into everything

I want to sink into the soil,
Rot like an angel fallen from the heavens.
Die like a bird, return like a leaf.

Let me lie there for some moments,
slipping into her soft surface like rain,
together we dissolve into everything.

we meet

Does the sun chase me
through the turning aspen leaves?
Or do I chase it
on this path of life?
And in the morning,
will you come to me,
or will I wake to your
illuminating beauty?
Perhaps it does not matter.
For always, we meet.

special

In the autumn grove
of the aspen trees,
I suddenly wonder if
I am at all special.

carrying capacity

Our experience of life
carries only what meaning we derive from it.

Behind

When the sun sets behind me,
I, like the rock,
cast a shadow.
Together we reach
in our darkness,
for the last rays of light.

The return

Compassion is not in an orphanage in India or in the halls of a broken down school. Compassion is an action that shines from the very depths of our hearts. This summer, I found that our most tender service to the world occurs in the places closest to us.

The scene was set amongst the webs and weeds of my fathers home. Set in the very darkness of his battle with schizophrenia. I walked into the old house and felt it haunted by his profound struggle with God. The stale darkness suspending in the air, never to be recovered by the grace of morning. Caught in the tangle, were his paintings barely clinging to the tar stained walls, unsent letters like artifacts hidden beneath the layers, mathematical theories crumpled in corners. His house was a labyrinth laced with madness, and yet faintly pulsing with his passion for beauty.

As we stumbled upon poetry and sweet apple trees, astounded, my siblings and I put our hands in the cold soil and created gardens. Every morning I watched my father wake with the sun and water the young sprouting seeds.

For so long I felt abandoned by my father’s absence, and my heart heavy with resentment. That summer, however, I finally understood the immensity of his struggle, as I realized the power of our disillusioned perceptions.

Through my fathers sharp blue eyes, I came alive to madness, beauty and the subtle release of sincere compassion from the depths of my heart.

The only Gate there is

I have arrived at the only gate there is,
myself.

Persuading Light

Swing softly tire swing
The children have grown now.

Let the wind move through those hallows.
Let it take you into its soft breath
As it discovers your slow curves
And spins you under the sunlight.

Delicate age,
The spiders have gathered now.
Let them web you
Shimmering softness
Glow.

Swing softly tire swing.
At east dear,
The creek moves beneath you.

Shifting sun, rendering light,
Have you waited all day for this moment?

Swaying softly in the wind
Until the sun seeps through
Coming to illuminate your entire perfection.

Have you been waiting?
You must have known.
So patient, so still
In your dancing.

Swaying,
The sun warms your cold curves.
Persuading light,
You are illuminated.

Swing softly slow tire swing,
The rope is strong and sturdy
And the children are grown now.

May your ridges find light,
Your curves find warmth
And your surface,
So softly,
May it surrender
To the slow tickle of the wind.

Images by the bones

On Mindfulness

Stuck in your own misfortune,
you are torn at every decision.
Each careless action for following frustration.
This frustration a blemished seed of flowering affliction.

Stay there a while now
in your wound wide open.
For it is yours and no one elses.

Do not scratch at it's irritation,
for the itch
is medicine in motion
and in the tamerping will only the wound worsen.

Be mindful and take great care,
For in your patience will favor bring fortune.

Have you ever had a bad day with one bad thing happening after the other? In my work, I take care of a three year old toddler. When something disrupts his balance, everything just seems to fall apart around him. He can go through smooth day after smooth day until one thing goes wrong and catches him off-guard. In his frustration and anger he takes less care with his actions that follow. He stubs his toe, falls to the ground, and knocks over the cereal bowl. His carelessness brings misfortune.

Take another example, I was leading a backpacking trip with another young woman. She had just finished leading one trip and she signed up for another with only a day in between. Things seemed to be falling apart around her and she also became ill. She had overloaded herself and in her tire, she lost focus. At one point as she was hiking, she felt her back damp. She checked her bag and discovered her pack soaking wet. Why? She didn't tighten the cap on her camel back well enough. Although she was able to laugh at the little things, physically and emotionally her body was spent and it continued to send signals of distress.

Now, isn't it true that if we take great care in our actions we cultivate fortune? If we make our decisions from a place of love, kindness, generosity and balance, won't we live more fulfilling and happier lives? When I say happier, I mean living a stress free life, in harmony with the things around us (the everything we are connected to).

I suspect that the apple tree takes great care in its creation of the apple blossom.

This applies not only on an individual basis but it also applies to entire societies and to the evolution of humanity itself.

It is not limited to seconds, hours or days. It can span over a lifetime as well as generations. Our careless actions now only breed an unfortunate future. However, do remember that you have the power to transform your fortune by being mindful.

We never know where our actions might take us, but if they are made from a mindful place, rest assured that you will be taken care of.

Though we are bound by the laws that govern matter and light, we create the the lives we live. Take great care and embrace your freedom.

