Friday, March 20, 2015

equinox eclipse

an equinox devoid of equanimity
an eclipse resets the ego
‘have you tried turning it off then on again’
yes, thank you…
perhaps this time…

wishing for a moment I could be
an eternal optimist like a pet dog
or a penis
instead I doze, steeped in the fickleness of a feline
with the attention span of an frustrated squirrel

awaiting a third stanza
to arise to save this from mediocrity
and irrelevancy
I search in the darkness for something

that will turn me back on

Wednesday, July 9, 2014


I wake up to silence
every morning in this castle
without my trusted dogs this time
choosing to be alone then
sometimes wallowing in loneliness
the rejection I projected
reflected back to me

I am learning
how I create
watching my addictions
going along with them
following them home for tea
enjoying the fictions I imagine

here I can stay undressed
until I take my body for an adventure
walking it instead of a dog
trips to the store alone
cooking for one
I always make too much

next door two terriers sometimes worry
about a deer, quietly munching in this yard
squirrels tirelessly attack the bird feeder
a cardinal waits until they’ve tired
not noticing he has no head feathers
and I wonder about pesticides and bees

the floorboards creak as I walk
the air stirred gently by the fan
a microclimate of solitude and quiet
day night and in between
surrounded by cicadas and frogs
500 yards away cars pass by

twice a day I practice sitting
once a day I tire myself outside
often I pace the house reading
I distract myself far too late into the night
I try to find discipline to write
I bask in gratitude for my guardian angels

but really I am pausing
letting the unnameable work
so more often I will notice
when the quality arises
that allows me the clarity
to see many things better, but also
to know why I still dream about you

Krishnamurti tea

Hope is a belief that something will improve in the future. Despair is a belief that nothing will improve in the future. Hope contains a belief that the past and present are no good. Despair contains a belief that the past was the best possibility and the present is no good. We swing between both, ropes creaking, gripping tightly, burning our palms.

The mind adores routine, worships the known. It will perform all kinds of gymnastics to cling to certainty. Routines of life are built and polished, decorated and painted brightly to evoke permanence. Predictability is comforting because it supports the mind's story of what life is. Patterns of thought and reaction build, until the expectations created from the foundational beliefs the mind has carefully organized from its limited experience are perceived as needs, causing desire to become grasping and attachment.

Desire can only be tamed by that which cannot be named by the mind, but what might be known as love. Otherwise, desire is a wild power, and from what the mind narrowly perceives and has already experienced in the past desire creates an idol, a story. The image inflates into a mirage of epic proportions until all possibility of seeing truth is lost. Until it ends.

"There is always an ending to that which is incomplete."

And so I travel. Then I stay. Here I am silent. There I participate. I am inside and out, sometimes at the same time.

Some of us have trouble seeing clearly.
Some of us want truth so much (and also, clearly, do not) that will we again and again try to leave our certainty behind. And then we notice that we've brought our certainty-seeking along. The judging deciding organizing mind. We still use the mind with the will to discipline, define, illuminate, understand, control... and we still hope to understand truth with insight the mind can grasp.
Again and again we tear down the false walls we keep building so beautifully, and we dive forward past what we know to be illusions, seeking truth. While building a new structure each time.

But eventually we see that seeking is the problem. Hoping for truth means we believe it is not with us right now. Right here.

So some of us keep changing our here. Keep changing our now. Then staying here. Staying now. Then changing again. Inviting contrast, swinging from hope to despair, from certainty to fear, from illusion to devastation...

And in the space, in the brief moment where the pendulum is centered, clarity dawns.
And the mind overtakes and swings again!

But there is a space now open for truth.
In case at some point I want it more than the gratification of the search.

