Mindfulness Poetry

Arching under the night sky inky with black expansiveness, we point to the planets we know, we pin quick wishes on stars. From earth, we read the sky as if it is an unerring book of the universe, expert and evident. Still, there are mysteries below our sky: the whale song, the songbird singing its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree. We are creatures of constant awe, curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom, at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow. And it is not darkness that unites us, not the cold distance of space, but the offering of water, each drop of rain, each rivulet, each pulse, each vein. O second moon, we, too, are made of water, of vast and beckoning seas. We, too, are made of wonders, of great and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds, of a need to call out through the dark.

a spell to cast upon meeting a stranger, comrade or friend working for social and/or environmental justice and liberation:

you are a miracle walking i greet you with wonder in a world which seeks to own your joy and your imagination you have chosen to be free, every day, as a practice. i can never know the struggles you went through to get here, but i know you have swum upstream and at times it has been lonely

i want you to know i honor the choices you made in solitude and i honor the work you have done to belong i honor your commitment to that which is larger than yourself and your journey to love the particular container of life that is you

you are enough your work is enough you are needed your work is sacred you are here and i am grateful

All I have to do

is let it go –

like a falcon

releasing a rabbit;

like an athlete

relinquishing a golden dream;

like a hungry child

tossing a ripe mango

into the sun.

All I have to do

I dread.

What happens

if I can’t let go?

What happens if I can?

Surely it is safer

not to experiment –

for – see here –

I am not alone!

I recognize you, fellow monkeys,

clinging to the thresholds

of normality.

Rattling imprisoned limbs,

You dare me to desert.

All I have to do,

I do.

Finger by finger

I loosen my grip.

I let it go.

There was no banana.

Only a fist

contorted by fear,

choking the innocent air.

Now I understand that there are two melodies playing,

one below the other, one easier to hear, the other

lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard

yet always present.

When all other things seem lively and real,

this one fades. Yet the notes of it

touch as gently as fingertips, as the sound

of the names laid over each child at birth.

I want to stay in that music without striving or cover.

If the truth of our lives is what it is playing,

the telling is so soft

that this mortal time, this irrevocable change,

becomes beautiful. I stop and stop again

to hear the second music.

I hear the children in the yard, a train, then birds.

All this is in it and will be gone. I set my ear to it as I would to a heart.

Is my soul asleep? Have those beehives that work in the night stopped. And the water- wheel of thought, is it going around now, cups empty, carrying only shadows?

No, my soul is not asleep It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open, far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

Excerpt from full poem "Last Night As I Was Sleeping"

Dear one

I see the pain

in your heart —

the gaping wound

that’s been covered

with your good intention

to move on, to be strong,

to let go.

Now

in the stillness of the moment

you are safe to move into it,

to be with it, to turn toward

rather than away.

Trust

that this pain

will not break you.

Trust

that this pain

is made of the same love

that you’ve most longed for.

The wound is your doorway in.

An old Cherokee chief was teaching his grandson about life...

"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.

"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves.

"One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, self-doubt, and ego.

"The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.

"This same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather,

"Which wolf will win?"

The old chief simply replied,

"The one you feed."

There is no controlling life. Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado. Dam a stream and it will create a new channel. Resist, and the tide will sweep you off your feet. Allow, and grace will carry you to higher ground. The only safety lies in letting it all in – the wild and the weak; fear, fantasies, failures and success. When loss rips off the doors of the heart, or sadness veils your vision with despair, practice becomes simply bearing the truth. In the choice to let go of your known way of being, the whole world is revealed to your new eyes

Why wait for your awakening?

The moment your eyes are open, seize the day.

Would you hold back when the Beloved beckons?

Would you deliver your litany of sins like a child’s collection of sea shells, prized and labeled?

“No, I can’t step across the threshold,” you say, eyes downcast.

“I’m not worthy” I’m afraid, and my motives aren’t pure.

I’m not perfect, and surely I haven’t practiced nearly enough.

My meditation isn’t deep, and my prayers are sometimes insincere.

I still chew my fingernails, and the refrigerator isn’t clean.

“Do you value your reasons for staying small more than the light shining through the open door?

Forgive yourself.

Now is the only time you have to be whole.