A Grain

"I want to talk to you again for a little while, dear Mr. Kappus, although there is almost nothing I can say that will help you, and I can hardly find one useful word. You have had many sadnesses, large ones, which passed. And you say that even this passing was difficult and upsetting for you. But please, ask yourself whether these large sadnesses haven't rather gone right though you. Perhaps many things inside you have been transformed; perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad. The only sadnesses that are dangerous" are the ones that clothe your heart in many layers of grief's dark silk. The dark silk mummifying your heart and guarding it from exposure to the elements. Withholding it from the magic that makes our grain of sadness into the wisdom of a pearl. There in that silky womb, your heart only feels sadness Mr. Kappus. The heart's lively pulse only a rhythm of grief echoing thouroughly through your entire body and seeping into your spirit.
I ask you dear sir, please hold that grain of sand, for it is only a grain, hold it in the center of your heart. Feel it there with every sensing cell of your body so that it does not get lost.
Be attentive now, for the dark silk of your ego in it's own attempts of rescue, will try and keep it there, still in your heart.
Here now, in this very moment, let the magic of your heart smooth that grain of sand into a pearl. Let the fiery alchemy of your body melt it's wisdom into pearly streams coursing through your entire being. May it pass through you as does your breath from moment to moment.
Trust the nature of your inner workings Mr. Kappus and bring the minds awareness only to celebrate such magical happenings.

Quote from ''Letters to a Young Poet" R. Rilke

A bead of Indian Monsoon

**From creative writing exercise at the Word Party**
And so I squatted there with my pants down uncertain of which hole to poo in. A bead of Indian monsoon sweating down my face onto that very floor between those two very conflicted holes. My host mother told me not to do it in the squat toilet, but do what exactly? Between the awkwardness of the topic and a translation lost in her thick Indian accent, I had no idea which hole I should go poo in.
I should really ask for clarifications on such critical subjects. But there I was somewhere between two holes, one of which held a whole lot of unconfused shit and the other that I would soon clog. Not only would I clog my family's hole, but the entire neighborhoods septic system would go down if I made such a mistake.
I had a belly full of spicy curry that went into my mouth already half digested and was now ready to burst out the other end.
At 5 am with the prayer call hailing out into the stoned mountain streets, I quickly pulled up my pants and clenched my butt cheeks to the house where my friend was staying . I was familiar with her system but I wasn't so sure the tikka masala would hold. I ran as fast as the butt clenching would allow. The street dogs didn't help, sniffing at me as I glided by.
My ass now the sliding glass doors of Walmart on Black Friday. I really did not think I was going to make it. I could get one crazy shopper to break through and tear it all down for the entire mass of digested tikka masala behind him.
There it is! It's perfect. Please don't be up, please don't be awake, please let me just slide past into your outdoor: hole in the ground toilet. A hole that accepted all sorts of excrement's. Rotten bananas, pee, lost prayer beads, all sorts of crap.
Shit, are they Muslim. They are. I guess prayer call means wake up and pray not wake up, go to the toilet and discover some God hatting foreigner crouched on your toilet.
I hoped not because before I could even complete that thought, I had already made it to the toilet with half the masala already stacked upon whatever went in the hole before it.

The Chorus of an Old House

"After his wife left with all her clothes and the children's clothes and toys, Morgan continued to go to work and come home, though the house was empty and he had no one to talk to. In the evenings, he stood at his windows with binoculars and watched the passage of his neighbors through their rooms."
At twilight he stared out from his daughters rocking chair. The creaks of the floorboards filling the house of its only sound. His eyes wandered longingly beyond the chorus of his old house and dusty, spotted window.
His gaze followed the autumn leaves as they spilled from his gutter to the pavement below where they carried on in the passing wind. His eyes sought beyond the scattering leaves onto a lady brushing her hair in her pale light of the window. He saw her eyes fall deeply into the mirror and that mirror reflecting even deeper back into her form.
Morgan's eyes searched even further to the distant city scape that seemed to be draining the glow of twilight into squared windows like his own.
The creaks of the house a quiet hum now as Morgan's eyes rested upon the horizon of his place.
His place of a setting sun and the gentle birth of a thousand more.

A Race of Men

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

Original: Robert Service with special effects by John ¨El Alaskaaaano¨

creeping crescent

It was the final hour from day to night. The sun falling over the ocean and its melting garden of roses flooding the sky. The leaves rang softly as whispering bells of the forest, spilling secrets to only the most attuned of ears. The trunk with its far reaching branches and its deeply filled flute singing those ancient melodies that ring and rise from the center of the earth. And that forest floor, onto to which all these secrets fall, soaking secrets for ages. There lay a girl there on that forest floor, there in this very atmosphere. Her eyes falling to sleep, her dreams acutely attuned to these magical happenings. In this final moment of light, her dreaming body then rose from that very real solid sleeping body of hers. She saw it sleeping there with her own still dreaming eyes. She felt herself as light as those gently singing leaves and the soft sleeping sea. She rose there for only a minute or two, her body silent and simple, still and listening. As that last ray of light sung out from that sinking bleeding sun, she too fell back into that sleeping solid body of hers. Her eyes open and awake to those solid still bodies of the forest and the creeping crescent of the night moon.