Tag: inspiration

To Sons and Daughters

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To our sons or daughters, 


You have nothing to be ashamed of, whatever it is that they mock you for, it is also them;
There is nothing that belongs to you that is not also theirs.
The streets are hungry and the alleyways hungrier still, and you will find in your own way that language is only yours and that miles divide us what is right here next to each other.
So don’t be afraid to stand on your own. Don’t be discouraged that they have what you seem unable to possess; if it is possessable at all you too already have it.
Whatever it is you fear that you are, in solitude, alone, know that it was made right here in the interconnectedness of all things, in this world.
Whatever you fear you have made others into, know that you have that capability and choose to make things well;

your pain is their pain, as their pain is yours. 

Sweet Sweet

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O! my sweet sweet. Remember when I was your right hand, guiding the rhythm (of course) and you were my left, providing the melody. We played such sweet harmonies. Or was it dissonance, and only the two of us that heard it harmonizing? O my! scattered potting soil on the dining room table, singing such a short refrain.

Lamenting the Practice of Good Habits

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It’s hard enough to form good habits, especially in lieu of bad ones. But sometimes it seems virtually impossible to form good habits in a good way.

I find myself lamenting the practice of forming good habits. While doing my morning breathing scattered thoughts race through my mind, I thought what’s the point of going through the motions. I realized that I can go months forming a habit that is good in nature, like taking the time in the morning to Just Breathe. This is good but if I get in the habit of just letting thoughts run away with me then I’m not in the habit of taking time to breathe, I’m in the habit of letting my mind race. Which then furthers the habit of letting my mind race when I’m doing my normal daily meditation. So the original intention is not supported by this deterioration in effort.

And although I lament, its totally worth it. For it’s the practice to notice the deterioration, to see it and start over again and refresh the intention, so that one day the practice may become good. It’s like looking at a chart we see the summit and the steep valleys and we say that is the path of progression, but we forget that each chunk of that path, each micro fragment of data is a moment when we practiced in a good way; even if we have five minutes of mostly poor, mind racing breathing, if just ten seconds are pure fully concentrated breathing, or a moment of understanding and accepting the poor practice, it is a micro fragment which with persistence and understanding will build on itself until the path of progression is on a steep incline.

It’s nothing new here. Just the same thing as told for generations in perhaps a slightly different way. Words are no substitute for experience. But it’s always nice to read a little inspriation!

Out by the Cedar

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Sat out by the cedar, lines run along her bark like stretch marks, they seem to be a test of time. She leaned over and said everything’s gonna be just fine, stop trying to live up to good enough, chasing shadows. I know. I know, years ago it was only your burden, now it’s his too. I can’t help it! I said, I’m a child of the eighties, molded by Ray-gun’s greed! Waves of traffic on a distant shore, wrapped in green, shielded by her barrier canopy. Sat in silence, she listened as I tried to repair all those words. Time slowed, until, eventually, it had no meaning. Followed a line of red ants up those stretch marks until we reached a knot, as big as my face, where they seemed to disappear. I felt around the edge, it was warm and soft, like a sea urchin’s belly. So I did what any man would do and leaned my face in. It was dark, but warm, I hadn’t even gotten half way in when I pulled out again. Scared, but craving more, I reached with my hand and tugged on the outer rim, she stretched enough to fit my arm in, then my face and suddenly I was pulling myself inside her, her womb. Was it I that was pulling or she pulling me? perhaps we worked together, until I had no body, or face or any physical characteristics, I was her and she was me and I looked into her heartwood. Kaleidoscopic shades of red filled my vision, a unifying warmth enveloped me and She said: old habits change slowly, with patience, attention and understanding. All you have to do is support him. And when she said him I thought of his face and the pang of despair rippled through my heart, and hers, and we shared the lonely hollowness of fatherhood, knowing that anything we do won’t be good enough, and is bound to make a scar. All the world is conditions, and of conditions there are supporting and unsupporting, choose to be the supporting condition for growth. Then our consciousness expanded; all life is expanding, changing, looking for answers to questions that generate growth. We looked out over the horizon, we were the horizon, and everything we saw was also us, and the warmth radiated over everything. Then I was birthed to the ground in a thump, covered in sap, and bark and red ants. My son stood there, in the dark, cold, wind-swept rain, astonished and he said, da-ad, are you OK? I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. He said something to me and put his hand on my shoulder, and I couldn’t hear him as I looked up her skirt at the knot where I was birthed had disappeared, and I said, not now son, she’s gonna come back to talk to me again. And I cried again. Seeing the repeating, though unable to move, until eventually he went away. Days and nights, months and years have since passed and I still sit at her base, like stone, waiting for her return.

Out by the Cedar

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Sat out by the cedar, lines run along her bark like stretch marks, they seem to be a test of time. She leaned over and said everything’s gonna be just fine, stop trying to live up to good enough, chasing shadows. I know. I know, years ago it was only your burden, now it’s his too. I can’t help it! I said, I’m a child of the eighties, molded by Ray-gun’s greed! Waves of traffic on a distant shore, wrapped in green, shielded by her barrier canopy. Sat in silence, she listened as I tried to repair all those words. Time slowed, until, eventually, it had no meaning. Followed a line of red ants up those stretch marks until we reached a knot, as big as my face, where they seemed to disappear. I felt around the edge, it was warm and soft, like a sea urchin’s belly. So I did what any man would do and leaned my face in. It was dark, but warm, I hadn’t even gotten half way in when I pulled out again. Scared, but craving more, I reached with my hand and tugged on the outer rim, she stretched enough to fit my arm in, then my face and suddenly I was pulling myself inside her, her womb. Was it I that was pulling or she pulling me? perhaps we worked together, until I had no body, or face or any physical characteristics, I was her and she was me and I looked into her heartwood. Kaleidoscopic shades of red filled my vision, a unifying warmth enveloped me and She said: old habits change slowly, with patience, attention and understanding. All you have to do is support him. And when she said him I thought of his face and the pang of despair rippled through my heart, and hers, and we shared the lonely hollowness of fatherhood, knowing that anything we do won’t be good enough, and is bound to make a scar.  All the world is conditions, and of conditions there are supporting and unsupporting, choose to be the supporting condition for growth. Then our consciousness expanded; all life is expanding, changing, looking for answers to questions that generate growth. We looked out over the horizon, we were the horizon, and everything we saw was also us, and the warmth radiated over everything. Then I was birthed to the ground in a thump, covered in sap, and bark and red ants. My son stood there, in the dark, cold, wind-swept rain, astonished and he said, da-ad, are you OK? I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. He said something to me and put his hand on my shoulder, and I couldn’t hear him as I looked up her skirt at the knot where I was birthed had disappeared, and I said, not now son, she’s gonna come back to talk to me again. And I cried again. Seeing the repeating, though unable to move, until eventually he went away. Days and nights, months and years have since passed and I still sit at her base, like stone, waiting for her return.