Trust

Come to your own brand of quiet and stay there.
That is the work for today.
Trust that showing up is the only vote you need.
Have faith in the one small step taken now.
You are your own guidance.
Be willing to hear it.

Living Off Center

Where is it said that when you move from what has been the center to a few degrees out, that life will fall into place?  Remarkably, the opposite is true. An unquestioned belief and set of principles can keep you in one place for years. But we are not in charge of the great unfolding. So when some idea comes into question and dissolves, it is like an earthquake. Everyone feels it, there is a sense of insecurity and urgency at the same time. Some things fall to the ground, smashed. Our very groundedness is in question.

What is uncovered in this time may be distasteful, like what we find under an old piece of furniture when it is finally moved after many years. Treasures and trash. Anger and resentment for having carried it, for the person we perceive initiated it.  Perhaps even more unsettling that this anger is the great deep quiet after such a rumble. The quiet seeps into the edges and merely watches. Welcome this too, for it is a seed of more to come.

It is a mistake to think that holy work is done only in times of spiritual gathering or ritual. The holy work of transformation is the work of erosion. Holy sculpting. Bit by bit shreds of you fall to the floor under the master's hand.

Never Left Standing

Have you doctored this moment enough to tire even you?
What fantasies, what epics, we have brought to sensationalize this day.
Do we never stop noticing something missing, so that
the ever present allowance can be spent?

You have never been left standing, in all your life.
Though it may please you to tell it.
What would you be without that delicious tale?
Not standing outside the tribe, not cast aside.


Slip under the fence into someone else's pasture.
Stand knee deep in their hay and be glad.
What is neither here nor there is it.
Is it so complicated?

Why Wait

Why wait until the world comes to quiet?
When there is no more believing in streams of words.
When what comes unbidden into view is what frightens you.
Your nemesis will arrive to take you home,
prayers or no prayers.

When matter doesn't matter,
and contact is given from momentum,
stop looking out every window, into every face,
every screen, and calling for your source.

If a train whistle makes you think that
someone else's life has momentum.
If you quietly suffer the ministrations of
your own inexpert self help,
then you are in the waiting place.

Are you always sliding toward more ?
Relating better? Living more generously?
At such times, minor triumphs can give comfort.
So obvious, but strangely, not significant.

Are you sidestepping the sinkholes?
The ones you should be leaping into.
Embrace the ones that bring you into play
instead of being sidelined.

Thoughts may be weaving a mantel of woe.
So what. The world loves drama.
Each thought strung together might sound like a plight.
But don't take it home.

To string the words and make an odyssey,
is a family trait not worth handing down.
No benefit derives from this kind of hoarding.
Feelings will come in abundance.
That is your treasure.

Fire Up Light

This poem was inspired by the work of Bruce Lipton, Ph.D., whose work in cell biology is not only evolutionary, but transformational.

Fired up light streams through to my fingertips.
The cells move from Love's outstretched hand.

Many broadcasts, streams of information all descending.
Not leaving out song, ordinary actions, or mind movement.
I am is revealed, and me, puttering about, but not consulted.

Concede yourself to be merely an informed probability.
Slender energies downloaded and woven into notice.
Unstoppable awareness. Awe inspiring.

Nothing comes from anything called you.
Be glad. That news is your undoing and your reclamation.
Though the cosmos on the march, it is not self directed.

You are among the everything that is adored in this way.
Life and death reincarnated, like waves tumbling.
The streaming welcomed by organic receivers.

Yet, by this recognition volition seems to fade.

Take some quiet joy in that composition.
The sages, psychics, and mystics were right.
The heavens can return as mystery.

New Life

Come walk with me to the breaking place.
Bring nothing to please yourself.
You are already overburdened.
Better still,
Leave a trail of discarded parts wherever you go.

Have you finally seen that no one else has the answers you seek?
No path has your universe decoded?
Though hidden, answers have your name alone on them.
Receive yourself if only you can.

Send Gratitude out to bring firewood home .
Light up the sky with the outpouring sparks.
Be warmed by this gift.
If all things are given, foremost is simple being.

Your present fears are only tired questions.
When the world wakes up, you shall be the first.
Don't let imagined absence block the light.
Nothing is what you imagine.

Outside, snow falls silently.
Its first light blankets the winter grey and gives hope.
New life trembles below ground.
Take refuge in the silent, muffled living.

This is only one kind of invitation.
Tune in to the beckoning. More to come.

Writing The Entrouvert Blog

M. Corsiva is a pen name that comes from a love for the Monotype Corsiva font frequently used in my work. This blog is written as a series of reminders, reinterpretations of sages,  as well as to put into words the teachings, joys, sufferings, and struggles of my own, and those of my fellow travelers.

Sometimes when I write, I just ask: "What do I want to know?"  and the answers come. At other times, I simply narrate the transformations of those I know, in poetry form. This is not my everyday language and the word formations sometimes surprise me. They can be clipped, and abbreviated. Often more heartfelt than the way my ordinary life shows up. 
The words seem to send their own care - especially if you are fond of language. I studied many spiritual paths along the way – and have felt most at home with Advaita Vedanta. When looking for a title for the blog  I came across the French word for ajar, "Entrouvert,"  which expressed this life pretty well. Feel free to comment or email. dagallisone@gmail.com.  I love to hear from readers. Joy to you and best wishes of the season.     

Metamorphosis

This human thing has its own way of informing metamorphosis.
First, an idea appears and takes root.
Then there is an innocent inquiry:
"What is this thing?"
After that, damage is done.
You become the changing force.

Emotions rise, but the ship sails on.
The day's chores are infused with new questions.
Longing is no longer submerged.
You live the answer even while looking for it.
What does it take to further this thing?

You cannot work harder to process it.
You cannot manage, or imagine it.
Danger says: "This cannot be the right way."
But there is no plan for this human thing.
All the necessary forces will come to work today.

Abide

There is but one thread of truth ready to be woven into the fabric of your life. You are.
Take that thread and pull gently through the arisings, and behold.
All formulated matter unravel instead of bind.
Thoughts are not the way.
Reasoning is not as solid as it seems.
Let go of this confounded reliance on whispers from the generations.

