Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

30 April 2008


Bright Idea #6: Cultivate a sense of wonder and joy.
"You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it." I was winter for so long spring scares me. Theres so much pale and stiff from sleeping shut away stored like honey in a tomb and this is my voyage across the river of forgetting. Having forgotten who i am having forgotten the deep peace and unwreckable beauty of the self. Compost the shroud throw the key into the ocean make a wish. All is well and all is well and all manner of things will be well. Cold night frost dawn the sky benevolent blue everything softens opens smiles in the sunlight i make space for what is coming i make space for the Unnamed Weaver of these threads i weave my own thread and am woven. I make space for all things all experiences i will not deny any i will weave my own thread and watch in wonder as i am woven. Its all a part of me, very Uncle Walt, "i contain multitudes," the dogs, gravel, coffee bean, snapdragon, cloud, kitchen chair, sleeping husband. there is nothing i am not of, nor anything that is not of me. hands to heart i bow to your divinity which is my divinity. cold day my body aches for the sun hungry for the spring the thing that drives the green shoot the angel that encourages it to grow i am the spring the thing the shoot the angel when you get this everything gets really sweet and quiet and you want to smile and cry and theres peace there and happiness and a tenderness for all things. and thats my spring. its not me thats afraid its my ego. dissolving into everything i lose my dependence on ego to provide the illusion of separation. the ego is not useful like a millstone more like a cicada casing maybe, really fragile and altogether left behind. so ill leave the shell of my false identities buried in with the compost and commit to the seasons the rhythms the resurrection and renaissance of my very soul.

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Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."
-V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)