The Life Within Life

Modern-Day Life can appear to be idiotic.

And thankless.  And sometimes pointless.  And often: highly disturbing.  We tend to look and find things in the outer stratosphere that justify our fears, beliefs, positions and prejudices on the inner sphere.  And then, become a little more rattled… and a little more distressed.

Turbulence.  Politics.  Pollution.  Inhumanity.  “Yes”, it’s there. And yes, it hurts.

owlie

But the trouble is, our focus gets hijacked.  By several things.  The big one is the news media.  I’m not saying they’re bad, or even wrong.  But they’ve developed this habit and this inclination over time, to dwell on the worst possible aspects of humanity and shove it down our throats.  And we have developed this bad habit over time, of eagerly eating it all up.  Without batting an eye.

But the thing is, there’s so much more going on in the world that just “that”.   SO MUCH!  So much that’s humanly positive, life-affirming … acts of kindness and beauty among human beings.  Acts of huge charity by individuals and organizations.  Lives saved by medical and crisis intervention.  Lives helped by modern-day heroes who rise to the occasion and give to their fellow men.

These things don’t get any mention, or very little.  Maybe sequestered to the back page, lower right, one-third inch column space.  “Wow”.   And all the mayhem and betrayal and dishonesty and rip-offs, spread across the front cover, for your beady and hungry little eyes to digest.

Which one do you want?

fall vegetables - pumpkin, squash, etcI want BEAUTY and I want a lot of it.  I want a lot of it, because I am a human being and I deserve all I can get.  I deserve to be overdosed on kindness and acts of human generosity.  I deserve to be reminded of the amazing world we live in, and of the amazing lives we’re gifted with … every day, and every second.  I deserve to consume what nourishes the heart and inspires creativity, what feeds the soul and reminds us of our greatness, our wonder, our miracle of consciousness that is granted to us by life, day after day.

I need all these affirmations.  Celebrations.  Libations.  FEASTS – for eyes, heart and intellect.  “Walking in Color”.  Living – truly – in the light of creation, not the darkness and despair of confused men.   And this all mainstream media knows how to portray, is the mangled world of confused men.  We deserve more.  We ARE more.  We can get more, give more, live more and love more … with these simple understandings: that we don’t deserve to be eating up this garbage every day and whining and complaining.  We deserve to be joyful. 

So, make the choices that create that.

It’s not hard.  It’s actually easy-pie.  Anyone can do it.  Little kids know how to do it.  They haven’t forgotten that art of play and the magnificence of “life in the moment”.  It’s ours if we want to recover it, take it back.  No one took it away from us, we GAVE it away!!

So, take it back!

 


 

We Who Walk …

They say we’re just passing through this place…
that we won’t be here again.
That there’s scenery along the way, but it doesn’t matter.
That there’s cheap clothing and expensive clothing, but we are buried in rags and our bones turn to dust, so what’s the Big Deal … Armani vs Value Village?
Passing Through Life

 

They say that no one really knows our journey except We Who Walk It … they say that no one ever really hears what we say, except We Who Say It [ and half the time we’re not listening anyway ], so … what’s all the Noise About. Anyway.

Is Anyone Listening?

They say that No One every goes “back”; that we all go forward only. There is no going back. There is no “back”. You turn around and the cozy home you left is a pillar of salt, or an empty lot, or mummified cat left by a Pharaoh to some unknown Goddess. “Back” is not a word that exists in many languages.

They say we’re just passing through this place: walking determinedly or dancing. Or sometime stumbling. Or a Silly Walk like Monty Python, or a Handicapped walk, like a Frog whose legs were lost in a Romantic French Restaurant … But it’s our very own Walk. And do we LIKE IT, they ask, with that funny Psychotherapist Look in their eyes, DO WE LIKE IT.

Do we like this Little Walk in the Park, this Very Short Walk, this Momentary Walk Under the Aboriginal Skies, this Pastel Walk in a Field of Dreams, this Halting and Struggling Uphill Climb to some Temple we hope exists at the Very Peak of The Tibetan Mountain of the Dead …

They say we’re just Visitors Here. The guests of some Unknown King. Rented Vehicles and False Passports. Secret Agents who have forgotten their Assignment.

And the Dome of Silence is lowered once again. And * Ah Yes * now I remember my assignment. Smell the Colors, Water the Flowers. Nourish the one Seed that bears the Sweetest Fruit.

… and Taste
… this Fragrance
… called “Magic”

Mandala of Me …

MANDALAS.
So, there is a Secret Art defined…

Some things speak to us: they are intricate, scientific, complex, inviting, technical. I always understood mathematics – to some degree. Logarithms could be exponential, or just plain boring. “Algorithms” can be a matrix of proportional expressions that Google uses to judge a website’s worth.