Let the driving force prevail without any help from you.
Mourn this loss of control. This fantasy.
Notice the defenselessness of every appearance.
This space that you are allows it, welcomes it, bids it fairwell.
There is no suffering in this truth. Yet, pain may come.
But the ever-present abidingness holds the whole world.
This is salvation, if such was ever needed.

Vine Life

Under emotional transport, find pure being like the trunk of a tree.
Conditioned probabilities circle round this steadiness.
Impetuous vines, wave in the breeze, bringing tumult and reckless energy.
We are quick to forget from what solidity the appearance springs.
Tree consciousness with mercurial adornments.

Steady yourself and focus on the vibrations, the spooling.
Steady yourself to notice the undoing.
Pull those sticky tendrils off and breathe.
You are still enveloped in the naturalness of what remains.
If vines challenge the wind, let them slip through your hands.
They have no agenda, you only imagined these distractions.

Whether vines encircle you or not,
you can stay at home in that loving stability.
Whatever meme comes to visit,
welcome the whole show, fearlessly.
Yet, you know where the roots are.

Alive

Do you see the truth in those trees?
That branch, the leaves waving.
Shouting "Alive" "Alive."
You are that.
See the water running over the stones?
The frothy form jumps into being, like you.
Alive, Alive.
Even the sound of cars rushing by,
skateboard wheels on the sidewalk,
the silence of a dog sitting on the lawn watching the sunrise.
The sparks of color rushing up from fallen leaves.
Where are you not?
Even lost in daydreams, endlessly rolling movies,
you are.
But the real joy is in this world, where
time hints at the edges of now and
the sun peeking over the trees is
the only thing that exists.

OwnWisdom

Put away your books.
Stand up from your meditations.
Skip holy gatherings this week.
Lay aside your music.

Put your attention on the scene before you.
Notice it's touch.
Breathe in the smell.
Feel your body vibrating under the skin.
Hear your own heart beating.

Don't wait for wisdom from more hallowed sources.
Let the awareness of pure noticing guide you.
A splash of color is your source. Birdsong.
That little spider in the corner of the room,
is the same as you. 

Generation

The generation roundabout.
Three drops of blood.
The first draws a circle around today's kin.
Mother, father, children and friends.
The second circles the globe for the tribal wanderers
who left home and made a wider path over time.
The third drop pulls in flora and fauna,
with gratitude for sustaining the whole thing.

Everything is included, yet over time nothing remains.
Universe breathes and generations come into being.
Universe sweeps an impartial hand
and generations fly back into dust.
Primordial forces stage the whole.

No words exist for its accomplishments.
Good and evil are child's words
when taken to mean mere preference.
Neither things nor nothing escapes scrutiny.
All is known, to exist.
Rejoice! You are created by a blink.

Fullness of Life

Why wait to ask all the important questions of life until you are ready to leave it?
You need not go out like the flaming leaves of autumn,
saving your richest hues for the end.
Let your next breath be a song of gratitude for the very presence of knowing this life, this fullness.

You need not know who lives this life to live it.
It lives.
And you have the option of participating with full love,
full acceptance, full out.

That is all you need to know. 

Fortifications

How much damage is done by the refusal to steep in our own emotions?  By distracting ourselves from our own body consciousness, we minute by minute lose the opportunity to steady ourselves and navigate the arising feelings, the ghosts of misty voices. As children, we learned to fortify ourselves against these inner visitors which, if met, would strengthen our very breath. Anxiety, overeating, overspending, overlooking the ordinary, over basking in spiritual studies -- these are all fortifications against the common sensibilities of the heart.

It takes the courage of warriors and the attention of the tight rope walker to go beyond. To move, slide back to a child's mind before life had suffering. Bare attention to the smallest details of life is your way out. Drink tea and see its color.  Look at and taste the food you are eating. Look into the eyes of the one with whom you speak.  Do the dishes one drop of soapy water at a time. Notice whether you are phoning this one just so you can quickly get to the other three things you should have done by now.

Hug like it's your last one. Lift your own hand before your eyes and notice the beautiful lines, the size, its strength. Are you really hell bent on racing through your entire life?  The miracle of everyday living is no small thing. If quiet life had a voice instead, it would thunder sweetly.

Seamlessness

The seamlessess of life is not a future view
of ethereal cords and binding.
Its trails are your trails.
Your steps are its life.

Without turning each tight focus
into an object assured,
the edge of you and the edge of me,
slide together across a thin stream of light.

Your hand weaves across my view,
and the trees sway to the musical wind.
The name library provides a string of sounds.
Be attuned to the inner words.

It believes it is the label, then not.
At once the noticing is on top and the scene is amused.
Bring forth every laughter or sorrow before this audience.
No lines will be erased.

The play will go on and it may or may not,
be replayed in another day or town.
The seer enjoys the play
without begging for more.

Cell Stories

Have you noticed the trails running through your cells?
Featuring uprightness, certainty, and love of a good tale.
Under some chords, they hum with sympathetic vibration.
And release an unknown substance growing white tendrils in the dark.
When a surprise trigger removes the cover, just a crack,
those roots reach out into the light of the ordinary day.

Don't you feel their trembling?
Their job has been to tell tales of long gone fights and slights.
Silence has not diminished their telling.
Admit it. The story is more interesting than the event.

This is not a call to reject this flow,
but to allow it to live without living as it.
The event arises and calls, not for embrace,
but acceptance. Know the difference.

An ordinary mind can learn to love freedom,
even in the midst of civil war.
Stand up to the cyclone which ensues
whenever ancient roots are brought to life.

Freedom blossoms for the courageous and attentive.

The Backaway Heart

The crazy heart keeps rushing headlong into full disclosure.
Wanting to jump into the well and see what is really down there.
But thoughts circle the heart like ropes,
and pull it back to neutral, saying:
"Don't be wild.
You don't really want to know answers to deep questions!"

Sensible friends will advise you to leave that insane
digging around to archeologists.
Take the nice path of accountants and grocers.
Reliable. Steady. Seasonal.

Avoidance comes from the tug of war between what's hidden and revealed.
Between what you long to know and what you are afraid is true.
Haven't you heard by now that your own careful measures can be undone?
Tigers wait in bushes all over the world.

Surely, you have cried over one or two.
Your whole body longs to be reset to factory default.
When you feel the urge to suppress - lean in.
To acknowledge a form does not mean to indulge it.

