Let Go

You can’t recapture the faith of your youth; it’s a disconnected, false reality.  A blissful prison.

Pull up every staked belief objectifying and falsifying and personifying a deity into understandable, compartmentalized rigidity.  Let Go.  Embrace an ontological stance that calls for nakedness and vulnerability.  Become one with the acute responsibility threading through your actions and posture and cultivated attitude.

 

Lost Spry

I remember scrambling over the train, throwing my bike across my shoulder and climbing  stilled boxcars. Sopping wet, singing at the top of my lungs, and setting my sites on upcoming puddles promising the biggest splashes as I remounted from the other side.  In the spring and summer of 2014, the seams of  heaven loosened to historic levels of inclement rains on our semi-arid desert region; intoxicating balcony sessions filled my evenings with a slung hammock, interminable coffee allotments, and soul-wrecking books.

In the mornings, I had a circuit of figure eights I’d imprint around the trees:  praying and laughing, touching blooms and blossoms, whispering to the clouds, listening to serenity’s secrets as the morning bustle awoke, imposing her departure.  ‘Seducive’ has always been the tone of morning’s approach to my awake.  A tanilizing solemnity that enratpures and stimulates with the sensitivity and arousal of an old lover’s touch and presence, forever favored by time and its phlegmatic inducing; who is seemingly a closet, hopeless romantic.

There are trees I remember.  Scripted into creation for my discovery.  Their dendritic patterns lacing the sky as I lay on my back counting leaves, those heroic holdouts left self-commissioned under a moral obligation to grant us with color until winters reprise.  I guess it’s spots.    There are colors that have arisen behind my eyelids in meditation, eternally present.   The cool touch of rocks, whose embrace I still feel touching my skin as the seat to a masterpiece before my eyes.   Those places where divinity speaks without words and serenades without song.  Those moments of poetic glimmers, attuned to and surrendered in.  Symphonic interabiding of colors, breath, wishes, and bliss.  I have rocks and spots and trees held sacred to me. I’ve felt moments lapped in wonder.

I need to remember to be youthful. Remember to play. Remember to sing. Remember the euphoric moments ever present and waiting.

 

As the Earth Teaches: soft-hippie insights

I didn’t have to ask.  They were and had already been speaking, waiting for a heart to be attuned to timeless truths. The grassses and purples and expanse and silence and sun clearly spoke of a way of being, intoxicating and euphoric and simple and reminiscent. I was wooed by nature’s resident mystics.

The trees taught me to reach out.

Extend yourself and stretch yourself.  Be something for someone.  Whether listening ears to a songbird’s morning litany or a refuge from the sun’s bullying.

Mantras of loyalty to stranger and old friend bind their being.

The little girl, makes her plight, to shade and protect through moments of passing.  The avid book reading depends on your faithfulness to accompany pages of adventure and tear-induced writings.  And we all know you to be the arm we can trust as we swing back and forth to gravity’s invisible dominion.  “Lean out,” the trees say.  “Show up for everyone.”

The flowers didn’t console me beforehand, but thankfully wrote me into the ownership and stewarding of admiration.  I’m now entitled to beauty and all it’s beholdings.  They give me a new definition of self-disclosure, where everyone has already been invited into complete exposure to delight.  They offer themselves so liberally and willingly:  “Please take a pedal, take and pick.  We’re yours to smell and toss, revere and let be, or bind and gift for the heart of your love.”  They benevolently hold and hug the barren, uncovered ground “to reteach a thing its loveliness” (Kinnell).  “Be selfless,” they say.  “Remind others of their beauty.”