Monday, July 7, 2014


addiction             habit            compulsion            dependence            craving                        infatuation

identifying with thoughts
defining and putting parts of the world
into organized boxes of concepts
imagining we will be more complete
if we could possess more
avoiding the emptiness

everyone’s mind decides good or bad
no one’s mind does not say I want this and not that

but when we pick a rock from the stream
bring it closer
judge it in more detail
we notice flaws, darkness
we see it is just as bright as the last pebble
and believe another shimmering jewel
farther on in the stream
will be more beautiful
will add to our store of loveliness

and so what we yearned for and finally possessed
is instantly relegated to the past
discarded back into the stream
to the category of known and boring
and the mind searches outward again
engaging its radar for that which resembles the past
still safe but seems different
still triggering a kind of pleasure or pain
that has been experienced before

we keep circling the abyss
with eyes turned outward
not noticing our wings
denying our ability to fly

throwing images onto a tiny screen
grasping and analyzing
each flash each dust mote
faster and faster to keep ourselves distracted

when behind us inside us the void is open
yawning and patient
waiting for when we will turn off the screens
put down the stories
stop the work we don’t enjoy
finish wanting to change others
cease groping outside for love
and finally turn inside to see truth

diving off the edge
trusting the wings we have forgotten
gently dissolving and expanding
into that which has no name

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

walt whitman's corpses

Today was the end of another part of my life. A piece of my ego that really wanted to believe a certain story about myself went out in a ball of flames. Very dramatic, painful, and, clearly, necessary.

I had believed for years that I was somehow more skillful ethically than many people, that I protected people and really thought of others first. That the traumas I had survived had taught me to not do anything similar to anyone else. That I was always so careful to not cause harm that somehow I was above the fray in that way. That I would never cause someone else undue worry.

So this weekend a situation arose in which my ego latched on to one of my deepest desires and shaped it into an attachment to a certain outcome that would support its concept of reality. A reality in which if the ego wants something in particular, and I am a 'good person,' then I should get the preferred outcome, or at least a gentle lesson and a promise that it might be fulfilled in the future.

But instead, at a certain point my heart and my brain stopped talking to each other, I forgot my true nature and even the other person involved for a short time, because I was amazed that a particular outcome seemed to be happening. I let myself stare into the thrall of the ego. The story became my single pointed focus. And when, a few minutes too late, my brain woke up and paused the drama going on to reassess the reality of the game being played, everything came crashing to a halt.

So, no, I am obviously not above making disastrous mistakes. No, I am not different than any other human. Yes, I can act so unskillfully that I create suffering for myself and possibly for others- depending on what story they believe about it. Yes, I still have voids in my system that my ego tries to fill by looking outside myself for validation, love, interest and approval. And no, I don't have a handle on my emotional reactions yet and tend to be so hard on myself that I make myself physically ill.

The end of illusions is cause for celebration. When shit hits the fan, those who intend to love you will try to figure out what to do next rather than bailing entirely. Your friends that truly know you will remind you who you are and forgive you if you can't forgive yourself yet, because they know who you are better than you do sometimes. To be truly compassionate to others, first you have to look inside yourself at your worst horrific parts, the things you never thought you'd forget to do, the things you never imagined would happen because of something you did, and the most terrifying things that you did imagine that finally did come true, and caused your world to end one more shattering time.

My good friend Drew reminded me of the poem below this weekend, which seems to articulate this trip's effect on me so far. Peeling away fears, anger, sadness and despair, all the stories I wish were true about myself, others, the world, all of the concepts I hold onto and the characters I have played and still want to play. Everything is falling away, or being ripped away... or I am lighting it on fire unintentionally after soaking it with gasoline... Letting go is so painful sometimes, and seeing my own fallibility mirrored back through someone I love's dark gaze of anger and disgust is mortifying.

I bid you welcome, my worst case scenario. This ego is yours to destroy, devour, disembowel.

But truly, this is my practice too. Seeing the truth of things, of people, of my small self. Watching the cycle of birth and death, even of concepts and dreams. Learning to act from my core and true Self, but still getting caught up in ego and attachment pathways instead. This is how we all create suffering. If I can't tolerate it in myself and learn from my own wrecked life, how can I understand others, and how can I pretend to practice compassion and more skillful behaviors?

It's time to see my stories for what they are. To see my expectations and the reactions and attachments that are fueling them. To watch my dreams, and my ego, and every character it comes up with, die.

O LIVING always—always dying!
O the burials of me, past and present!

O me, while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever!

O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not—I am content;)

O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at, where I cast them!
To pass on, (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind!

-walt whitman