Or an “algorithm” could be the matrix of your dysfunctional family’s ingrown communications protocols. The matrix we grew up in, is sometimes the matrix we still sit in, unless we’re truly “left home”.

Sometimes, you have to “leave home” to find home.

Or … let’s just say ALWAYS.

Mandala Aloe Verra
This Thing follows you around wherever you go…

A MANDALA, according to my momentary cauldron of uninhibited thought processes, is a symmetrical chemical arrangement, where eons of light have traveled through several Milky Ways, just to fall on your cheap computer screen and arrange “pixels” – made in China – in a way that reminds you of your innate and deep core or center.

I am awed by this sort of thing.

Partly because of the inherent beauty in such an easily-contrived mixture of bad photography and good computer graphics. Partly because it speaks of the Unlimited Arrangement of Things Possible.

Remember Drugs?

Remember what we saw through our Closed Eyes and Open Pupils back in the sixties? We don’t forget that because it spoke to us. Again: about the Deep Arrangement of Things that Occurred Long Before We Were Born.

And the Voice it spoke with is the Voice that is still speaking. The Deep Arrangement of Things. The Arranger. The Lone Arranger.

It’s kind of like the Inner Florist Shop of God. Contains all these Astounding Blueprints of Life. Molecular Chemistry that would blow David Suzuki’s Fuzzy Skull apart. Things Secret to us that are Beyond Sacred, known by All, Discussed by Few, Enjoyed by only a Handful.

And offered to YOU.

Winter’s Ways …

There’s something in Winter Branches.
Maybe the Cold Rain.
Maybe the Pearls of Wind hard diamonds of Sun
Stray Light of a Season Lost
A questionable friend with Bright Eyes
and Frozen Limbs.
Branches of Winter, Hands of Spring
The Way of Wood
Tears Lingering are now Ice
The memory is a Leaf that Died
The smell is sweet rotten Love;
the Life that Lied to us, Fed us,
Renewed us, Spit us out, Held us
We have nowhere left to Run.
Jewels of Winter's Frozen Fingers
We Multiplied and became Freeways
we Died inside our Cars but loved the Movies
that guided us to Stars
and drank from our Already-Empty Cups
We were cut by our own Blades
and Melted inside our own sun
Cooked to Perfection in the Big Karmic Kiln…
discontented Freeways of the Heart ...
There’s a Million Pearls
And a Million Stars
Sun seems Distant
But it’s Not Really Far
the Light you see now
Has already died
Unless the Light you’re Looking At
Is the Light Inside …
A Million Lights Have Died, except the Light Inside ...
That tree, you see,
is the Tree of Life
It grows on the Island
that knows no Strife.
“Pretty” is a word for parrots
and it won’t take you home.
These words are useless because
they leave you all alone.
This word, and this Tree,
and all the lights ever to Live
are all Switched On
Me Tree, Inside the Seed of Life ...
Inside of Me.

Prisoner of the Fall …

We are Leaves.
We are Trees.
We understand the Small Words
Between the Sentences of Things.

Red Rubies - Prisoner of Autumn

Leaves are Alive in their Demise.
Laughing at Eternity and it’s Approaching Fingers.
We all go There.

Some with Less Color.
Others with Loud Voices.

Laughing Leaves - Dying Season

I talk to you about Escape
And  you tell me  your Dreams are too Comfortable.
I point out the Holes in the Fence
But you refuse to Bend and Fold

if only to crawl Hands & Knees
into the Arms of Beauty

Caught in a Cage

I have Wasted Only a Day
In the Kingdom of Flowers
in the Dignity and Dying Embers of Fall.

these Colors I take Home
and serve New Gravy
on Old Casseroles
to the Guest …
Scattered Soldiers of the Sun

… who Comes and Goes with the Wind.

Doorsteps & Footprints …

 

Raining Gold, and No One Knows...

The Call of Fall.

It speaks and we Listen.

There’s something reassuring about this.  It’s the smells of dying leaves and the colors stirred by November’s winds.  Perhaps a Childhood we once knew.

It speaks of Cycles.  Old Age.  Endings and Birthings.  Nature’s voice – again – among our many Trials and Distractions.  We settle into the warm winds and let them take Umbrellas for a ride.  Like Mary Poppins we Fly.  Over trails, worries, hills, dread, sabotage, relinquishment, hibernation, dreams.

And the familiar song calls us back.  “Us”.  Our Life.  Our Path.  Our feeling of wholeness, belonging, resolve, rest, arrival.