Clouds make a mockery of the arts, and their well-manicured, lethargic progression through time, meddling all genres in a day.  I feel they need all that billow and fluff and cushion to soften their oneriness.  Sometimes opting for minimalism in acute, archetypal drifts or void-embellished space in expectation.  You’ve had thousands of suns and moons to introduce and erase your work.  With a ob description “to captivate,” I’m sure therein lies divine protection from artist’s block.  Empty skies are ust time spent churning color combinations behind the curtains of mountains.  Reprised colors and hues, seemingly archived away from the past few generations of onlookers, stir anticipation and attentiveness. Fleeting masterpieces in extravagance.  Castles built for moments. The earth plays the part of easel, commissioned by the sky. Horizon, graciously agrees to mantle their works on his shoulders.  I’m sure the imposed man-made streaks leave them haughty at our feeble attempt to participate, slightly annoyed at our intrusion.  “Be creative,” taunt the clouds.”The world needs your stroke and song.”

Maybe I can be contemplative meets youthful lover.  Here’s to a “poetic instants.”

 

 

Sacramental Tears

Kinship is the deliberate hemming of hearts.  A seam that shapes and pantomimes and pulls you along others circumstances and struggles.  Beyond fraternal bonds, alliances, similarities, shared vision, affinity, lineage-induced loyalty, convenience;  it’s living your life with another.  Shared tears come to mark the enormity of devotion, communal suffering becomes the touchstone of intimacy, and Love finds strength in the interchange of laughter.  Kinship is participating in a communal well-being.  It’s a ‘managing a commons,’ of sorts, in a unified soulscape.  Grief and Joy are a collective, shared experience in a fellowship dedicated to celebrating successes and mourning struggles as One.  There is a singleness, in true kinship,  tightening the circle of everyone; seeing inclusion as “being with,” not “being for” another.  

Unfortunately, expectations from a “misguided search at compensation” often accompany the idea of community. Community, as well as relationships for that matter, are not intended to be a mutual exchange, an economic pact, assurances, or a merit system based on your own personal investment.  Frequently found rooted in the human condition of unresolved, continual suffering of the unconscious, impure engagement acts in acquisition and grasping: “We need, in love,to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it” (Rilke).  Situational comfort,  anticipated security of who you are/could be lead to become, or any means of expected compensation will be exposed in time by its small and fragile ability to act as ligatures or links in a sustained kinship.  

Personal purpose statements and vision are easy to walk away from.  Power and control remain in the hands of the individual when community becomes defined by functionality and efficacy.  Catching the tears of a brother, puts the drop of sorrow within the corners of your own eye, a welling reciprocity and budding of affection.  Mary Mrozowski, founder of the ‘The Welcoming Prayer’ spiritual exercise, prays this at the conclusion of the practice:  I let go my desire for security and survival.  I let go my desire for esteem and affection. I let go my desire for power and control. I let go my desire to change the situation.

Descriptive of energy strongholds of the ego, I think it’s additionally, beautifully applicable to a repose one should take living in committed kinship.  Coupling this invitation into self-disclosure and self-emptying, there lies an essential, unread footnote, to be “guardians of their solitude,” as poet Rainer Rilke invites.


“But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.”  – Rilke


Share tears, a pulse, middle pieces of the brownie pan, embrace, interlocked fingers, warmth, family annoyances, the gas bill, morning stillness, laughter, excitement, celebration, achievement, wonder, reverie, shades of blue, car rides, ears bent to distant church bell chimes, openness, smiles, forgiveness, spilled coffee, frustrations,  songs without words, affirmation, life-instilling gazes,  new-Neil-Patrick-Harris-centered Netflix series, library space, shower time, your first words spoken in a prayer, hugs (always hugs), doubt, discomfort, your vices, fears, and then you’ll always find Love in the act of.

