Sunday, November 1, 2009

redundancy: a week of lessons in stages (and long-awaited breaths of fresh mirrors)

I've written more in the recent days than my philosophy could prove, but it's true that it's been a process of building by trusting my failures and mistakes. Patience for the ways I get ahead of myself. Forgiveness for the times I take two steps back. Acceptance of the fact that the days are continuing on through cyclic breaths. And still. The lesson is in finding moments to say 'yes.'


A long list of miraculous coincidences have brought me to a place tonight where, as I prepare for sleep, to be filled with mundanely described dreams, I can accept with a heart full of grace the chance that this day might have been my last and say a happy "yes" to the test that rests on my shoulder. The symbolism need not be fantastic because I'm content by simply wondering what it must feel like to fly slowly.

The chance encounters in pages, on streets, through meetings, beyond expectations and behind planned becomings have been gifts. They've grown through minutes and ages. I might never believe that my skin has been clear enough to reveal the inner-workings of a million plus infinitely more micro-moments of understanding, intuitively perceptive and ineffable revelations! I've remembered once again that what defines me is found through this process of becoming. I become intertwined.

No longer because I'm forgetful, but because I'm more in touch and committed than I have been for months, I wear my ringer finger bare tomorrow as a token of my devotion to the lovers I've taken when my ability to compassionately penetrate reality has left me keenly aware of our fragility. I become a fragmented whole, freely bounded by breathing love.

I know better than to believe in anything called 'perfection,' and I don't think that something 'true' could exist beyond our own experiences, nor could a being of total omniscience determine what is real without me or you and everything that we do to one another.

I give thanks to the pages and the voices therein that sound so much like my own when I recite their messages to my humbly open soul, to the teachers who saw through my skin when I couldn't write myself clearly enough, who hinted at their wisdom and future predictions that I was already more like them--subtleties no mirror could have reflected without the sun of experience having first been trusted and let in. Thanks to the hips that have birthed me over and over again and again through the minutes and ages of life that received my own gifts of learning to laugh and sing with an overabundance of light. (-3/30/09)

If this is letting go, I wish to forever be let free and to release my grip on whatever made me feel like more than a little ship on a tumultuous sea. (3/31/09)


For some reason my writing is halting. I've had lines running through my mind that demanded to be put down lest I forget the lessons I've been relearning over an intensely lively past few nights... [like knowing] that it's so easy to dance when you finally let go...I'm talking about sharing more than I have in a really long time and trusting that the risk will be worth it at some other time, whether that's right now because another life was shown a little more light or later when a stranger picks up the consequences in degrees of generations passed. I'm no longer content with the paradigm of giving and taking since I've put a new frame around sharing and receiving. We do not build through transactions. We become by ex/changing.

I'm trying harder to trust the pace of life and remain patiently open despite my humble ignorance. I don't know anything that hasn't been gifted to me through someone else's fingers and experiences.

Luck will have it that there are no coincidences.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Feeling close to death means feeling more alive than ever before in any other instant. It comes with doubts and confidence. I'm only twenty-two. Have I learned to be sufficiently patient? "The revolution always comes too soon." (-3/31/09)


breathe and be free.


Words don't come easily enough when the enthusiasm crowds their entry onto pages. Thoughts aren't understood clearly enough when lenses of doubt and strangeness obscure their meaning. Connections might be made too readily when hearts are hungry and susceptible to clinging. But the lessons are important and patiently waiting to to be internalized into my own being.

I sleep at the bedside of death and wish that I could always be willing to take it's place gracefully, and I wake with newly naked ring fingers as a symbol that my lovers have become me. One more day to breathe less mindlessly. It's a practice towards fullness. Awareness and compassion point me toward greater patience so that I, too, might be a lesson.

I'm learning to trust more, to sun up more, to be still more, to be static less, free from grains of salt that dry out the meat of bodies I long to embrace, free from short-sightedness that blinds me of the eyes that sing of familiarity in a stranger's face, free from the distant goals that distract me from the step I'm currently taking, in the midst of falling apart, into together again, rebuilding what has never left. (-4/1/09)


breathe and be beautiful.


There are times when I try to write and I realize, through tortured halts, that complex thoughts can hardly be communicated adequately across lines in black and white. Times like these make me think that I need some finger paint and jersey sheets. I'd like to have projection screens to capture the scenes that play through the breaths in my chest when I watch the trees swing violently in the harsh gusts of the night, while the light clouds play tricks on my eyes as they frame the dark patches of a bounded sky. Those images are the kind that make me wish I could put you in my mind and have you sing along with my body's rhymes, together resonating with pattern of the stars, so that I could read your eyes more accurately. I wish, too, that my waistline was a text you could wrap your imagination around and interpret everything that lies therein. See the scenes play out on my skin, years of questioning everything that seems to be confined to adolescent boundaries of identity and time, but revealing that the end is not yet determined. A plot line is more beautiful when imperfections come unexpected. (-4/4/09)


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