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.


In Scandal and Squalor

Patience seems to always make its reprise, unknowingly to itself, at a child’s laugh.  Trees kindly wave their hellos, the branches tempting, alluring invitation to see new angles into elevated freedom and wind-chilled cheeks.  The buzzing rigor and austerity accompanying a bee’s missionality, leaves wonder found in color and bloom.  

I can’t help but believe that this divine energy, underlining and infusing, exploring and stabilizing all of creation, is bound to a linear transfer or procession.  When attentive to being, you’ll find in glimpses, this Source flicks and floods and beckons and parades our participation in life.   There’s a definite systematic methodology we’re innately aware and supportive of, even yearning and hastily constructing in our own coarse, finite, and fragile means. Relationships are seen as investments, dispensing resources and energy with piecemeal utilitarian tact towards posterity. Sense of place is held to loosely and comfortably, to make available the choice to engage the next lucrative job advancement or resume padding, partitioning us from intentionality and embrace of community and setting.  


It’s easy to recognize and facilitate Love that procures longevity of well-being and stability.  Yes, love is found in a mutual exchange. There’s a giving that accompanies receiving.  A symbiotic nature threads through the intent of choices and actions:  it’s primal and natural and lovely. We’re keen to see and live in the apparent.  This author I adore, Cynthia Bourgeault, quoted a piece by the great Sufi mystic jalalludin Rumi that conveys a beautiful tone on self-emptying love.


“Love is recklessness, not reason.

Reason seeks a profit.

Loves comes on strong, consuming herself, unabashed.  


Yet in the midst of suffering,

Love proceeds like a millstone,

Hard-surfaced and straight forward.


Having died to self-interest,

She risks everything and asks for nothing.

Love gambles away every gift God bestows.”


How do we love first, without any desired response?  How do I give recklessly and uninhibited?  Can we have our being in a vulnerability that risks and bares it all?  As Cynthia Bourgeault refers, how do we make abundance and generosity bordering extravagance, our signature?  

The Perfect Room

Is it possible to shift into a posture where openness, expectation, hope, and joy become our senses? Senses that explore those daily moments, instead of move passively through them.

“Please, step inside sir.  Room is ready for you. Thank you, please.” hurriedly gestures the Nepali hotel clerk, always kind to tac a misplaced formality on the end.  

Unconvinced, I start to make my case, but before I get out “the light doesn’t even…,” it blinks faintly into life.  

“See, perfect room.” exclaims the hotel clerk.

We both looked ridiculous trying to validate our argument’s stance as the electricity came and went into the room.  Graciously, he had spent the later half of ten to fifteen minutes working the bulb in the socket to fix the dilemma, only realized upon entry.  I didn’t have the ability to be too argumentative; the monsoon rains were about to make their reprise, with the pitter patter of a soft sprinkle upon tin roofs loomingly giving the introduction.  I had just gotten off the bus in Besishahar to start the AnnaPurna Circuit, long into the nightfall from Pokhara with no sleep accommodations made upon arrival.  The coming rain was making my hopeful plan of throwing a hammock up in the tree line a conclusive impossibility.  The price was even three times that of a higher end hostel with solid reviews.  

With a wry, defeated “Thank you,” I stepped inside.  Once he walked away I took my pack to the bench outside my window on the balcony, laying down outstretched with a nice improvised footrest.  You didn’t need a light to be knocked over by the smell of mildew and I got a glimpse enough up the staircase of the accompanying critters.  The air was thick and heavy with moisture, blended with the scents and smells normal across a cityscape.  Sheets of rain started falling.  The sounds muffle tea shop clamor and conversation as increased intensity urges people to hurry home.

Perspective. This idea of experiences and circumstances, completely independent of labels or the need to be defined through a scope.  Moments have the potential to blossom and unfold with a vibrancy and vitality to taste life, a reality we numb ourselves from living, moving, and having our being.

When compartmentalized as bad or awful, emotional baggage subconsciously tempers our embrace. Anxiety, angst, and fear than limit the approach and amass behind the reflection.  Learning opportunities are then stifled, relationships ticketed with a self-dictated worth, and vulnerability withheld.  There’s a bitterness in your mouth.  Ruled by entitlement, like we deserve better service or someone’s affection, or exposed as a hidden vein of self-preservation.  When I associate good or bad to a created space, divinely inspired, I’ve consequently brought along accepted connotations and emotions that paint the picture for me.  

Maybe separate from the experience, there lies the ability to come with some level of broken, human obectivity and see that which is alive, hidden, and ultimately good.

Is it possible to shift into a posture where openness, expectation, hope, and  joy become our senses?  Senses that explore those daily moments, instead of move passively through them.  What if our day wasn’t given a blanket statement over that one sour incident; instead, drawing on consolation and desolation sprinkled throughout the day in appreciation and remembrance.  One of the most profound teachers and relatively recent directors of my spiritual journey, Abraham Heschel, says it beautifully:

“The higher goal of spiritual living is not to amass a wealth of information, but to face sacred moments.”

The air was now thick and heavy with moisture as I lay on the bench, blended with the scents and smells normal across a cityscape.  Sheets of rain started falling.  The sounds muffled tea shop clamor and conversation as increased intensity urges people to hurry home.

Rainfall belongs on a list of mine.  One where it buddies next to an evening comforted by my brothers, laughing and dreaming;  the stillness of the morning before the sun breaks, shared coffee with another, the scent of a Ponderosa pine, touch from a friend, classic jazz, and community.  I could go on for awhile.

The weather stayed a comfortable temperature throughout the night, leaving me to pleasantly enjoy my bench bed.  The hotel clerk was right, I did have the “perfect room”.