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.