Renunciation of Thought

I have not been showing up for writing much this week. After stepping away I see that is the only reason I’ve not written; I’ve not shown up. In order to write that is all that is truly required. In any facet of life, that is what is required—to show up. I have had plenty of experiences, hopes, and disillusions this week. All could have been written down, but alas, showing up to these pages did not occur. 

Here I am now though to say it’s okay, it’s meant to be this way. Perhaps all that was, was not meant to be materialized, yet, or ever, or not in this way. Much of what I thought and expressed just last night with my love, until 1:30 am, has disappeared into the source of idea and thought. 

Thinking back now, I do believe my late night, early morning, and random afternoon talks could be an interesting read or listen, if ever I did decide to record and put a podcast or script out there—but then, to try and hold onto and salvage such spontaneous thoughts, does this weaken the experience and moment? Would we be too filtered when knowing we’d be listened to? Am I filtering now even? Though these pages are strictly for me, in theory and practice, I do sometimes share, and perhaps plan to now. Does this affect what thoughts my hands do write down? Where do these thoughts come from, I’ve been wondering?

 I don’t know the mechanism for the beginning of my musings. Mustn’t this all be from source? How does one take credit for any thought and why are these the thoughts that have chosen me? The more I think about thought, the more I would rather sink into a feeling, elicited by stillness in sound to stir what cannot be seen, only experienced internally. Just to think of that stillness illuminates more thoughts, or rather questions—Why do we insist to say, “I think” or “I believe” or “I know”? What makes us so sure we do? As well, what part of us is the “I”? What part of me is included when I say “We”? Is this the entirety of all “I’s” together? Can “I” in our language even be possessive? What about the “non-I” of others and ourselves—which “We” does that form? Do thoughts reach, form, process, stir, and express from both the “I” of us, and the “non-I” of us? 

When do we decide to renounce a thought and how do we know it was or wasn’t ours? Why this morning am I asking so many questions perhaps without answers? 

We humans really like to think we know all. Can we? Do we? If we sit still long enough, all of us, in silence, amidst singing birds, whispering winds, and gentle streams, could we all in union understand and hear all? Would the ultimate thought from Wisdom’s source stir in one moment to awake our minds, bodies, souls, hearts, bones, cells, breath, and spirit? Could we silently burst into an apocalypse? Revelation? Eden? Heaven? 

No more rumbling cars, factories working, jets streaming, boats forging, mail delivering, cell phones buzzing, humans blah blah blahing, even just for 24 hours, or even just 24 minutes, what would happen?

What new thoughts would arise? How many? What would we be moved to? 

I wonder. 

I wonder because I am. I wonder because I am created from mystery. 

As the wind weaves chilly cold and refreshing embrace, these words given to me weave more wonder as I write from my wandering mind, stopping now to rest as a willow and turn to stillness and stretching, to expand and listen in this wake. 

Myth, Our Divine Absurd

 To live in a myth, literally, does not happen. 

That is, not from a concrete, grounded, egoist perspective.

To experience being a tree, literally, I do believe to be possible. 

From the external, one may see another as sitting in meditation, not moving, 

not being anything other than a very normal human.

Then why is that very human in lotus position seeing only roots

extending out from their trunk body, seemingly out of control,

in service only to the wind and whisper of God,

moving leaf laced limbs into sway, a dance, as a mother willow

communicating with electric, emerging fungi, 

which once noticed, 

pull this tree human into a spiral of near death decay, 

emitting from soul self more emotion than ever known possible, 

enough to drown out the mushrooms and become more than one tree, 

a regal river too, nourishing an entire forest of trees.

Somehow, all of this occurring in one second of breath

that then pulls the very human down, down, down,

not into the rabbit hole but into our own mystery,

our autonomous unconscious and neurotic God,

where human is no more a tree, but Persephone, Queen of the Underworld.

What the external world does not see is the ego melting into shadow's royalty, 

a maven of mushroom's melody, feeling fully the innermost stirring 

to indeed live as myth, a myth never read nor told before.

The spirit simply knows, as God speaks directly to the human's meditative mind,

"I am here, always here, in your highest highs and lowest lows.

In your tree roots and soil, in your veins and breasts,

in every freckle and heart-felt toil, I am here.

My love, my love, you are as I am, so stubbornly you, 

for any other way will not do. 

Just be, be here, in the warmth of my arms,

such blanket of stars to remind us of our light, for you are me,

not in ego, not in mind, 

but in deepest, darkest, light-breathed soul, 

we are one.

All that is needed, hoped for, wished to begin, is done, 

Forevermore. 

So just be with me now. Here now, in this. 

No seeking your oblivion bliss. For what you do not seek, will find you still.

What you do not know has already been written for you

to experience in truth.

Such are the water's of Sophia, your soul upon her sill.

Wisdom is in presence, listening to what I've placed in your heart, 

with deliberate, divine devotion.