Now is the sole moment that exists to live in the light of your true Self.

Perfection is not a prerequisite for anything but pain.

Please, oh please, don’t continue to believe in your disbelief.

This is the day of your awakening.

Just for now, Without asking how, Let yourself sink into stillness.

Just for now, lay down the weight You so patiently bear upon your shoulders.

Feel the earth receive you, And the infinite expanse of the sky grow even wider, As your awareness reaches up to meet it.

Just for now, Allow a wave of breath to enliven your experience.

Breathe out whatever blocks you from the truth.

Just for now, Be boundless, free, With awakened energy tingling in your hands and feet.

Drink in the possibility, Of being who and what you really are, So fully alive that the world looks different, Newly born and vibrant, Just for now.

Sometimes my meditation cushion

is more wrestling mat than oasis.

It’s embarrassing how often I release

the same distracted thoughts.

Again and again I bring myself back to the moment as it is.

Not good, not bad, not even neutral.

Just life unfolding with me in it.

Just here and now reality.

Just this.

Just this.

Just this.

Let go of the ways you thought life would unfold; the holding of plans or dreams or expectations – Let it all go. Save your strength to swim with the tide.

The choice to fight what is here before you now will only result in struggle, fear, and desperate attempts to flee from the very energy you long for.

Let go. Let it all go and flow with the grace that washes through your days whether you receive it gently or with all your quills raised to defend against invaders.

Take this on faith: the mind may never find the explanations that it seeks, but you will move forward nonetheless.

Let go, and the wave’s crest will carry you to unknown shores, beyond your wildest dreams or destinations. Let it all go and find the place of rest and peace, and certain transformation.

Sun says, “Be your own illumination”. Wren says, “Sing your heart out, all day long”. Stream says, “Do not stop for any obstacle”. Oak says, “When the wind blows, bend easily, and trust your roots to hold”. Stars say, “What you see is one small slice of a single modest galaxy. Remember that vastness cannot be grasped by mind”. Ant says, “Small does not mean powerless”. Silence says nothing. In the quiet, everything comes clear. I say, “Limitless”. I say, “Yes”.

I used to think that

being smart, successful,

and accomplished was

the key. And then I

believed that being a

disciplined seeker would

open the doors to divinity.

Now it seems to me all

that really matters is

being kind – kind to my

stumbling, imperfect self,

kind to every other being

I meet along the way.

I pray for the rough edges

of my judgment to be

smoothed so what remains

is kindness and acceptance

of this unfolding moment.

Inside this kindness may I

find truth and may truth

illumine my way today.

Release the harsh and pointed inner

voice. it's just a throwback to the past,

and holds no truth about this moment.

Let go of self-judgment, the old,

learned ways of beating yourself up

for each imagined inadequacy.

Allow the dialogue within the mind

to grow friendlier, and quiet. Shift

out of inner criticism and life

suddenly looks very different.

i can say this only because I make

the choice a hundred times a day to release the voice that refuses to

acknowledge the real me.

What's needed here isn't more prodding toward perfection, but

intimacy - seeing clearly, and

embracing what I see.

Love, not judgment, sows the

seeds of tranquility and change.

It only takes a reminder to breathe,

a moment to be still, and just like that,

something in me settles, softens, makes

space for imperfection. The harsh voice

of judgment drops to a whisper and I

remember again that life isn't a relay

race; that we will all cross the finish

line; that waking up to life is what we

were born for. As many times as I

forget, catch myself charging forward

without even knowing where I'm going,

that many times I can make the choice

to stop, to breathe, and be, and walk

slowly into the mystery.

What weight can you

put down right now,

willingly relinquishing

the pointed quills of

guilt or judgment?

What burden of the heart

can lift, what dark corner

can be lit, the candle

flickering at first, then

burning bright?

With the next breath,

let it go, that old story

you’ve told yourself

a million times.

Whatever doesn’t serve

you on this path of truth,

leave it behind. Offer

this one gift: the simple

sacrifice that in the giving

sets you free to fully live.

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you” when someone sneezes, a leftover from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying. And sometimes, when you spill lemons from your grocery bag, someone else will help you pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot, and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass. We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here, have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”

I feel like getting on my rooftop and yelling through a megaphone that can be beamed into every annoyed, irritated, weary, stressed, scared, struggling person’s heartspace:

“WHAT WE HUMANS ARE DOING IS BREATHTAKING AND SO PROFOUNDLY BEAUTIFUL!"

