January 16, 2009
December 13, 2007
September 24, 2007
There is a way in which I keep myself apart.
Completely discontent, unable to open myself. Unable to even muster the desire to open myself socially. Introverted and unsocial.
Am I introverted, a way of being as valid as others? Or am I hiding behind shyness and insecurity, unwilling to face my true potential?
Whatever the case, tomorrow I will take some time for myself.
Completely discontent, unable to open myself. Unable to even muster the desire to open myself socially. Introverted and unsocial.
Am I introverted, a way of being as valid as others? Or am I hiding behind shyness and insecurity, unwilling to face my true potential?
Whatever the case, tomorrow I will take some time for myself.
September 22, 2007
Waves
A man stands strong against the tide. The crash of the waves resound, the heartbeat of the world. Each particle of the water held to those around it by strong attraction. The man sees the truth in the waves. Each particle of water safe and comfortable, supported and surrounded by those of its own kind. Each wave pushing the limits, tasting the air, caressing the ground, touching the man in ecstatic, orgasmic flow. Each particle of water strains for freedom on a bed of its peers. Each particle of water gets a little further and subsides back into the whole.
The man has been standing in the waves for a number of hours. He speaks, "I am searching for the truth, my truth. Please, can you tell me what it is?"
The greatest joy is that the water speaks back. The greatest sorrow that the man cannot hear it.
The man has been standing in the waves for a number of hours. He speaks, "I am searching for the truth, my truth. Please, can you tell me what it is?"
The greatest joy is that the water speaks back. The greatest sorrow that the man cannot hear it.
September 13, 2007
September 12, 2007
Heart-bag
Everything that I am is changing.
Atoms buzz and twitch and vibrate and disappear and reappear with such alarming frequency that it is a miracle that any sense of continuity exists at all.
My mind is, in each moment, being reborn.
Like a plastic bag floating in a strong wind only to get caught and snagged on bush or fence, my heart drifts along a current of time. It reaches out, gets snagged, and there is a part of it that cries, "Stay, stay! It is safe here, it is comfortable, it is known! Stay, stay!" But the wind is inexorable. And whether the plastic bag that is my heart desires it or no, it will get torn loose: with a new rip in the surface, a new scar where it tried to hold on.
Maybe death is nothing more than a heart-bag too ripped up to be carried any further.
Atoms buzz and twitch and vibrate and disappear and reappear with such alarming frequency that it is a miracle that any sense of continuity exists at all.
My mind is, in each moment, being reborn.
Like a plastic bag floating in a strong wind only to get caught and snagged on bush or fence, my heart drifts along a current of time. It reaches out, gets snagged, and there is a part of it that cries, "Stay, stay! It is safe here, it is comfortable, it is known! Stay, stay!" But the wind is inexorable. And whether the plastic bag that is my heart desires it or no, it will get torn loose: with a new rip in the surface, a new scar where it tried to hold on.
Maybe death is nothing more than a heart-bag too ripped up to be carried any further.
July 01, 2007
Impermanence and pain.
Despite the ever-familiar, the string of time that links past, present, future, the habit-forming ruts of our daily lives, the future holds infinite potential.
I sliced open my hand two weeks ago. It was not the work of a polar bear, as some have been led to believe, but rather a glass bottle and my own brash action. As I realized the extent of the wound, those people nearby leapt into action. Before I had even shaken free of the shock that gripped me I was halfway to a car, my hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage of rags and rubber bands. I nearly fainted, nearly hit the ground, but that I was supported from behind by a friend. Directly afterwards, I regained my senses and the shock subsided, but for those crucial moments I was entirely dependent on those around me to care for me. I could have done it myself, do not get me wrong. I was in no real serious danger as long as I staunched the flow of blood, and I would have known what to do. But that I didn't have to meant so much to me. That I had been supported, literally and figuratively, for the half a minute I was unable to take care of myself, and that all I had to do was trust meant so much that it brought me to tears during the fifteen minute drive to the ER. The tears had nothing to do with the wound, and everything to do with a realization of my own gratitude.
The physical pain was nothing when compared to the emotional enormity that we are fragile, mortal beings. We are sacks of juice that drips from our bodies with the slightest puncture. And yet with all that, we are amazing resilient. There is strength to us, in our ability to heal, to repair, to move forward. To ultimately accept that what is, is, and it is time to get on with our lives.
My fathers heart attack last November, his near death after 65 years of health, has brought be closer to the reality that the future comes, and nothing lasts forever. I could have easily suffered tendon and nerve damage.
I remember there was a monk from Liverpool who was giving us a crash course in Buddhism my first week in India. Something he said really stuck with me: "When something begins, that things end is created in the same moment." Cultured un-attachment is the Buddhist's way of dealing with this fundamental impermanence. I do not know that works for me--we'll see.