Imagine the day when your own dear heart breaks free!

One Line Poem #10

If you hold the reins of the endlessly fascinating mind with a light touch, it captivates, but never meets you.   

A Tidy Life?

Let the storm of everyday doing swirl around you, inside and out.
You are the eye, the calm center, even when your mind is racing.

You see that, therefore, you are before that.
Let the racing live its useful life.

Your life holds the energy of it, the meaning, and the
slow fading of all thought forms, leaving nothing.
You see that, so you know, you come before.

Tired, tired, tired, of trying to catch the 10,000 things
and bring them into orderliness?
Where did you get the idea for that?

Put those magazines, books, and web pages aside.
In every moment, something lives, but not the poor you.
You are bereft of nothing.
Value it. Rejoice in it.
You, the calm spindle, and life, the playful dancer.

Common Horse

Why are we standing facing away from the sweetness of life,
when the river of delight flows in our direction?
Don't put your money on every horse in the race except the winner.
The winner is so common, so lacking in enticing high spirits,
you are sure to think he can never pull you through.
Look again.
Spend your every last dollar on the one who can not lose.
Leave the well-muscled, snorting powerhouses
to those who never venture far from them.
Take the quiet one in the corner.
The one who is munching lazily, with a welcoming eye.
That eye is your cue.
That one.

The Between Times

The hardest time is the in between.
Between jobs, meals, and joy.
Between energy, projects or spring.
Between joining, outright loving, bliss.

That quiet strengthening time seems full.
Bringing wondering, fears and dark possibilities.
While awaiting  flow of action, fresh liftoff.
Spiraling sensations merge with smoky whispers.

It pulls you down, doubts you, casts you off.
This is where tired meets worried.
Don't go there, says a friend. Don't take it on.
The bringer of highs brings lows too.

Fling away all hope of making this your show.
Can you feel the sweetness of that?
The release of all sense that the burden is yours.
You are not the author, the rainmaker, the creator.

Don't expect the wind to stop blowing.
Don't try to solve the problem of abandonment
by creating new dramas,
and assigning your demons to someone else.

Sit outside and let the sun shine on your skin.
Call a friend and talk for hours.
Remember the Love that brought you this far,
is still breathing you.

The Seed

To search for Oneness seems so natural.
To find it, guaranteed.
Not on your timeframe or secret spiritual goals.
But in the sweetness of life, when ready.
Forget the search and just live. Live!
It's in you and the trees.
The seed has the blueprint, as do you.
You will turn out to be always,
the start point, and the end.

Facebook Dance

Facebook life is a microcosm.
A dance of words, set to photos.
Threads of electrons stream by
making you laugh out loud or mad.
The mind spins, connections sparked.

Individual words form links by links.
Does it please you to be liked?
Why not. Your pleasure is no more than a post.
Your abandonment no less.

Bring on the social forces streaming nets.
Bathe in the attention and seeming joust.
In the end, flesh to flesh is still sweeter
than yesterday's string of texts.

Don't put your faith in hasty one liners.
Or adopt a belief that others' busyness
suggests an inadequacy of yours.
Make haste,
let everyone know you are out and about.
Do it for the fun, not sustenance.

Bring out the one line army.
Let the words fly.
Don't forget that flesh is needed
for even one word.
At night, you don't lay your head on your computer.
But exist, notice by notice, in every word.

One Line Poem #9

Behind, between, and within the time space vision, ...Untouchable.

Soft Spots

The softest spot in life is the understanding of what you are.
It absents power. Before feminine, this knowing.
Takes nothing. Gives nothing. Withstands all scrutiny.
More receded than background, more cherished.
The most vulnerable place in thinking.
The world's end, the last book.
Nothing stands before it, nor after it.
How can you still rage at the day's doings?
Bask in your own glory - poor sweet thing.
Relying on your principles,
those weak links in your armor.
You could get swept away by anything.
Yet, this melted place pulls you back with longing.

One Line Poem #8

Open your hands; open your arms; open your whole heart; and drink in the night sky, star by star.

Greatest Good

Is it cynical to say that the greatest good is not what is happening here?
That dreams and daydreams are massed attachments.
Where is it written that I get what I want?
It is a fearful thought that the outcome must please me.
Whatever positive spin I put on "what is,"
it refuses the faithful interpretation.
Of course everything is for the greatest good, if good is defined as what unfolds.
Dream your dreams, and wish on stars, if you must.
There is comfort in knowing that the energy that creates this life,
drives it, interprets it, and finally, lays it down, on time, for its own reasons.

Awareness as the Unity of Life

Some use their thinking to release their bodies. Others use body sensations to release a hold on the mind or use their feelings as a pointer to what is true. If your personality type is such that your thoughts predominate, they may tend to override body signals or minimize body signals. If you are a heart type, your feelings may override thinking.Whichever type you are, this is not a thing to be fixed. The Openess that you are, allows each to have it proportional share of focus. But it may happen in the seeker that a shift occurs that eases the attachment and focus on the predominant and allows the other modalities to have their say.

A common Advaita pointer is that life is non-dual, not two. This points back to the common garden-variety awareness illumining your life. This is the container for all experiences of any kind. Thus, you are a head, body, heart, thinking, sensing, feeling, naming, doing, analyzing, kind of thing. One thing. Not a thing at all, really, but one has to use words.  Nothing has, or ever will,  occur outside that awareness. Awareness is the basic unit of life. In the overall scheme of things, heart, body and mind are not separate. In the one seamless totality, thought appears. Sensations appear. Emotions appear. Even the body is an appearance in awareness.

In referencing the material world, we have come to say that a chair is separate from a table. The body is separate from the chair. But what you are, is aware of it all. There is no dividing line in awareness.  There is no dividing line in you.

 

Look Back

It's no problem to look back at the unfolding of your life.
Just don't believe it.
When now is transformed, the past changes.
Totally veered off course.
You can only live now.
Even if your thoughts refer to back then.
You aren't in charge of the business of arising forms.
Cells want to complete broken cycles.
Mind wants to stay safe.
Heart wants to wander around loose.
If you are stuck, it's not in the past.
You can only be stuck in the present place

Body Coordinates

Body in space, dreamed coordinates.
Solid to touch, a dust mote blowing in the Mosaic.
Body sensations are no less ethereal than wind.