We are taking extreme measures to protect the vulnerable.

In the process,

We are sacrificing routine, comfort, predictability.

We are often losing planned vacations and trips, income, entire businesses, significant savings.

We are homeschooling our kids without backgrounds in education.

Weddings and many other significant milestone celebrations are being postponed, canceled or happening hastily and not as desired and planned.

We are tolerating boredom. Anxiety. Stress. Frustration. Pain. Fear.

And across the planet, humans everywhere, are doing this.

To protect the vulnerable.

So remember this!

Tell this to yourself each morning.

Tell your children this (age appropriately!).

This beautiful, tender, universally collective act of care, consideration, kindness and generosity.

And –

Perhaps the vulnerable are actually the ones protecting us.

May we all be healthy and safe.

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you, If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you.

Enough. These few words are enough. If not these words, this breath. If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to life we have refused again and again until now.

Until now.

Those who will not slip beneath the still surface of the well of grief turning downward through its black water to the place we cannot breathe will never know the source from which we drink, the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins thrown away by those who wished for something else.

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other’s welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

On those days, when you miss someone the most,

as though your memories, are sharp enough, to slice through skin and bone,

remember how they loved you.

Remember how they loved you, and do that, for yourself.

In their name, in their honour.

Love yourself, as they loved you.

They would like that.

On those days when you miss someone the most, love yourself harder.

Do you think peace requires an end to war? Or tigers eating only vegetables? Does peace require an absence from your boss, your spouse, yourself? … Do you think peace will come some other place than here? Some other time than Now? In some other heart than yours?

Peace is this moment without judgment. That is all. This moment in the Heart-space where everything that is is welcome. Peace is this moment without thinking that it should be some other way, that you should feel some other thing, that your life should unfold according to your plans.

Peace is this moment without judgment, this moment in the heart-space where everything that is is welcome.

Somewhere in our train of thought there always is a quiet car mostly unused waiting

In our emotional

life

we have many

pockets

where we store

our countless

feelings

There’s one for

joy

and one for

sorrow

one for

pride and

one for

shame

there's one

for fear

and one for

peace

one for love,

one for

hate

In these pockets

you know

what’s there

even before

you reach in

But what

could be found

in a pocket of

of silence?

Its very muteness may

cause you to think:

Nothing

But go calmly,

and it's here

where you’ll find

your true

self.

we think

))))))))) itrushesby

or moves

oh . . . so . . . slow

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ly

we say

we must be

careful

with it

so we don’t

lose it

and then

must go find

some more

We think Time

can be measured

by ticks and tocks

of counting clocks

or saved like

money

in a bank so

we’ll have it

to spend

later

But, I ask,

is the ticking

and the tocking

the important part?

Consider

all the empty

spaces

in between

Tick

Tick

Tick

Isn’t that a

beautiful canvas

on which to paint

a nourishing life?

– for anxious A

Bad things are going to happen.

Your tomatoes will grow a fungus

and your cat will get run over.

Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream

melting in the car and throw

your blue cashmere sweater in the dryer.

Your husband will sleep

with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling

out of her blouse. Or your wife

will remember she’s a lesbian

and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—

the one you never really liked—will contract a disease

that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth

every four hours. Your parents will die.

No matter how many vitamins you take,

how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,

your hair, and your memory. If your daughter

doesn’t plug her heart

into every live socket she passes,

you’ll come home to find your son has emptied

the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,

and called the used-appliance store for a pickup—drug money.

The Buddha tells a story of a woman chased by a tiger.

When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine

and climbs halfway down. But there’s also a tiger below.

And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out

and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point

she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.

She looks up, down, at the mice.

Then she eats the strawberry.

So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse

in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,

slip on the bathroom tiles in a foreign hotel

and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.

Oh, taste how sweet and tart

the red juice is, how the tiny seeds

crunch between your teeth.

