Tag Archives: paradox

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.

truffle recipe

8 Mar

truffle_by_laurelpo-d6lnluh

Truffle, by Lauralpo

Feeling hurt is

finding a truffle in the dark winter woods

of you.

You have

rooted out

a wound buried,

which has seasoned and

layered with the woodsiness of human separateness, now:

tasting like the salt of tears,

surfacing the mustiness of blocked light,

satisfying the earthiness of BEing.

No longer numb,

our tongues appreciate

the blossoming of such pockets

we have found deep beneath the rich soil

of our clay-created flesh.

The bruised heart within

sends out a beacon to the intrepid searcher.

So tenderly we can brush away

the clinging dirt, and place

such a find

in the fabric-lined cradle

of our baskets.

Promised Recipe:

Wash thy wound; slice

and saute and add this depth to

all dishes now and yet to be.

Thank the pig whose talented nose

found such a treasure

to bring to the tables

of the courageous.

inside job

25 Dec

Where I am x and  x is = to ∞ ,

why do I ever go around as if

x is = to all that I can see with my eyes and finite?

What sort of geometry and algebra

has to be proofed

again and again –

the same problem in different words –

for a pupil who refuses to draw on the board?

That we are christ-ing

seems suddenly clear.

We are learning to see:

the potential of endless –

the true value of forever –

the reality of all possible –

instead of counting the change in our pocket

and calling ourselves poor.

The same flame that lights the

brightest –  largest stars

somehow resides immaterially immortally immensely

within the material

of us.

A miracle such as this

is overlooked;

we glance beyond our own pregnant

emptiness into plastic dime store glitter.

We squint through blackened windows

shouting out,

who is there?

Who has come to save me?

Today, I feel

like wearing a white

robe, closing  my eyes,

my hands facing out to bless us all,

while I withdraw

to the fireside gathering

in the middle of my dark hollow chest.

From here,

rises the Titanic –

from here

the budding of all flowers opens –

from here I hear –

the pop of  the champagne cork

of endless joy

for what we make suddenly appear from

within our black magician hats.

Tonight and always now I am hiring myself

for the job – that I used to hire out.

I am just beginning to see the irony

of the inside job.

What a joke I play on me.

 

 

yen and yang, my daughters

26 Dec

chloe eden nyc dinosaur

 If you get too close to the mirror, your eyes will cross.

Of course I KNOW my girls, but somehow, separation helps me to actually see them.

And I see myself.

Things that come in packages of two often express polarity.  Daughter duality  is part of my learning.  They each reflect opposites in their ways of thinking, expressing, hurting, overcoming….basically existing in ways that directly reflect me as well.  I can see the strengths and flaws I contain within my being playing out in the reflection of these two girls.  What a show, what a combustable concoction, what a well-written play!

I see the slot-machine lever pulls in the traits of their genetic, environmental, personal choices…a playing out of variety, contrast, expanse.    Where one is extroverted, the other is introverted.  Where one intuits, the other logics it out.  Where one seems to absorb information through the ethers, the other has to read the chapter and memorize it word for word.  Where one wants to judge, the other wants to allow.  One, indoor, one outdoor.  One science, one art.  Of course, they do not exist in a vacuum of one thing and not the other, or in a snapshot that never changes, but they do seem to have tendencies that swing into opposites whenever possible.

They also reflect to me the truth of connection and separation that this life allows us, if we are willing to do the work of it.  I force me to see where I understand and where I do not.

This teaching is impossible to put into words.  It is as intense as I can ever imagine in both fun and pain.  I cannot ever walk away.  I am here for the long haul and in knowing the safety of my presence, they  let it all fly – they  unleash – and thus I am granted the fiery, fierce eternal mirror of my own truth in a way that is way beyond a partnering relationship which is based on sharing the journey but with a freedom to leave.  

Wow.  Cannot leave.  I have to look them and myself in the face.  Parent is much the same as committing to live a life in this body.  Barring extreme action – we are here – we must live our lives.   What a gift they have given to me on a deep soul level – this walking to adulthood with my kindred, these girls, by choice to begin with, then by force.

By next year, this whole dynamic will be shifting as one goes to college, and the other stays home for a bit longer.  What seems unbearable now, will no longer be pressing by next year.  The frustration of differences will be become an attractor, I imagine, by the heart softening of distance.