Edges blur, out of time, back to childhood.
Caretaker self is the dreamer, not the source.
One touch is only a flap of butterfly wings.
Gone and a new speck of life jumps in.
Blood illumines the outline, the way
bark defines the trees.
Body in mourning, body at play.

A great unfolding, fully engaged, alive.
Find all those secret treasures
you thought were lodged in its cells.
Burst them open with one focused moment.

Stars and treasures have no roots.

Religion

A seeker tells the master, "It would be better to be free of religion.
The people could seek for truth untethered to structure,
and be free to explore every avenue unconstrained by doctrine."
Is that not a superior state?
The master replied: "Is the tomato plant more fruitful when it sprawls on the ground?
It's fruit is eaten by slugs and stepped on by all."
Some things thrive when staked, blooming beyond their circumstances.
The structure helps it withstand its own weight, grow and bear fruit.
The world is full of structure.
The wise know when to be staked and when to be freed.

Stage Managed

The whole thing is loving itself every minute.
Nothing stands between love and where you are now,
Except a few words that solidified as they fell to the ground.
Words fly by like old tired trains rumbling through familiar neighborhoods.

A transparent director holds the stage together, keeps the actors moving.
He whispers familiar lines you can count on to bring the same reactions.
The audience laughs or gasps predictably.. appreciating the cleverness.
Fortunately, the stage manager knows who you are.

He stands beyond the footlights with your cue cards.
Here, here. You are home right here.
Everywhere. Throw kisses and bow.

Causeless

Why put a fence around your heart and say "stay out"?
You will be surprised to find out that love has  x-ray qualities.

The place that contains you is utterly defenseless, despite your efforts.
Why look around to see whether people are noticing you?
Whatever fears lurk in your mind, others see only their own shadows.
Go ahead and put words around the arising sensations if it pleases you.
Your clever deductions are only synapses firing along conditioned lines.
You cannot escape the pure causelessness of whatever happens.
For even the causes come unbidden.

Beyond

The hand that holds the moment,
The space into which life flows,
The eyes that see now and beyond.
Rest assured that the highest possible blessing
is unfolding.
A man searches his whole life for fullness.
A woman devotes her life to home.
Even if at the end they cry out for spirit,
The lack was never true.
Do you trust your own goals better than
the ordinary urge to live?
Come back to the ticking clock, the campfire, the day's mending.
Take only one step. Your heart knows the way.

The Roar of Longing

Longing roars from the underground stream.
It wants to climb a golden thread,
From under waves and layered soil.
To have the strength of the sun.
To speak from no less than being.
To be a silent reflection of the openness.

Favorites for my brothers and sisters:
Mantras, rituals, cushions, cunning, questions.
Dancing, silence, singing, service, journeys
What goes on there? The wandering continues.

For this life allows no supplication to higher orders.
Perhaps a little humming on a cushion with a book.
Allowances for multi-tasking in the spiritual quest.
Or, just notice the constant serving light.

Seemingly tied to life by eyes, touch, thoughts.
Is the heart not open?  Work on that, will you?
Is the body too dull to know itself?
Only a mind would stand and wait for life to be complete.

Despot! Is the waiting in vain?
The rest of the senses have jobs to do.
Even so, is there one less drop of life in this story
if the heart is only ajar?

Is it vain to wait for fullness, while living a life of privilege?
These are all ink for the pen.
Something can come along and bring the pen to a stop.
Or not, and words flow again.

The best I can do is listen to these inner poems.
See if they cover the seeker with the knowing mantle.
No outright prayers, acceptance, or high counsel.
Is it greedy to draw breath in the middle of windstorm?
No more than to want freedom from a gilded cage.

Photographs

A click, then reflection cast down one dimension.
Captured attention - in pixels or paper.
Likely to rewrite what has never been.
The instrument takes away life, to make a
Quirky, guilty meandering form out of time.
Lays flat but leaves the judging mind.
New every glance.

Never leaves the moment alive, and the mind supplants it.
Focus spiraled down to a point of light.
Light the only notable, the first cause.
Proofing from movement, engraved in fragile.
Plentiful!

Rain

When you hear the rain tapping on the roof,
Cars rushing by on wet pavement,
See candles flickering in their holders.
Where can you go?
You are already home.

When you feel the wind on your face.
Fall into the moon, the galaxy, the night.
Smell the rose scent of petals.
Where can you go?
You already have the stars.

Word Song

To be free, live in both worlds.
Sing the names of places and things,
but know their ethereal nature, too.
At times, use a conventional tone,
Live what is given you. Not the dream twice removed.

Silent songs play before and after each state.
Hum the name your mother gave you.
And a hundred others along the way.
Notice a smile tugging at the corners.

To be free, live in both worlds.
Respond to a downy feather under a name.
This is what you can never quite know.
A name is a single note,
In a sonata playing in no time.

To be free, live in both worlds.
Let the words fall out of your mouth.
Let the end take care of itself.
Meaning, is like a drum. Loud now.
But just as a whisper will be, faded.
Keep your heart in the aerial view.

Advaita Pointer #7

If you manage to cast off the dreaming self, the pedestrian version, follow it home.

The Astrologer's Word's

An astrologer named Lake, once told me,
"You can trust this life."
And she didn't mean me, in particular.
She meant you too.

She told me this was a watery life.
Maybe too much water for fifty+ years.
Dousing the fire needed for change, emergence.
She should know. Even her name means water.

I watched and waited.
And the fire crept in soon enough.
Building. Winning. Casting water aside.
For now.

Fire smelted a new path.
And it reigned. Until it too became ordinary.
All that was needed,
Is a little rain to balance things out.

Neither fire nor water win forever.
In the tides of life, it is more like a dance.
Water leads, then fire.
Whenever they meet. Steam.

Subterranean Farming

You thought Love was finished with childhood trauma.
Layered under all those painful half-ended feelings.
Mother love. Father love.
There was never enough.

Did you fly into a rage over broken promises?
A cloud covered the warming sun.
Shame rose like a bitter wind, owning it.
Broken promises have wandered here before.

Why would a tiger wait on your hearth
after a wonderful day?
Open your arms and embrace this visitor.
Though resisting, let the tiniest welcome escape.

Beautiful child. Love this part of  you.
Child of unseen hands.
How wise that the love of truth allows this
Opening gates to subterranean terraces.