I am worthy of calm

I belong

in the place where nothing matters

but the here and now

the place where I allow

thoughts to float by

like clouds in the sky

here one moment

and gone the next

this moment in which We are truly blessed:

all moments…

You are worthy of calm

You belong

in the place where love reigns supreme

unity’s more than a dream

it is the way -

the way We all long to be

connected in solidarity

protecting our sacred Mother

in the ways of the sisters and the brothers

before us, wise beyond their time

taking only what they needed to survive

and nothing more….

We are worthy of calm

We belong

in the place where time has no meaning

where ears are ringing

with the sounds of birds singing

where the frogs have gone quiet

from their nocturnal riot

and the only time of consequence

is when the sun leaves and arrives

and all that matters is this moment

in which

We are alive.

Everyone you see, you say to them, Love me. Of course you do not do this out loud; Otherwise, Someone would call the cops. Still though, think about this, This great pull in us To connect. Why not become the one Who lives with a full moon in each eye That is always saying, With that sweet moon language, What every other eye in this world Is dying to Hear.

Noise Is a cruel ruler

Who is always imposing Curfews.

While Stillness and quiet Break open the vintage Bottles,

Awake the real Band.

This sky

this sky

where we live

is no place

to lose your wings

so love, love

love.

We hurry through the so-called boring things

in order to attend to that which we deem

more important, interesting.

Perhaps the final freedom will be a recognition that

everything in every moment is "essential"

and that nothing at all is "important."

We are always

beginning again.

Each time we

slow down to

pause, we reset.

we tap into the

quiet rhythm

beneath internal

and external

noise. We feel

our story in

multitudes,

wordless,

unfiltered,

and for as long

as we can hold,

unjudged. In our

awareness, we

expand. We

become witness

to our own

aliveness.

@innermade

The summer I was ten a teenager named Kim butterflied my hair. Cornrows curling into braids behind each ear.

Everybody’s wearing this style now, Kim said.

Who could try to tell me I wasn’t beautiful. The magic in something as once ordinary as hair that for too long had not been good enough now winged and amazing now connected

to a long line of crowns.

Now connected to a long line of girls moving through Brooklyn with our heads held so high, our necks ached. You must know this too – that feeling

of being so much more than you once believed yourself to be

so much more than your too-skinny arms and too-big feet and too-long fingers and too-thick and stubborn hair

All of us now suddenly seen the trick mirror that had us believe we weren’t truly beautiful suddenly shifts

and there we are

and there we are

and there we are again

and Oh! How could we not have seen ourselves before? So much more

We are so much more.

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

Even now, decades after, I wash my face with cold water—

Not for discipline, nor memory, nor the icy, awakening slap,

but to practice choosing to make the unwanted wanted.

My skeleton, you who once ached with your own growing larger

are now, each year imperceptibly smaller, lighter, absorbed by your own concentration.

When I danced, you danced. When you broke, I.

And so it was lying down, walking, climbing the tiring stairs. Your jaws. My bread.

Someday you, what is left of you, will be flensed of this marriage.

Angular wristbone's arthritis, cracked harp of ribcage, blunt of heel, opened bowl of the skull, twin platters of pelvis— each of you will leave me behind, at last serene.

What did I know of your days, your nights, I who held you all my life inside my hands and thought they were empty?

You who held me all my life inside your hands as a new mother holds her own unblanketed child, not thinking at all.

I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did the work I love. At noon I lay down with my mate. It might have been otherwise. We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks. It might have been otherwise. I slept in a bed in a room with paintings on the walls, and planned another day just like this day. But one day, I know, it will be otherwise.

You don't have to be the best. You only have to be yourself. You only have to be real. And speak from the heart. And know that you have the right to see how you see, and think how you think, and feel what you feel, and desire what you desire. You don't have to be a success in the eyes of the world and you don't have to be an expert. You only have to offer what you offer, breathe how you breathe, make mistakes and fuck up and learn to love your stumbling and say the wrong thing and stop worrying so much about impressing anyone, because in the end you only have to live with yourself, and joy is not given but found in the deepest recesses of your being, so there can be joy in falling and joy in making mistakes and joy in making a fool of yourself and joy in forgetting joy and then holding yourself as you crumble to the ground and weep out the old dreams. Joy is closeness with the one you love: You. You don't have to be the best. You don't have to win. You only have to remember this intimacy with the sky, the nearness of the mountains and feel the warmth of the sun on your face and know that you are alive, and that you are a success, and victorious, without having to prove a damn thing.

