why does my phone ring?

why do i still wear clothes?

can non dual get me out of taxes

out of traffic

out of laundry?

no reason

not to drift away,

but it does only

seem fair

that I I I I  can get off.

are you with me?

everyONE?

you birds must share your flying,

you rhinos, your horns;

the siren (hear it, here it!)

rushing to the accident

calling us all

to flow together in one soup

to fill the belly,

for there’s a

the wHole in the bottom of the sea –

when I am no longer me.

the sauna

14 Oct

Not sure why,

but I am compelled to cook this body.

As my skin pinks, I feel

my thoughts leaving –

squeezed out in beads of sweat.

I hear the racquetball bouncing so loud off the walls

that I think the sounds I hear

may be coming from the walls of my cranium,

being played like an instrument.

I am a hollowed-out gong,

listening to the ricochet off spine vibrating

low to high notes of emptiness.

The glue that holds it all together has melted

and a heel bone is floating free.

A recurring conversation is heard

(by whose ears?)

in the women’s locker room outside,

between a motherless girl and a worker.

They are searching everywhere for the small girl’s mother, Mary.

Mary may be in the pool – they leave to go see.

Mary is not in the pool.

Mary may be in the spin class – they leave again

and return.

Mary may be in the sauna.

I feel their eyes as they peer through the glass door at me:

Are you Mary?

No. I say.  I am not Mary.

Are you this girl’s mother?

No. I say, as the girl stares in my face

as if she is wondering if I may be Mary, if I may be her mother,

transformed.

Could the sauna be a high-tech machine

from the future?

In you go as you,

out you come as another?

Am I only half-baked into my new form?

I feel unsure.

I could be Mary after all.

Who is now sitting in this little, hot box?

They leave again to go search.

For Mary.

A woman appears in the glass,

fiddling with the heat button.

Catching sight of me,

she beams – white teeth, bright eyes;

she goes

to the mirror to fix her hair.

I feel this face still beaming back at her long after she has left.

Soon this body moves to leave;

where does the will to move begin?

I am sure in this moment that the body moves

and the mind follows, like a dog following its master

and not the other way around.

What life am I returning to?

Stepping from the heat,

as the girl and I are reunited,

my thoughts are full of ice cream

and balloons, and she shall

tell me where we live.

I have lost my mind

18 Sep

you are welcome to join me.

lost my mind

i’ve lost my mind.

Stepping outside

the lines

i am

that i drew myself;

who knows that

the ground is not lava

but ground,

the alligator is not hungry,

the bear just needed a scratch behind his ears?

The chasm has iced over

for an easy crossing.

Tomorrow the paddy wagon may come –

but I will be

strutting away

measuring the strength of my new step.

I meet your eyes –

you can frown

or grin back at me,  either way –

not knowing what is coming

is what makes

it all so fun.

Take a helium hit

from my pipe,

explode out the crown,

with no worry

for the tax man’s

comings and goings

counting out Caesar’s share,

now that you know money

is like weather.

When you and I can enjoy

the rain

the sun

the blustery afternoon,

so many beasts curl up in our laps,

just looking for some rest.

this section of the stream

5 Sep

alone

Charlotte by Aufzehengehen

I have balanced between my daughters’ needs and my own every day for the past 19 years; always, they needed to be a constant front and center consideration.  This slowing section of the stream has been a while in coming, it seems helpful for me to acknowledge.  Years I fantasized about a little more mental space, a bit more quiet, more individual freedom.  But now, as what I imagined for years is being given back to me in small increments, I am at a choice point.  I am resisting a knee-jerk impulse to fill space up with anything not worthy of my time or focus.

Stillness is a gift that wants to be opened.

There are voices that say, get moving, make something happen, change things up, you are a nobody choosing to do  so so much alone.   These voices make me want to jump out of the raft and start kicking – maybe I even want to  buy an outboard motor to blast through this part of the river.

I do not silence these voices, I do not call them silly;  I am giving them space to fluster about. When they quiet down, I point out the beauty in the trees on the bank, the water birds standing watch, I am encouraging a long look at the clouds, I am saying to them gently, there is nothing you can miss out on.  You have worked hard to clear yourself up for this space, now lie in it, bask in it.  Do not get up do not rush on do not paddle down to some rapids of your own making.  Life as you want it cannot leave you behind.

The stillness has me loving my own company.  I like how little I make myself make small talk.  I know my story, so I do not have to repeat it.   I love the lack of explanation needed to enjoy a walk in nature with just me.  I listen to girls as they come and go.  I nod.  They want to know I am here, the jumping off point to which they return, again and again.  While I enjoy their presence, I do not demand their company.  I give them my full attention, when they stop by.

Last weekend, I almost stepped on a snake as I was walking a sunny path at an old rice field.  The silence and stillness indwelling in me allowed me to  hover mid step and turn on a dime to give him space.  I retreated without worry of threat, and he did too; he was a good 5 feet long.  He slowly made his way across the path into the shady woods, without worry or hurry.  We watched each other.   I’ve been trying to identify him with no luck online, though I know he had no rattlers to shake.

I love this part of my little life path.  I am in no hurry, though a million concerns lie and wait about my future.  I am holding still, trying or rather flowing into a new way of existing in trust in beauty in silence in stillness, allowing  the clarity to come before I make a move.

I chose to re-listen to one of Neil Kramer’s great Roamcasts  with my spaciousness today – randomly selected – and I got a familiar overlapping (around the 18:29 mark) with the place in the stream in which I find myself trying to describe here:  http://neilkramer.com/roamcast-6-unmaking-empire.html  :  then NK posts a beautiful piece of  Hermit art…wink wink nudge nudge – hi ho, off to my cave I go…

hermit cave

 

Moritz von Schwind (1804–1871) painting, A Player With A Hermit

In contrast, however, my bedside dream journal is full of my ex-spouse.  Perhaps I am working through in the night what seems a non-issue in the day.  I feel at peace with those 20 plus years, accountable for my part in the learning, yet in my dream last night I stole his new RV to much condemnation of everyone in the dream world; the more I tried to justify, the more alone and misunderstood I felt.  I set off on my own, on foot, after I was unable to turn the headlights on and got tracked down.  The lone journey on foot seems apropos for where I am.

Ah, the journey.  We all have them.  7 billion plus pairs of eyes. Every night, 7 billion plus dream  bubbles floating up from planet earth – infinity all the way up and all the way down; how many lives have I lived?  Ultimate freedom feels mine – any choice – any potential playing out – and I am just one potentiality at a time, slowed down light so I can enjoy it as it happens.

 

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