Though hidden from you,
these gardens are well tended.
Ordinary life sponsors the farming.
And though you eat the fruit, you know it not.

Extraordinary life and promises of love,
bring the plants to full bloom.
Sudden storm! The fruit falls and opens.
Wasps fly out.

They sting from every direction.
Scream and rage
After such a nice day!
Find your voice against the hateful.

In a crack of sunlight
peering between boards.
Find that stopping place
and wait.

Rage. Wait. Smoky ash and fire -wait.
Don't be alarmed.
Stings rage, Shame rises. Wait.
What finds you in the waiting?

In the calming - full acceptance.
Later, you can gather the pieces of the puzzle.
Or just throw the shapes away.
The work is done either way.

This human thing has its a rhythm.
Dry your eyes
Put on music.
Soon enough, don't rush.

Later, the improving mind
will want to strengthening your spiritual defenses.
Don't try to improve this road with new asphalt.
The rutted, muddy path IS the wakening.

Pour love in all directions and be grateful.
This is how the human thing works.
You are its passenger,
It's prisoner, it's angel.

Come Back From the Whisper World

Come back, come back, from the whisper world.
Gently pull your thoughts from cares about time, children, and money.
Gaze instead at the steam rising in that piercing ray of sun.
Rising there to remind of the hidden.
Form is only form because of your gaze.
The dance is all around, we swim in it.

Come back, come back, from the whisper world.
Gently pull your thoughts from chores, work, and dinner.
Gaze instead at the steam rising in that piercing ray of sun.
Notice the footstep sounds, the wave of movement.
Smell the wet lush pine tree needles scattered.
Take a peek at the full understanding.

Illusion

To say that the world is an illusion,
Is to take up a sword in an endless fight.
Do not deny what appears before you in some shrug of the shoulder.
Illusion means a trick of the eye, but that is not what you are.
The eye reports faithfully. The hand knows the chair.
The feet steady the walker. The ears know music.
Declared illusions are about denying, not revealing.
Instead, embrace this defenseless space.
The only false is the naming, the owning, the report.
The hand appears whether named or not.
All else is the march of energy, and you, the cadence.
It's not that there is no world.
It's that it has no name.

Whisper World

The seeker asks: "What is this life? Who lives it?"
It is one slice of eternity rolling into awareness.
The whisper world give names, meanings.
And any improvements that it certainly needs.
Why not? It is all spider's web silk.
Rejoice that nothing reigns from out there.
The holiness is woven throughout, unending.
A tapestry of play lights, sounds, sensations.
Pray, save yourself from the plague of defining "real"
Notice the noticing. Receiver of life.
This mosaic is bounded by love.

Smoke Ring

Like a smoke ring, you are formed instantly on the outbreath.
Wavering, hovering, seemingly real. Has shape. Has movement.
Only once, for a fleeting moment, existing in the round.
Once formed, immediately losing ground, fading away.
Delight or hate the form. It hangs on, like a wake, then gone.
Another takes its place.... or not. Maybe peace.
You are like this. Look and see quietly.
Form, fade. Form, fade. One movement.
Nothing more.

Spiritual Haircut

If "on the path" you know, hope, pray, that with each passing day, bits of the self will wear away leaving a core of truth, like a spiritual haircut. It's a popular idea. True only in that it appears that you once behaved or thought or felt a certain way, and now that has become transparent. Not true, in that whatever appears as the self is none other than the core. The fear, the anger, the desire or aversion, dance through awareness - held or not held - just as importantly as the generosity, love, and humility. All are hummingbirds of light. You fly.

Water Words

Do you remember swimming at ease?
Each hand reaches over and pushes the silky pressure away.
Every time a hand reaching into the wave,
it encounters the new play of blue and wet.
Life is reborn.
This is how the ordinary day unfolds.
Every step, every blink, every sigh,
Sweeps away a daydreamed frame,
And rings in the new, the complete.
No word can describe this, but it feels like delight.

One Line Poem #7

Every time you truly understand something, give up.

Mosaic

If you cry, let the tear story roll down and carry you away.
Upwelling like a fountain, our individual threads stream, on the move.
A belief sets the story like thread sews one seam to another.
Unravel and let the result sweep you apart.
Are the edges a bit rough? Erosion will take care of it.
when regrets about not having built a stronger story, appear,
Nod sagely.
When standing next to your fellow man in line,
Marvel at the energy. Mosaic alive.
You, a sparkle among sparkles.

Off Center

Shake off that tired space surrounding every thought.
Discard old roles that call you back.
Bring out of hiding, the goals you set and wore like badges.
Who cares if your image is 10 degrees off center?
Let it be 100 degrees and something,
Just something, never turns off the light of the living.
It's a gift. It's a joy. It's there for you.

Right Path

Sometimes energy just pours out finding its way into the right path. Enneagram calls it right action. Others call it Flow. No reason exists for this juxtaposition of material and ethereal. Is it the stars or fate or just the cogs in the giant machine of life making their rounds?  To ask is to assume you are outside the happening of it.

One Line Poem #6

Before you roll out the story of why life is as it is, just notice that it is.

Sing

A song has no cause known.
Who cares how it ends?
Love that roll of soft flesh about your middle.
Trust that it has its own devise.
Be kind to those thoughts that displease you.
They have a short life.
Don't worry about where to go.
You will.

Take In

Bring a torrential wave of new ideas, impulses and movements.
Let them play themselves out. No need to lead.
Better it seems if a micro moment brings the stillness.
Notice the unchanging eyes, not mine, that takes in this pure motion.
Peer around what seems to be a solid storyline.
Watch it vanish in a snap of the finger,
when my head moves an inch this way.
The whole scene shifts and another story pushes its way through.
All these pushy vibrations want top billing.
OK, for awhile, then the bubble bursts.
There is only the slight sensation of bubble drops.

Humility

Humility is....
Noticing that you are a bit of flotsam in the rushing energy of the day.
That a call for honesty will come and you will take it, and nothing is the worse for it.
Letting go and sinking into the forward motion of thought, feelings, weather and time.
Noticing that you didn't know you would be here, didn't know you would say or do that particular thing, didn't even know that this life would be here when waking.