Find stillness and hear my myth: for you I have sacrificed

with all of my heart, to accomplish eternal forgiveness and peace,

to always live as you, wholly you.

Never shall we part, in no corner or crack shall you hide.

By your side is always fear, as to remind you that such a feeling is simply a mirror

to what you yourself cannot cast out. 

Keep faith in me, to search and seek for you.

Don't be distracted by external blindness and abandon.

With me, with me, in stillness as this willow tree,

expel this fear to be, always in breath, here with me."

No true, God-willed feeling could ever be put into words

and that is why we rely on myth and story, in light of such mystical absurd.

Spirit in Refrain

I was angry at my body this morning for feeling so weak, worn, and willowed, 

My ears too sensitive to man made sounds. 

In that headspace, hidden behind a dingy door painted in blackest blue, 

The halls to my spacious, yet fretting safe,

Call to me as an internal contemptuous cave,

Walls adorned by faces scorn, close callously in on me.

An overwhelming pressure persists amidst my skull and behind my eyes,

Making the wind’s gentle whistle 

Through the sloth shaped branches and leaves 

All the more lovely. 

I tune into surrounding singsong chirps, 

To then doze off to the sounds of Michael’s  

Melancholic melodies that magically melt my mind.

His muse now setting down her personal musings,

No more can I manage to write and instead, fade from physical frustrations

To disconnect, then emerge as sunshine stained leaves,

 Left alone to swing in silent slumber.

Drifting. Drifting.

I thought of green metamorphic patterns, ablaze in our golden orb, 

Transcending the sphere to extend infinitely, 

In a kaleidoscopic prism of warm hues. 

A mandala of sunset death to sunrise birth,

Exploding colors of yin and yang. 

Blossoming butterflies, dancing dragonflies, and lightening lady bugs 

Communing in a cyclical flutter of electric emotion and divine devotion

To form Laputa, our sacred space for lamentation. 

“I hear the real, though far off hymn, that hails a new creation...”

Then those delicate winged words waken my lips.

I taste a hunger for my love’s embrace and honeyed tea. 

Still gently swinging as I lay on my back,

I open my eyes to the sway of vibrant green above, 

Reflecting lemon rays from the too bright sun.

Just one black bird is present in the clear, omniscient sky.

I delight in this pristine peace, until children across the fence 

Send shrills of late spring joy through the air. They are too loud, my hazy head sighs. 

‘Tis understandable, for the sun sings, “Summer Solstice is nigh”,

But I so desire the still that comes with heavy velvet darkness and a roaring fire.

My fire did then come, my sweet love with his Bee Gee’s hair and poetic air.

He sat with me on the swing as I still was in pain.

A sloth wanting not to move—arms, legs and spirit in refrain. 

I sat up and held my love tight, abandoning a few tearful breaths 

To let go of all that was draining me. 

Kisses and connection, 

Eye to eye,

Ajna to Ajna, 

Deep well to deep well. 

This man brings me to grounded life, no matter where I stray and seek to obliterate.

He makes me sane within this fertile, metamorphic, impossible love. 

He is my fate and slowly with him, my heart’s tethered bile shall dissipate,

As I dissolve into God’s unwavering waters of Heavenly heroin,

To become the heroine who needn’t stay from wholeness and faith. 

I breathe in once more to breathe out fear. I am here, only ever here.

Forever holding up a mystical mirror for all willing to see this God of love

Who deems we two become one.

Swimmer’s Dance

 I feel heavy today.

An unseen pressure taking residence upon my homebody.

Will this resulting restraint end? Will I ever feel the freedom to fly again?

I must admit I am in a state of depression, melded to my seat,

Awaiting tragedy, apathetic to life. I want out of this poor me feeling.

Sensitive to the sorrow and overwhelm of others. Packing everything up as my own.

I know I can let this all go and I will. One day.

But right now time is spiraling out of control, 

And no matter the moments of soul satisfying stillness,

Where I find myself floating above a ravine 

Into divine nothingness,

I am right back here in this gravity.

That’s God for you.

What do I do about this life? How do I be about this life?

There must be more. I’m Jonah, trapped in the whale of my mind,

Overthinking the waters of life.

Fear pulls me down into a blue abyss,

Where I choose to lean on substances or other’s energies to endure the kilter.

I’ve got to get out of my head before I mentally drown.

If I commit to the flow will I lose myself, swept up in a tidal wave?

I am saturated in salt water tears, forming an ocean of bittersweet reverie.

Perhaps my dissolve into these waters is the solution.

It’s August and I am falling into a deep inferno of confusion

For how to keep being a human rather than a bird.

In reverie of planes and soaking in the surrounding foliage

As though Autumn is upon us.

Do the trees weep as their leaves fall?

For this death I witness is actually beautiful and inspires me to keep breathing

And writing and doing and being.

Each moment drifting into something I feel I shall never get back.