Doorsteps for our Footprints.

It’s a beautiful time of year.

Our region has been blessed this fall with some Days of Sun.  This is the Best Way – in fact the Only Way … to truly see the beauty of the season.  Vancouver’s perennial rain has taken many tolls on many souls.  We won’t get started on that.  Let us instead, dear congregation – sing the Hymn Of Autumn Sun.  Spectacular!  Uplifting!  Cinematography at its best.

The Homely Ancient Wine of Autumn-Land ...

So, the Triumph.

The war with no battle.  The win-win situation of this Elemental Nature that gives and gives and gives.  Our only challenge is to engage in it and bathe in it and delight in it and drink from it and revive our tired tissues in its fragrant and nourishing breezes.

This is the “church” of the “god” that really DOES exist.  The jubilant voice of Nature, within us and without.  Pay attention to the within … and you’ll be blown away by the without.

Without the within, there is no without, or the without – at most – is just passing scenery, a foreign movie by an unknown director.  Within the within, there is the Director, Producer, Cameraman and Audience … all-together-now breathing in unison … this infinite, momentary, delicious and delightful nugget of the sublime: one moment in the passing fad called “My Life”.

Noteworthy, I assure you.

Appreciation.  Of this time we have.  And it does pass by faster, as we age.  We’re told this, and we acknowledge this.  Something about the cycles and seasons and Wheels of Fire that spin us: they burn an important message into our heart: “Mortality”.

Mortality.

*Hmmm.*

A friend recently narrated an experience she’d had at a party, where the hostess made a sarcastic remark about looking in the mirror and seeing the signs of age progressing.  But after that off-handed dismissal, the subject was changed, and not re-visited.

And she wondered why.  And we shook our heads.  Well we know why.  It’s one of those unwritten, but blindly obeyed rulings about what we can and can’t say.  The “approved discussions” at social gatherings include, movies, politics, the weather … but not Mortality.  Well, isn’t that peculiar.

Astounding Morning Invitation to Sip on the Nectar of the Moment ....

We all celebrate the Day We Arrived.  Every year. And others’ Big Days. The congrats and confetti.  And may you enjoy many more.  But that “other” big day … the one that awaits us all … *uh* … let’s not go there.

Well the TREES GO THERE.  Look at that one right above us.  Those leaves are not coming back.  And in their passing, Their Mortality … they Dance.  They Delight.  They speak beauties indescribable to the eyes.  They literally sing.

Perhaps they’re humble.

Perhaps they haven’t accumulated SUV’s and RRSP’s and little picket-fence cabins on the Lakeside.  They don’t boast and swagger and hesitate and doubt and waste endless time pursuing fantasies of an endless “mind”.  Perhaps they’re just obeying their innate blueprint.

Perhaps the only problem is that we don’t know the sweetness of our Mortality, something like the smell of November Leaves.  The sweetness of our Mortality is that it’s touched by the Breath of Our Immortality, the immortal within.  Without the knowledge of this, then, all we have is religion, beliefs, the mascara of the mind, the man-made perfume of the pundits and priests.  That Old Musty Smell.

Doorstep Yet To Travel

So, my Blueprint Sings on this Quiet day.  Another setting sun.  Another leaf departs from another branch, never to return.  Never to look back, to lament to regret, to grieve.

This is one Doorstep all of our Footprints will pass over.  No need to knock. But something in the Dance of Life carries us, loves us, informs us, whispers the Essential Notices in our ears.  And our True Nature Speaks.

We Listen.

Paper of Empty ~ Vessel of Song

The Notebook of Life is open
the Pen rests quietly on an Empty Page

this Pen has written on Many Pages
this Pen will write on pages to come.

This Pen now rests on an Empty Page
an Empty Page in mid-October Sun.

In Resting & Renewal, there is an Understanding
of Silence; a Gentle Marriage to the Still Places
of Life.

Inside these Still Places, there is a conversation
with our own Deeper Wisdom, our own Inner Friend;
A Drink from the Fountain that flows at River’s Source.

The Notebook is Open
The Pen rests quietly on the Empty Page
There is Nothing to Begin,
Because Everything has already Begun

There is Nothing to End

Because Everything is Over,
everything we ever Started …

The only thing Not Ending, and Not Begining,
is the Wonder Beyond Words
Which there are no words for, no pens for, no paper for;
no Formalities, Rituals or Celebrations
that Do Justice
to the Unsung Song.

The Pen rests in Silence
It’s tip in Wet Eternal Kiss
on Empty Paper.

All songs have been sung,
and no words have sprung
From this Overflowing
Vessel
of Song.