The New

When a rushing sound is heard.
The energy of everyday movement is flowing.
The next thought streams.
Action.
A new career? A new way of eating?
A class or just slowing down?
The basis of all flow operates through this portal,
As for any other.
No sense of initiating, but rather, passenger like watching.
First this book, then that meeting.
Next day, it's cool and the wind blows too.

Righteous

I found myself carrying a two-ton weight.
Proud. Justified. Righteous.
Righteous defined: "A weak man carrying a heavy treasure
that turns out to be worthless."
The mighty belief that I know what should unfold.
So tempting, and strangely, finding an
Unending spark to convince myself.

So great if you think I'm right too.
But it leads to
A modern Sisyphus,
Forever rolling the great weight
up to heaven for
An imagined pat on the head.

The only remedy I see is to
notice that under all that righteous air
That seems so solid, is just
a crumbling notion.

X Factor

Think that you can create the life you want? That there is a state in which all things will be created according to your ideals? You may assume that this unnerving impulse to have a life other than the one that is showing up is a tap on the back to improve yourself, stop wasting time, get a grip. Waiting for clarity about your goals and the knowledge of how to achieve them is a common state.

Instead, Life is creating the sense of you right now. This state is the perfect combination of all the forces at work including your conditioning, outside events, and the emotional state of the moment. Even your bottled up, forward moving energy is given.  Don't forget to include that factor representing what even the most practical will call a mystery, or the "X Factor."

The X factor means you are not in charge. Your most frustrating and doubtful moments are the result of things you can't name. You can not not swim in the life you have now. You are just the noticing of this energy unfolding.

Where is all this movement heading? Speculation is only dreaming. Stop resisting the parts you don't like and you can be more present to what is actually happening. By noticing the resistance that arises, you can be aware of the story it creates. You can truly see if the pendulum of all this energy really means anything about you or the "quality" of the living. Question it.

Next week, next month, or next decade will only bring more of the same. Present awareness with bubbles representing a trail of memories and tomorrows daydreams. Nothing else is possible. Give yourself over to that. Find out what would it be like to be completely present to that. 

Shields Down

Don't keep forgetting that steady, silent, platform.
Upon which this flows.
The reminders are, "Is Life here?"
"What is awake?" "Existence is."
When I look from the viewpoint,
of no particular focus.
I forget I.
Patterns of light and color shift and change.
Shields down.
A sigh.

One Line Note #1

Worry is mind trying to manage the world by remote control -- without batteries.

Bearing the Energy of Change

It can be hard to bear the energy arising that we interpret as a signal to change. Your mind tells you it is time to move in another direction. The mind wants to coopt this energy for its own story of you; to manage it, describe it, and help you along by assimilating it.  It can be very tempting to believe the dialog.  But the mind can only write captions under a process that has its own life, its own beginning, own end.

Yes, it may turn out that you knew where this energy was going. Energetic shifts have their own purpose that may not be clear. Try to bear this emergent energy by noticing its power but not focusing on your story about it. You may get a new job, break up with your partner, start a diet, find a new house. Relax. Often enough, this forward moving energy dies without producing anything.

That something should be produced is only an idea running through the mind. Even if the event you anticipated occurs, you don't really know what was actually accomplished.

One Line Poem #5

Turn your head, and a whole new world appears.

The Sandbox

I lived in a sandbox,
Took a stick and sectioned off the whole.
This part is you, this part is me.
This part is them.
Over here, I will create home.
And here, work.
Finally down here, I will outline trouble.
Stay out of this section.

Along comes the slightest wind,
the rain, or even my dog.
And my clever lines are gone.
Leaving me staring at the clever shining cubes
that once told a story.

Start again? Or just bask in the vacuum?

Outbreath

Stillness breathes new life into every moment.
The inbreath reveals, the outbreath destroys.
And when we don't notice? Same.

Wide Open Joy

On a morning walk there is wide open joy.
Trees contribute, birds join in, the stream provides movement.
I stop to watch a mother duck follow her troop across the grass.
She keeps her eye on me but does not jump to conclusions.

Names do not apply if eyes are wide open and there is but the seeing.
I hear a woman tell another," I walked my dog in this park every day."
The sweetness had not left her.
The brown of dying grass has emerald patches.

Everything knows what to do.

The All

The sages keep talking about freedom.
Whatever they mean by it might be called all.
Not free from any thing or no-thing.
Not free to do any thing or no-thing.
But defenseless receptical, all things welcomed.
In which nothing is denied and everything imagined.
Is it a sweet place of embrace? Yes!
Or a terrible place of storms? Yes!
Rest here.

Daydream

What is a daydream but spinning a tale in between dimensions.
I pull myself up short, chiding the air for dreaming.
But isn't the dreamer, the same knower of the dream?
Whether I made this dream or not,
I am the maker of nothing.
I've always wondered if the dream spirals away,
In an energetic whirl,
And catches the eye of some other dreamer.
Or flashes off slowly,
Like the sound trail of a crystal bowl.

One Line Poem #4

A tiny bit of openness brings in a ray of light, a day of life; the whole world.

What Do You Want?

Just WHAT are you waiting for?
A new identity? Certainty? Confidence?
A big event, a small event, a trickle of recognition?
You say others seem to have that.
What do you know? It's all talk.
The silence that holds life.
The gentle hand that rocks the earth.
The mighty fierce bloodthirsty tsunami.
All blow through you.
Life waits for nothing.
Its energy spins and the next moment appears.
You think you value life?
Do you not eat, tread the earth, drink?
Even a blink kills mites!
Stop at nothing.
Give over. It's happening!

Without Asking

Don't ask, "How should I live?"
You never asked how you should breathe.
You don't choose the year.
The weather comes without asking.
The day follows night.
The bird sings without your permission.
Your stomach growls before you know it.
Who just scratched your nose?
Your dog licks your hand and goes to sleep.
Where do you come in?

One Line Poem #3

A man wanders the globe for 20 years looking for his own left foot.

Primordial

Every energy form has its own cycle. A sneeze lasts a second. A star, millions of years --  if you believe in time. Whether the form has its roots in childhood, in 7th grade, last week in the board room, or as a brand new pattern forming now, there is only one way to flow with life. Hold nothing back. Every form has its purpose in the immediate appearance. Even holding back doesn't come from you.  Its antecedents are universal, its consequences far reaching. Yet is nothing more or less than the weather of your awareness. Who knows where these clouds come from? Primordial dust.