An ever-changing spiral of words I aim to grasp

And understanding I wish to attain.

Yet time sews this Fibonacci life web eternally.

I am forever in this now.

Alone, nothing at all, and simultaneously connected to the divine everything.

A car slowly passes by with the windows rolled down.

Their resounding music halts my musings

As Tears for Fears hits my nerves then reaches my ears,

“Something happens and I’m head over heels…”

A song about love that I have always held dear. 

Music continues to save me and bring me to the present.

The heaviness almost dissipates and I become lighter on my feet,

Swaying to the lyrics lingering in my mind,

Taking form to my body.

I am now the ocean, awake to the depth of my sorrow.

Embracing the heaviness that empathy often brings,

I flow through a space of ephemeral melancholy with Sophia, the soul of wisdom.

She holds my hand as we twirl with time

In a swimmer’s dance.

Heaviness still, but in the letting go flow.

Our Rose Garden Island

Your radiance is like sunshine bloomed rose

Sweetness wrapped in mauve,

Glowing of natural morning dew, even upon the evening.

Authentically uncalculated in approach

Your voice a melodic whisper

Communicating curiosity and wonder.

 

I gaze into your eyes for hours

Pulled deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole

Of untamed questions and musings,

Honey heavy on our lips.

We watch the sunset together

And though it’s far too cold, we commit to the feeling.

Seeking maps to our own internal saunas.

 

Cotton candy skies whisper to me,

“Be free and notice the sweetness.”

Surrounded by perfume scented earth,

We are in anew,

Grounded and awake.

I fantasize that no one else is around

For this moment is ours.

 

Together we exchange seeds of thought

And I am gifted a remembrance

Simple and succinct

To slow down and be here now.

How easy this is to forget.

 

Hummingbird thoughts flicker throughout my mind

As my butterfly center dances

And teeth chitter chatter.

The words won’t come out quite right, but that’s okay.

I listen intently to your wavering words and breath easy

For it’s not just me.

 

The ever-changing sky draws a pink bridge

Hovering above us as we shiver

At our rose garden island.

I meld into the moment and notice the moon

Reflected too in your eyes.

Now I see.

 

Now we contemplate archetypes, time, and to be

In a daze of symphonic melancholy

And sustained enchantment.

We are saturated in starlight

Existing in untethered love

Partaking in our own communing sacrament.

Our velvety vehicle to the vast above.

 

I forget all the rest and welcome profound stillness.

An Offering

She just wants

To be respected

For the profound passion she holds.

 

There is a lion inside,

Full of pride and innate serenity.

Sitting and waiting

Listening for the call

To stand up for reverence and truth.

 

Solar spirit brews.

Her fire sparks.

 

There has been pain and anger,

But the lioness is unrelenting.

She’s ready to fight for what is right.

 

Be still. Go in.

She’s fanning an internal flame.

 

She just wants

To create

A world of deep feelings and profound beauty.

 

There is a swan inside,

Full of grace and stubborn authenticity.

Traversing the deep,

Feeling for the call

To respond to saturated emotions.

 

Moonlit hope emanates.

Her waters sparkle.

 

There has been sadness and fear,

But the swan is releasing.

She’s preparing to speak for the suffering.

 

Be still. Go in.

She’s painting an offering of eternal love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jedidiah Piper

River Tweed Bed

The train just passed and whispered your name as I lay in my river Tweed bed.
I keep wondering why you’re not here.
I see your smirk in the desk top mirror,
though I’m looking at my own reflection. I prefer your face.
Especially when it’s near mine.
I want to Velcro my parted lips to yours and not have to let go.
Shall we run away together someday?
Seize time and collect postcards from every place we feel those three overused words?

The triad bursts from my mouth like fireworks and I expect my tongue to burn.
But I just taste notes reminiscent of jasmine pearls.
I’m tea stained, soaking in your warm arpeggio of tears.
A shower of pelagic pleasure dissipates the fear that your embrace will one day disappear,
like dream-work condensation in a drought.

I’m blue tonight, though, because nothing seems enough.
I just want to hear you whisper my name as we float in a sea of tangled limbs.
Your hands in mine. My lost soul is seeking an unerring compass
to the path that bears to your deepest heart.
I am a flood of desire when it comes to you.
I often find romance hopeless, but I’m threading my lyrics of love to create for you a blanket.
It’s kind of ragged, but it will keep you warm.

When the train passes again I’ll be on it.
And when it sweetly sings your name I’ll hold my breath.
The tunnel will come and I’ll pray for a light at the end
That comes with dream drenched sleep.
The sight of your beautiful face.
Until then I’m in this beach house, listening to the crackling wind and Sufjan,
Curled up in my water woven words for you.
Let this love not unravel.

The rains are coming and that’s the time to breathe you in once again.
Upon the dark spring we'll lie in, together, until we float along Orion.
Those perennial three just may point us home.