Sometimes you don’t get to be a Buddha.

Sometimes you just have to break. And feel.

You have to lose your precious ‘spiritual awakening’.

You just have to be a human being, feeling.

Sometimes old pain resurfaces. Old fear. Sorrow. Trauma.

The searing ache of the abandoned child.

The rage of a forgotten universe.

And suddenly, all of your spiritual insights crumble, all the beautiful spiritual words by the beautiful spiritual teachers, all the concepts and ideas about awakening and enlightenment, and the pure perfection of pure untainted awareness, and the selfless non-self self, and the path to glorious futures, and the wise guru, they suddenly are all meaningless, empty words, second-hand drivel, and dead to you.

What’s real, now, and alive, is the burning in the belly, the fire in the heart.

Unavoidable. Intense. So close. So present.

Sometimes you just have to feel. You have no choice.

And sense your feet on the ground.

And breathe into the discomfort.

And trust, and maybe trust that you cannot trust right now.

And take it moment by moment, by moment, by moment.

And know that nothing is working against you.

And awaken from your dream of how this moment ‘should’ be.

And throw away all your second-hand ideas about the path.

Sometimes your spirituality has to shatter,

so you can finally realise

this deeper spirituality

of feeling, presence, and feet-on-ground living,

and the sound of the birds singing in the distance,

and a total surrender to this one precious moment.

What would happen if we removed the word ‘anxious’ and just paid attention to these flickering sensations in the belly?

What would happen if we took away the concept ‘lonely’ and simply became fascinated with this heavy feeling in the heart area?

What would happen if we deleted the labels ‘sick’ or ‘broken’ or ‘bad’ and just got curious about the tightness in the throat the pressure in the head the ache in the shoulders?

What would happen if we stopped looking for solutions and checked to see if there was actually a problem here?

Let’s come out of the exhausting storyline. It’s not true. It was never true. Commit sacred awareness to a single living moment. Come closer to yourself, Now. Bring warmth to the tender places. Infuse sensation with the light of attention.

It’s never as bad as we think. And always, always more alive.

Willing to experience aloneness,

I discover connection everywhere;

Turning to face my fear,

I meet the warrior who lives within;

Opening to my loss,

I gain the embrace of the universe;

Surrendering into emptiness,

I find fullness without end.

Each condition I flee from pursues me,

Each condition I welcome transforms me

And becomes itself transformed

Into its radiant jewel-like essence.

I bow to the one who has made it so,

Who has crafted this Master Game;

To play it is purest delight -

To honor its form, true devotion.

Awareness-

her gaze is so constant,

our every move

watched

with such affection,

a ceaseless vigil

without condition

or agenda,

silent,

patient,

unrelenting in her

embrace.

There is endless room in

the heart of this lover,

infinite space for whatever

foolishness we may

toss her way.

But she is also

crafty, this one-

a thief who will steal away

everything we ever cherished,

all our beliefs,

all our ideas,

all our philosophies,

until nothing is left

but her shimmering

wakefulness,

this simple love

for what is.

Among other wonders of our lives, we are alive with one another, we walk here in the light of this unlikely world that isn't ours for long. May we spend generously the time we are given. May we enact our responsibilities as thoroughly as we enjoy our pleasures. May we see with clarity, may we seek a vision that serves all beings, may we honor the mystery surpassing our sight, and may we hold in our hands the gift of good work and bear it forth whole, as we were borne forth by a power we praise to this one Earth, this homeland of all we love.

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

Where your thoughts never think to wander,

This beginning has been quietly forming,

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,

Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

Noticing how you willed yourself on,

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the gray promises that sameness whispered,

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream,

A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear

You can trust the promise of this opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

May there be kindness in your gaze when you look within. May you never place walls between the light and yourself. May you be set free from the prisons of guilt, fear, disappointment and despair. May you allow the wild beauty of the invisible world to gather you, mind you, and embrace you in belonging.

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic, Time takes on the strain until it breaks; Then all the unattended stress falls in On the mind like an endless, increasing weight.

The light in the mind becomes dim. Things you could take in your stride before Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit. Gravity begins falling inside you, Dragging down every bone.