Not One

Not one pixel of my monitor
Ever announces itself.
Ever calls me names.
No matter which image appears.

Not one friend has ever said,
You are the worst thing you can imagine.
My clothes are happy to be on my back.
My food is content to be ground to dust.

From where does this idea come:
That whatever we've been
Whatever we have done,
It could have been one micron better?

Even if the hair on my head
Leaves for a new molecular life
I can rest in that.
Be content with that.

Some teachers say
Switch allegiance from "me" to "Thee"
But there are those who say
Not even that.

Letting Go

Is it the pink slip for the ordinary mind, or
The final Advaita pointer?
Coincidentally,
The mirror says the same thing
my mother says after a long phone call:
"I'm going to let you go now."
We laugh at that.

House of Straw

Did I ever tell you my heart was closed?
Probably forgot to mention it.
But you didn't need reminding.
Why would a closed heart stop you?
Light as a feather with a piercing touch.

I held my shields, complacently close.
Guaranteed to protect all assets.
Though they came without a warranty.
Good thing, seen in hindsight, I am
A ridiculous house of straw.

Who Is Calling?

When that Joy peeks out from behind the world,
Something asks: "Who is calling?"
The answer knows itself.
Rest forever in the lightness
It permeates.

One Line Poem #2

Behind every smile, we return.

Turning

Like you, I have mistaken these dancing captions
For the life of a progressive mind.
Like you, I have thought that when one finger touches the ether
All knowledge would come pouring in for the final.
Like you, I have risen and poured forth streams of feelings.

What do I know that is not given, slipped in from behind?
Appearing first as love, then distain, then as laughter.
Finally as a surrender.
This human thing just turns and turns.

It is the delight of the stars to pour forth this.
Are we the gods laughing or crying? 
Where is that form when I close the door, close my eyes,
Shall you look this way, or move on?

The form dances only around perceptual fields.
So like the motes in the eye
That slide out of view when you turn your head.
It holds the depths of dying and the emergence.
But most of all, when it talks, I am. 

Tornado

Flash flood alert would have been too tame.
Tornado warnings would have been more true.
You got to love the hijacking mind
It wants to own the air and certain truth.

What function operates here?
Are you that good or not?
I attack and you parry. Are we dancing or fighting?
Get out of the way. Life coming through.

When terrible mock truth, has gone.
What is left of my certainty?
A bruise to the ego or a remnant of love.
Detritus perfectly describes the remains.

A cool breeze circles the whole of it.
Caring nothing for the individual movements
In the hard soft whipping energy of that weather.
Don't feel sorry for me. Keep moving. It's your turn next.

Velvet Moon

Behind the still motion lies a quiet moon.
Full, rich and heavy moon so firmly entrenched.
All activity seems to fall into it.
Were life not so demanding, I'd slip into it's pull.

After every moment, it calls, tugs.
Become diffuse, backup into velvet.
There, there. Never far from there.
Calling, shining, ever cushioning life.

A quick tug seems to detach the moon.
But oh no.. it always slips back in.
Whatever brings this beauty
Can have me too!

Spinning Way

A steep hill or deep rift,
Is the mind at work on a new construction.
How can the busy mind,
puffing out smoke,
know better than this life?

How do I take this news?
Wrestle and hustle.
I once charged myself,
with this formation.

No hands ever touch creation,
Though the dream spinner offers it.
Only the spinning
Knows the way.

Say Me

Even when dazzled by earthly object trails.
Don't be afraid to say "me."

Be sure to laugh at each self absorbed moment.
Whose life is this anyway?

All things to come, too will pass.
If not here now, will go.

Why not fill your own heart with the love of God?
Even my sister says,
"I know I'm here, and I didn't make myself."

Echoes

Today I heard good news, old news.

Echoes of recent wanderers; scribes.

But today, the sweetness of it penetrated

And made a heart so often still, glad.

All that passes within and without

Passes before my hands, not of them.

If you try to catch emergent thoughts

And wrestle them into bright subjects

You form.

But if you merely acknowledge what flies or spins before you

Whether a breeze or maelstrom,

You will know your Self.

Human Tides

Asking "Why?" is the mandate
Of that slippery mind.
Why believe it's quests?
Delight sends you up for a thrill. 
Are you that because it's strong?

Here comes that sinking.
Dropping to earth, full of dread, woe.
Sticky fingers pull you down; caught!
Take heart. These are our tides.

You are that in which all
things rise and fall.
But the ocean is not merely each thing
That floats to the top, then sinks.
You who suffer... allow it.
Are you not in human form?

Does the ocean object to it's currents?
Does the sky sweep away the birds?
Neither casting out, nor making real is right.

Have you a steady mind, rational thoughts?
Deceiver! Eight hours dreaming dreams,
Then sixteen hours lost in thought.
A lazy life -- all dreaming!
To wake up --  live.

Shift

Turning to beautifully spoken words,

As if I cannot speak myself.

Like one who listens to opera all day.

Appreciating the siren sound,

When I can sing my own song.

I wish I could say turn around.
And say, "See. There."

But even the turning of dervishes
Finds only release. Residues.

Sink back into the only known

The one constant in the heart, sky, and night.

Only, only, the one.
From which all love springs

And dances forth the worldplay.

Not an it, not a thing, only here in the being.

Springs forth luminous embracing silken threads.

Shining through every drop, every thought, everyone.

Fall back into the primal knowing.

You! I mean you! The common you.
The you that you mean when you say you.
You spring from it. See that.

It’s only a small shift of the I, and a tiny nudge from eternity.

One Note Sounds

What have we here?

None of past ideals,

Are rushing front and center.

Your path winds up, like mine, but

On different roads and waters.

You see what I thought I hid.

You make me laugh at clever lines.

You pull me in while I’m running away.

It feels like years of well worn steps

Have already been taken.

Ideas against, just falter and die.

Who can argue against the smooth,
workings of fate?

Ready to bolt. Ready to stay.
Ready to see what happens.

Oh so quiet, one note sounds.

The music starts, and we are dancing.

Losing Awareness

“Why”, you ask, “don’t we stay in awareness?”

When being reveals itself...or rather,

When focus illuminates existence.

Simple.

It finds nothing remarkable.