I’m humbled to have found my community.  A real, eternal kinship.

an earthen sonnet

What is the mountains were the fingertips of Love reaching up through the ground?  Her fingers must have gotten too cold before breaking through the earthen blanket.  Longing to reach us, to hold us in the hollows of embrace; she said, “Oh, I’ll trace shorelines, hugging them with seas of heaven’s tears.  We mistook “laughter for tears and tears for laughter,” afraid to do more than skim the surface, sheltered in vessels of an opening too deep.  Then I’ll greet them from the skies and trees, with colorful ensembles to sing and whistle of their loveliness.  To remind. Invite.  I’ll meet them at their bedroom window with the warmth of the rising sun.  I’ll fly around their heads, giving life to sound.  Then I’ll paint the black and blue.  Spackled lights, mists and vapors and currents, an expressive medium of impermeance, castles and charicatures, they’ll want to catch every fleeting fluffy, temporal masterpiece; so I’ll roll out blankets of grasses to lie and exclaim and dream and kiss and be silent.  Defiance to mirror their true selves, wholly beloved.  Misunderstanding justifying isolation, refusal to face the reality of their be-ing…..I’ll keep singing and painting.  I’ll keep reaching and crying.

Withered and Dry

The sickle was long-stemmed.  Corrosively blackened by cyclical decades of rice harvest tillage, its austerity hinted at faithfulness to perform.  The countless hands who held this tool before me probably fed hundreds of families in their labor.  Now was my turn to sweat and toil for this community in rural Thailand.  The food forest tasked had given way to negligence, so we worked to copse and pollard undesired growth on the trees and the ground floor hindering growth.

There was an Aussie, a fellow volunteer, from a family who raised groves of citrus varietals.  He had a beautiful intuitive temperament capable of depth and consideration, but keen to an air of joyful blithe.  We talked about his family’s homestead, where he had just spent the greater of two weeks pruning trees out on the property, at times spending over any hour on a single tree.  I was surprised at the complexity of the approach and methodology. Every cut carried serious reprocussions.  The blooms, tiped after a harvest would increase the following seasons yield.  Cuts in the midline of stems caused more vegetative growth, while base cuts encouraged a more lateral spread of canopy.  Your intentions specied the tactics and anticipated results dictated procedure.  In sickness and cists of infestions, the call for sacrifices had to made.  Weight distribution of limbs would lead to further immolation of profitable blossoms to extend the trees life.

Calculated. Attentive. Purposeful.

My eyelids moistened softly and silently.  At least they did then.  They’re dry now.

A once anthematic call, essentially and subliminally addressing the growth of my inner being; my heart. The trimmings and allowances and proselytizing of my soulscape.  I don’t need a cutting of doubt, of branches that bear no fruit:  I need warmth to fall into the unceratinty.

An existential tinge and pantheist embrace of a reality void a directly personal deity, I hurt not to be moved by that intimate, divine touch. The tainted temples of elitists and carnivals of church-ianity proclaiming to have the community your soul craves.  Archaic imagery and hedonistic infused vernacular of this Western monotheistic religion are chokingly obtrusive to my being.  I can no longer breathe.  I struggle to even function and operate in the dogma and rhetoric of a power seeking institution where my faith is unmerited and unwarranted in its questioning.  To be a seeker, is to have a cheap faith.  To live in ambiguity and the gray of the ethereal is heretical and pitied in degradation.

I’m bound.  In the only language I know, in familiarity and inauthenticity, to desrcibe a Love found in the act ineffable, who’s presence is inexorable.  Every faculty of my being wants to stand in defiance and enmity.  Love defies reason.

When did it need to make sense?

 

like flowers

The same happens with flowers.  

They seed and candidates unsolicitedly wait.

Eagerly left to surmise at warmth’s loyalty,

debating its appearance

episodal or spring-induced,

tempting and flirting with risk to be the fullness of their beauty.  

 

Depth and density of life’s fullness comes through awareness.  Will you cultivate a consciousness that postures you to taste divinity within the throes of the day?  Will the rhythms of daily living become mundane,  even pleasing, suitable, and good? Or, will you let yourself be captured by the spectacle of love in the act? There’s a deep river of flow found buried beyond reason and definition that lets us splatter and tickle others with love from a place of abundance and excess.  Love manifests and blooms from an infinite, Cosmic Singleness.  Our acts of random compassion and benevolence cannot be wasted, isolated, uneconomic, or meaningless.  There’s not a heirarchy to scaffold the varying weights and values of Love, as if it was something to be delineated, monopolized, or consumed.