That all being said, we will all die. Likely sooner than we wish. There is no reason not to do what we love, for as long as we exist on this world.
Where does our greatest passion meet the deepest need in the world? There we will find our calling. Or so it seems to me.
I sliced open my hand two weeks ago. It was not the work of a polar bear, as some have been led to believe, but rather a glass bottle and my own brash action. As I realized the extent of the wound, those people nearby leapt into action. Before I had even shaken free of the shock that gripped me I was halfway to a car, my hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage of rags and rubber bands. I nearly fainted, nearly hit the ground, but that I was supported from behind by a friend. Directly afterwards, I regained my senses and the shock subsided, but for those crucial moments I was entirely dependent on those around me to care for me. I could have done it myself, do not get me wrong. I was in no real serious danger as long as I staunched the flow of blood, and I would have known what to do. But that I didn't have to meant so much to me. That I had been supported, literally and figuratively, for the half a minute I was unable to take care of myself, and that all I had to do was trust meant so much that it brought me to tears during the fifteen minute drive to the ER. The tears had nothing to do with the wound, and everything to do with a realization of my own gratitude.
The physical pain was nothing when compared to the emotional enormity that we are fragile, mortal beings. We are sacks of juice that drips from our bodies with the slightest puncture. And yet with all that, we are amazing resilient. There is strength to us, in our ability to heal, to repair, to move forward. To ultimately accept that what is, is, and it is time to get on with our lives.
My fathers heart attack last November, his near death after 65 years of health, has brought be closer to the reality that the future comes, and nothing lasts forever. I could have easily suffered tendon and nerve damage.
I remember there was a monk from Liverpool who was giving us a crash course in Buddhism my first week in India. Something he said really stuck with me: "When something begins, that things end is created in the same moment." Cultured un-attachment is the Buddhist's way of dealing with this fundamental impermanence. I do not know that works for me--we'll see.
That all being said, we will all die. Likely sooner than we wish. There is no reason not to do what we love, for as long as we exist on this world.
Where does our greatest passion meet the deepest need in the world? There we will find our calling. Or so it seems to me.
February 20, 2007
Quote-worthy.
You are not defined by who you were. You are defined by who you are.
In every moment lies a choice.
So... who do you want to be?
In every moment lies a choice.
So... who do you want to be?
An Extended Hand
I noted the intent, somewhere along the line, that I wished this to be raw, unfiltered. It has become, instead, just weird. Where is the line between a personal journal and turning the myriad parts of my life into something others would enjoy reading? I do not want to come to this place, and write "I'm sad," but neither do I want to ignore the great power that that emotion has over me.
There is a model of a human's emotional being that I find appropriate in these moods. This model likens us to glasses of water with dirt at the bottom. If we stay still, in stagnation, that dirt never rises, and continues to pollute the purity of the glass. However, whenever we get a good shaking, the dirt starts to swirl around, infecting every aspect of our emotional being, and for a time we have no choice but to face the realities of the shit piled up within us. But then the shaking might stop, the dirt settle, and life becomes almost-crystal-clear again.
I would so much rather live a life where I could never see through myself to the other side.
Too often do we get stuck in lethargy, too often do we sit back and let the world act around us, too often do we hesitate to act because the fear of failure holds us back.
There is a fear that if I seize the world, the weight of it will crush me.
Let it.
In each day let there be an intention.
There is a model of a human's emotional being that I find appropriate in these moods. This model likens us to glasses of water with dirt at the bottom. If we stay still, in stagnation, that dirt never rises, and continues to pollute the purity of the glass. However, whenever we get a good shaking, the dirt starts to swirl around, infecting every aspect of our emotional being, and for a time we have no choice but to face the realities of the shit piled up within us. But then the shaking might stop, the dirt settle, and life becomes almost-crystal-clear again.
I would so much rather live a life where I could never see through myself to the other side.
Too often do we get stuck in lethargy, too often do we sit back and let the world act around us, too often do we hesitate to act because the fear of failure holds us back.
There is a fear that if I seize the world, the weight of it will crush me.
Let it.
In each day let there be an intention.
February 05, 2007
Appropriate advice.
Listerine-bleached letters lie lethargic, lonely, LED-lit.
Logic lies.
Listen.
Lords & ladies lift lurid lenses, look.
"Let loose! Learn! Lavish lovely ladies!
Laugh.
Love.
Live."
Logic lies.
Listen.
Lords & ladies lift lurid lenses, look.
"Let loose! Learn! Lavish lovely ladies!
Laugh.
Love.
Live."
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