The tide you never valued has gone out. And you are marooned on unsure ground. Something within you has closed down; And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time. The desire that drove you has relinquished. There is nothing else to do now but rest And patiently learn to receive the self You have forsaken in the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken And sadness take over like listless weather. The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground; Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight, Taking time to open the well of color That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone Until its calmness can claim you. Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit. Learn to linger around someone of ease Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself, Having learned a new respect for your heart And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

Awaken to the mystery of being here

And enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to follow its path.

Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.

May anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.

Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.

Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.

I give thanks for arriving Safely in a new dawn, For the gift of eyes To see the world, The gift of mind To feel at home In my life. The waves of possibility Breaking on the shore of dawn, The harvest of the past That awaits my hunger, And all the furtherings This new day will bring.

my brain and heart divorced

a decade ago

over who was to blame about how big of a mess I have become

eventually, they couldn't be in the same room with each other

now my head and heart share custody of me

I stay with my brain during the week

and my heart gets me on weekends

they never speak to one another

- instead, they give me the same note to pass to each other every week

and their notes they send to one another always says the same thing:

"This is all your fault"

on Sundays my heart complains about how my head has let me down in the past

and on Wednesdays my head lists all of the times my heart has screwed things up for me in the future

they blame each other for the state of my life

there's been a lot of yelling - and crying

so,

lately, I've been spending a lot of time with my gut

who serves as my unofficial therapist

most nights, I sneak out of the window in my ribcage

and slide down my spine and collapse on my gut's plush leather chair that's always open for me

~ and I just sit sit sit sit until the sun comes up

last evening, my gut asked me if I was having a hard time being caught between my heart and my head

I nodded

I said I didn't know if I could live with either of them anymore

"my heart is always sad about something that happened yesterday while my head is always worried about something that may happen tomorrow," I lamented

my gut squeezed my hand

"I just can't live with my mistakes of the past or my anxiety about the future," I sighed

my gut smiled and said:

"in that case, you should go stay with your lungs for a while,"

I was confused - the look on my face gave it away

"if you are exhausted about your heart's obsession with the fixed past and your mind's focus on the uncertain future

your lungs are the perfect place for you

there is no yesterday in your lungs there is no tomorrow there either

there is only now there is only inhale there is only exhale there is only this moment

there is only breath

and in that breath you can rest while your heart and head work their relationship out."

this morning, while my brain was busy reading tea leaves

and while my heart was staring at old photographs

I packed a little bag and walked to the door of my lungs

before I could even knock she opened the door with a smile and as a gust of air embraced me she said

"what took you so long?"

Sit down wherever you are

And listen to the wind singing in your veins.

Feel the love, the longing, the fear in your bones.

Open your heart to who you are, right now,

Not who you would like to be,

Not the saint you are striving to become,

But the being right here before you, inside you, around you.

All of you is holy.

You are already more and less

Than whatever you can know.

Breathe out,

Touch in,

Let go.

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop. Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control. Open the door, then close it behind you. Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean. Give back with gratitude. If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back. Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire. Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time. Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters. Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you. Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them. Don’t worry. The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves. The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more. Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time. Do not hold regrets. When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed. You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant. Cut the ties you have to failure and shame. Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction. Ask for forgiveness. Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor. Call yourself back. You will find yourself caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse. You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return. Speak to it as you would to a beloved child. Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It will return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long. Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes. Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go. Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short. Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.

~ ~ ~

I am not I. I am this one Walking beside me whom I do not see, Whom at times I manage to visit, And at other times I forget. The one who remains silent when I talk, The one who forgives, sweet, when I hate, The one who takes a walk when I am indoors, The one who will remain standing when I die.

I have a feeling that my boat Has struck, down there in the depths, Against a great thing. And nothing happens! Nothing.Silence.Waves. --Nothing happens? Or has everything Happened, And are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?

What makes a fire burn

is space between the logs,

a breathing space.

Too much of a good thing,

too many logs

packed in too tight

can douse the flames

almost as surely

as a pail of water would.

So building fires

requires attention

to the spaces in between,

as much as to the wood.

When we are able to build

open spaces

in the same way

we have learned

to pile on the logs,

then we can come to see how

it is fuel, and absence of the fuel

together, that make fire possible

We only need to lay a log

lightly from time to time.