I miss their noise, their mess, their complexities, their joys, and even their suffering this week – but goodness, a little time alone is so very good.

How’s this for contrast :0

mirror

29 Oct

I am just letting the words fly with misspellings, lower case errors, run-on sentences, all sorts of mess.  I am not  a finished product, but one feeling her way along the path.  There is a tendency to only write in a I’ve figure this out sort of way for me at times, but what i find more interesting is what each moment may look like.  Here I am standing in a certain spot while taking steps, full of questions.  I am not pressed against the wall of decision making – I am staring back at my own naked face in the mirror of this rectangle wordpress box.

no face

change is in the air.  We go from hot to cooler, overhead to slanting sunlight and I project this shift to my own shifting seasons, as a mother, as a person.  i’ve known no other way to be than a mother who merged with my children – not in a controlling way but in a borderless existence of OURS, not mine.  My room has been open all this time;  My clothes, my shoes, my jewelry, my bed, my skin, my nutrients,  all fair game.  My girls psychically curl up inside me even still;  it seems to me as if they remember the start of their journeys here inside my  body.  They push on me the way they push against themselves.  They look into my face, my words, my silences to reflect their existence.  And yet I can sense the change of seasons; as the morning light recedes,  they too are moving into their self-contained vessels; they move into darkness all their own, an inner seeding, toward a winter before a dawning of light and sprouting come spring.

as this season moves closer still , and these beings transcend each stage, my space is being returned  to me in micro increments, almost indiscernibly so until I stop and see where I am now compared to a year ago and a year before that – a sky as large as montana is brimming if I squint.  Here it comes but i do not know how to repurpose for this planet at this age in this body with this lowgrade fever of ambivalence I seem to stew myself in.  the joys i experience alone are so simple, so strange, so lonely – while I crave no one.  I wonder if i can sustain myself as a lone, wondering weirdo.   Have you seen any job ads for Lone Wandering Wondering Weirdo?  My resume reads:  I will walk in nature, clearing my mind, for the rest of humanity for a modest income.  🙂

i fantacize about walks in dense and hidden woods, chilly beaches, rocky cliffs.  I march into brambles and sticker bush zones for the novelty and for the solitary nature spots such as these provide.    I enjoy my interaction with strangers more than I do acquaintances.  the smile at the car repair shop or with the bag boy seem more poignant than with people I am supposed to know.  I do not fit any molded role anymore.  I am my own path and it is solo.  it seems to me that taking this solo path is always the path of eccentricity.  I no longer can rein in the outlying of my personality.     I have no role model, no clear expectation of what happens next.

My 5 year plan is to listen to the rain when it starts falling, to stop what I am doing and try to hear  who is talking to me, to welcome the visitor who appears in the costume of cat, tree branch trimmer, package delivery door bell.  The life as a stage art is  A Happening, a flow of unpredictability.  I am not intending anything but flow – I allow a softening of myself like Pooh bear – I hang my hat up on the simple rack – I sign up for the back seat  and trust the scriptwriter for the rest. And yet I still ask,  is this wrong?  Should I map it out, chart my course,  steer my ship?  Where does the balance lie between flow and directioning?

Charleston rivers are full of abandoned boats, pulled off their moors and washed up on the marshy shores; some of them have sunken to the bottom of channels, leaving danger for boats passing by.  Some have washed up together and form a jumble of wreck and loss for all to see.  I once kayaked over to a graveyard of boats and listened to the eerie creaking the wind and water played through abandonment.

Is emptying myself out of steering my own vessel the same as choosing to wash ashore?  Am I not taking responsibility for my journey?  Do I need to plan and trust both?  Or do I trust and know that whatever I could plan doesn’t match a fraction of what is possible?  But if I do not plan, how do I avoid getting washed up on shore?  Or steered by some other ship master who may jump aboard my ship?

I have ridden the edge of this particular wave of paradox for years.  I think it is a mind trick.  I think I am clued in when I trust the moment to present to me what i need.  To anticipate or project into the future is not of the moment, but of the mind.  But from here I often am not sure.   It seems that always the answer to paradox is an adjustment of the dial of distance.  From up close, it appears either/or.  From a step or two back, the paradox disappears and the millions of options appear in every grey scale between black and white.