Ordinary, knowing of life.   

Just living. 

Coffee, windows, and shoes.

So, we bookmark it.

Like those articles we want to read later.

Preferring a role with familiarity

Not to say spice.

Can’t seem to remember the stage

While the play is running.

To forget is divine.

The playwright's intent.

But there are those who can’t stop

Watching from the wings.

Admiring the props and actors.

Appreciating the lighting.

Sensing the energy that unfolding
Is a play and only that.
To know that it’s theater is

To rest as the stage itself, inclusive.

Sometimes the director comes out and

talks about the production.

The audience smiles appreciatively,

Tolerantly.

But can’t wait to get home to bed.

No Name

Don’t name a stone,  

Or the stream it lays by.

Even the trees are orphans.

This sensing, feeling thing

Comes waltzing in.

Carrying price tags,

Authentication labels.

Do I claim the waltz as my dance?

Its only a tune I

Can’t get out of my mind.

Let the chords ring themselves out.

When upset comes.

Don’t try to clean house.

The dust will only settle into cracks

And make you cough later.

When a strong wind brings

A troop of wild dancers to your town

And their relatives too,

Don’t try to run them out.

Sit with them, let them swirl.

They are only ghosts from the past.

Strings of DNA sliding across

Your field, into view

Invited, but not asked to stay.

Begrudged, and loved.

Dance, if you feel like it.

If it troubles you, let it go.

Shortly,
If you feel generous,

Let them pass on,

without paying a toll.

To Live

Believe, and you are transported

To childhood, pleasing to live.

Uphold, and you will be chained

To a train, hoping to arrive on time.

Is life is aligned with flexible principles

and dammed up, dumbed down feelings?

Take a chance. Fly into a rage,

Soar into jealousy. Cry into grief.

Let the monstrous wave you thought

Was better left alone

Tear through your day.

It would be presumptuous to say, Live.

You were already living. Lite.

One Line Poem

This bird turns into something.

Going Somewhere?

Why pretend that your crazy, souped-up, cyclonic mind is going somewhere?
That your water runs deeper than sages, deeper than the core of earth.
Trust, if you can, in mystics' paths that wind through labyrinths of time.
I'm glad your meditation purrs into Kundalini fireworks up your spine.
Fall back, if you must, on ancient scripts and find Love there.
Lapse into daydreaming, serious funks, or fits of laughter.
Where could you go that could be called pristine?
Holy poets sang the heart songs, that lead us.
But when I am in my head and know it,
I hear the GPS' words: "Recalculating"
Later, a slight ringing in my ears,
Is all the wisdom available.

Entrouvert

Are you an unraveled thread hanging on a garment?
Not part of the fabric.
Not yet swept up with the dust?
Entrouvert.

Like Janus, spirit of the doors,
One facing into concentration,
the other into rest.
Peering into "Oh" and glancing back.
How can we recognize our self
when we are spread so thin?

It is not obey, but abeyance.
Not a thrill but still.
That I was like something seen in a photo album.
Me, but then, gone.
Today's vistas command the
only attention there is.

Sing Under Guard

Surrender yourself as if under guard.

You don’t own yourself.

And never did.

Nothing to choose.  Nowhere to go.

Strong silent commands lend movement, direction:

Go here, do that.

Let the pure radiance of no will

Seep into your edges.

Move from that deep place.

Thoughts have no end.

Just do every chore, from the center of your deep heart.

Walk around, untethered to your senses.

Sing under guard. Make love under guard.

Nothing you can do, or say, will change what is.

You cannot be lost.
                                                    (revised from 2005)

In The Moment

Take this moment as it comes.

Wait for nothing better, nothing worse.

Ride the day like a sleepy child on a shoulder.

Carried, watchful, trusting.

Contribute nothing.

Get ready to lose your most precious self.

Choose drama or freedom.

No right, no wrong, just dreaming.

Create no causes, own nothing.

Drop everything you carried.

Watch thoughts rise and fall.

They are not yours.

Who am I? What am I?

Well you may ask.

Names from the past dissolve.

To tell the Truth…say nothing.

What do the eyes see?

Pure stillness, in motion.

Love incarnate,

in all that is.

Is this all?

Everything is here.

Be curious.

Hints abound!
                                                        (revised from 2005)

Clever Words and High Walls

If I oppose the moment,

with some thought about yesterday.

Flying over Now to get someplace else.

Where have I misplaced that peace?

Nothing is to be found in fixing, dreaming, improving.

Only here can I rest or resist.

Mind content holds all that manifests.

Unfolding secretly, to those who have their own ideas.

Openly, to those with curious hearts.

Opposition sustains me.

It runs full out, often enough.

Kidnapped, swept away, transfixed.

Then something takes a hand. Decoupled.

Slowly leads me from the wild dancing to a chair.

Laughing. Where is the external really?

Over the high walls we are so fond of?

Under substantial platforms?

Clever words can leave faint smiles,

But behind that, it’s wide open.

A View

Desire is anticipatory happiness;
Dread is prophylactic unhappiness.
If I only stagger through rows of sheared feelings,
I am forever wedged between them and source,
between then and soon.

Keeping my head and heart down like some
stage actor whose thinks the performance is commendable.
Only to find that the audience has gone home.
Ghostly maybe's float transparently about,
Weaving their way through conversations
Held now.

Is there hope for the perennially serene?
When does serenity come from surfing,
and not swimming?
Oh, yes. Life has a way of
sinking the ship.
There is a level of truth that can only
come from diving straight down.
How can such a watery journey
Lead to such fire?!

A Warm Day

Warm weather sneaks in between crossed off days in  February.
There is delight in what slips in.
A beautiful walk in which thought daunts nothing.
A few wisps curl around the edges
Mostly here and there and 
the occasional smile from strangers.
Work is on the way,  I relax.


Two women say "what a beautiful house,
imagine living on the top floor"
"I used to live there," I say,
"And it was nice."
How strange they know the best room at once.
Delight all around. A new appreciation of 
simple coincidence.


A bird encountered boldly on a branch,
flies off when my steps come near.
The cat cripples a bird and plays with it before killing.
My birdseed is a neon sign for a cat buffet.
Me, ruffled, the cat pleased, and God pleased in any case.
Nature always wins.
The day unfolds without needing  my blessing.
It is enough.