A fire

grows

simply because the space is there,

with openings

in which the flame

that knows just how it wants to burn

can find its way.

The Guest is inside you, and also inside me; you know the sprout is hidden inside the seed. The blue sky opens out farther and farther. a million suns come forward with light, when I sit firmly in that world.

Excerpt from the The Kabir Book

Dear you, You who always have so many things to do so many places to be your mind spinning like fan blades at high speed each moment always a blur because you’re never still. I know you’re tired. I also know it’s not your fault. The constant brain-buzz is like a swarm of bees threatening to sting if you close your eyes. You’ve forgotten something again. You need to prepare for that or else. You should have done that differently.

What if you closed your eyes? Would the world fall apart without you? Or would your mind become the open sky, a flock of thoughts flying across the sunrise as you just watched and smiled.

Ring the bells that can still ring.

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.

I’m lying down looking at the colour

of sky falling through trees, dreaming

the real, tasting what it feels like to love it.

Why did it take me so long to let go, simply

exhale, so the day could breathe itself in

and open without me standing in the way?

How could I forget the grace of my own body

strong as this blue, tender as the white

of the wild blossom, warm as midday light?

Let me practice a patience bold enough

to hold every weather, trusting the elements,

the beauty of rain, all it shades of grey.

I want whatever’s real to be enough. At least

it’s a place to begin. And to master the art

of loving it; feel it love me back under my skin

the leaves believe

such letting go is love

such love is faith

such faith is grace

such grace is god

i agree with the leaves

What if you thought of it as the Jews consider the Sabbath— the most sacred of times? Cease from travel. Cease from buying and selling. Give up, just for now, on trying to make the world different than it is. Sing. Pray. Touch only those to whom you commit your life. Center down. And when your body has become still, reach out with your heart. Know that we are connected in ways that are terrifying and beautiful. (You could hardly deny it now.) Know that our lives are in one another’s hands. (Surely, that has come clear.) Do not reach out your hands. Reach out your heart. Reach out your words. Reach out all the tendrils of compassion that move, invisibly, where we cannot touch. Promise this world your love– for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, so long as we all shall live.

You begin this way: this is your hand, this is your eye, that is a fish, blue and flat on the paper, almost the shape of an eye. This is your mouth, this is an O or a moon, whichever you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window is the rain, green because it is summer, and beyond that the trees and then the world, which is round and has only the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller and more difficult to learn than I have said. You are right to smudge it that way with the red and then the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words you will learn that there are more words than you can ever learn. The word hand floats above your hand like a small cloud over a lake. The word hand anchors your hand to this table, your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world, which is round but not flat and has more colors than we can see.

It begins, it has an end, this is what you will come back to, this is your hand.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?'

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,

we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear,

our presence automatically liberates others.

I had no idea that the gate I would step through

to finally enter this world

would be the space my brother's body made. He was

a little taller than me: a young man

but grown, himself by then,

done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold

and running water.

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say

to me.

And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This -- holding up my cheese and mustard

sandwich.

And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This, sort of looking around.

Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.

This is how the heart makes a duet of

wonder and grief. The light spraying

through the lace of the fern is as delicate

as the fibers of memory forming their web

around the knot in my throat. The breeze

makes the birds move from branch to branch

as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost

in the next room, in the next song, in the laugh

of the next stranger. In the very center, under

it all, what we have that no one can take

away and all that we’ve lost face each other.

It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctured

by a holiness that exists inside everything.

I am so sad and everything is beautiful.

Live slow enough and there is only the beginning of time.

Follow anything in its act of being – a snowflake falling, ice melting, a loved one waking – and we are ushered into the ongoing moment of the beginning, the quiet instant from which each breath starts. What makes this moment so crucial is that it continually releases the freshness of living. The key to finding this moment and all its freshness, again and again, is in slowing down.

Often, when we are inconvenienced, we are being asked to slow down. When we are delayed in our travel or waiting for a check in a restaurant, we are being asked to open up and look around. When we find ourselves stalled in our very serious and ambitious plans, we are often being asked to re-find the beginning of time. Unfortunately, we are all so high-paced, running so fast to where we want to be, that many of us are forced to slow down through illness or breakage. In this, we are such funny creatures. If we could see ourselves from far enough away, we would seem like a colony of insects running into things repeatedly: thousands of little determined beings butting into obstacles, shaking our little heads and bodies, and running into things again.