Perhaps… I’ll let you know what I find from the bottom of the channel, or from the graveyard, or from the open sea – after all is over, and I am gone.  Perhaps there is a knowing on down the way – but by then, who cares?  the next horizon is so alluring and this world is but a dream barely remembered in the new dawning.

mirror mirrormirrormirrormirage

the sound of silence of the lambs

9 Oct

silence of the lambs

The time for bleeting out is gone and

off you go, sweet veal,

to make someone a nice, fine meal.

Seeping through the cracks in homes and

pulsing over waves of air,

the signal has reached crescendo.

Who have you been told you are?

Borg Army Brat?

What is it that we think we are?

Don’t reach out for the handle bars; they’ve melted

clean away.

And the peddles are now spinning free and bruising up your shins;

your feet can’t reach the ground, be warned:

a fall off of the bike is no longer a trip to pavement

but an in tangle with the shadow

of our collective dive.

Now watch some tits and asses,

filled up with air balloons,

beneath corrected face and teeth,

while piercing tongues ensue.

What seemed to be so good and true is gone and now you can

compete

for a hot ticket to a church

built all on sand –

for the soul purpose of extracting

good intentions.

Levi proclaims today-

while we are discussing plagiarism – since every model in our world

is now only corrupt, why shouldn’t we lie and cheat our way to a good grade,

whus up?

The class together rolls their eyes –

on cue they shout, off topic – to the boy so out of line

his mind off in the tropics.

Stoned boy in leather and in chains,

Question me and ask me why, why does nothing make sense?

And so we sit at 8 o’clock and call the spade a spade.

Why are you taking classes?

Why the roll call life?

For a degree – for what?

For this:

a moment here where nothing remains and nothing has come in stead –

we’re really at a new beginning – and

its a damn good place to be.

Let’s  float here in this watery world

and learn that why we’re here

has nothing to do with the world gone way,

and everything to do with the next.

We are tasked with the big Create Again

only that which does make sense,

and this time

from our hearts,  amen.

No mistake,

I am nothing

to hold on to and

I do not want to talk of trouble.

Only this:

What’s next?

So what if you’ve had problems waking to an alarm?

So what if you have lost out on a deal gone horribly wrong?

Broken open

hand in hand,

no past, no story and no fame –

without a golden key, no king, no master can

we claim.

i am no different than you.

no different.

no diff.

no da.

da da.

Drink up from your own cup.

And do not wipe the mustache  from your face.

ripe fruit

1 Sep

We are such easy pickins’ – humans.

We wear our desires on our faces.

We project our imagined weakness

from a bullhorn.

We tell everything we know from our eyes,

and we hardly

ever blink.

Occasionally, a man wears disdain

and distances himself like a toddler

full of no, but even that

is a challenge as cute as stomping feet.

We sit behind desks and ask to be taught

that which we can easily teach ourselves.

We prostrate at the feet of the famous

and

the physically pretty.

We fawn at the hem of the fashions

and yet

there is something so powerful in our surrendering.

We sign contracts pledging  our loyalty without asking to see proof.

We give and lose and give again.

One leg up, one leg down, one leg up again.

The power of the human

lies in the soft soft underbelly

of vulnerability.

There is power in our foolish ways of trusting,

in our back resting, belly up offering we give

in our hopes for a gentle rub.

The hidden rulers, which seem separate but are not,

We are thee, too,

with their/our painful daggers

to cut into that soft flesh – we

don’t understand the strength in the weakness.

They/we shun the trust and the beauty

of the stupid creators that we are – yet

They too are in a type of sleep –

a dream of forgetting –

delighting in a puppet play where they pull all the strings

yet leap from their own shadows.

The mystery of the humans will never make sense.

How can a swaddled baby be more powerful than a corporate Titan

towering in his empire built on human backs?

Yet it is.

And we are all expressions of the same

same same…what?

creator?

god?

impulse?

I don’t know – obviously

I’m stretching.

This I do know, but I don’t know how…

The helpless, clueless,

trusting

newborn idiot

has only to beckon

and

he can reign down blessings.

When the sleeping infants wake,

what wonders will  unfold.

(I keep tinkering with these words – they are driving me crazy.  I want to delete but I will let them stand now – I witness in myself the learning that comes through words, reflection, edits, flow, letting go.  words scribbled with the end of a stick into the sand just before the tide comes in taking the words out to sea:)

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