Like the Earth that carries us, the ground of our being moves so slowly we take it for granted. But if you should feel stalled, numb or exhausted from the trials of your life, simply slow your thoughts to the pace of tracks widening, slow your heart to the pace of the earth soaking up rain, and wait for the freshness of the beginning to greet you.

We waste so much energy trying to cover up who we are when beneath every attitude is the want to be loved, and beneath every anger is a wound to be healed and beneath every sadness is the fear that there will not be enough time.

When we hesitate in being direct, we unknowingly slip something on, some added layer of protection that keeps us from feeling the world, and often that thin covering is the beginning of a loneliness which, if not put down, diminishes our chances of joy.

It’s like wearing gloves every time we touch something, and then, forgetting we chose to put them on, we complain that nothing feels quite real. Our challenge each day is not to get dressed to face the world but to unglove ourselves so that the doorknob feels cold and the car handle feels wet and the kiss goodbye feels like the lips of another being, soft and unrepeatable.

Having loved enough and lost enough,

I am no longer searching,

just opening.

No longer trying to make sense of pain,

but trying to be a soft and sturdy home

in which real things can land.

These are the irritations that rub into a pearl

So we can talk awhile

but then we must listen,

the way rocks listen tot he sea

And we can churn at all that goes wrong

but then we must lay all distractions down,

and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight

I too feel alone. but seldom do I

face it squarely enough

to see that it is a door

into the endless breath

that has no breather

into the surf that human shells

call god.

Do not try to save

the whole world

or do anything grandiose.

Instead, create

a clearing

in the dense forest

of your life

and wait there

patiently,

until the song

that is your life

falls into your own cupped hands

and you recognize and greet it.

Only then will you know

how to give yourself

to this world

so worth of rescue.

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars

of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment,

the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders

of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is

nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned

in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side

is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world

you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it

against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not how shally

I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.

Last night the rain spoke to me slowly, saying,

what joy to come falling out of the brisk cloud, to be happy again

in a new way on the earth! That’s what it said as it dropped,

smelling of iron, and vanished like a dream of the ocean into the branches

and the grass below. Then it was over. The sky cleared. I was standing

under a tree. The tree was a tree with happy leaves, and I was myself,

and there were stars in the sky that were also themselves at the moment, at which moment

my right hand was holding my left hand which was holding the tree which was filled with stars

and the soft rain— imagine! imagine! the wild and wondrous journeys still to be ours.

Every day I see or I hear

something that more or less

kills me with delight,

that leaves me like a needle

in the haystack of light.

It is what I was born for— to look, to listen,

to lose myself inside this soft world—

to instruct myself over and over

in joy, and acclamation.

Nor am I talking about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful, the very extravagant— but of the ordinary.

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations. Oh, good scholar, I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise with such teachings

as these— the untrimmable light

of the world the ocean’s shine,

the prayers that are made out of grass?

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond.

It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,

the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable

of choosing what will be, darling citizen.

So come to the pond,

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

After rain after many days without rain, it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees, and the dampness there, married now to gravity, falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground where it will disappear - but not, of course, vanish except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share, and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss; a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel; and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years, will feel themselves being touched.

It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

What a task

to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,

and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard

above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound

I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it

faster than the ones we usually see,

and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden. I

held my breath

as we do

sometimes

to stop time

when something wonderful

has touched us

as with a match,

which is lit, and bright,

but does not hurt

in the common way,

but delightfully,

as if delight

were the most serious thing

you ever felt.

The geese

flew on,

I have never seen them again.

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.

Maybe I won't.

It doesn't matter.

What matters

is that, when I saw them,

I saw them

as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

When the hummingbird sinks its face into the trumpet vine, into the funnels

of the blossoms and the tongue leaps out and throbs, I am scorched to realize once again how many small, available things are in the world that aren’t pieces of gold or power– that nobody owns or could buy even for a hillside of money– that just float about the world, or drift over the fields, or into the gardens, and into the tents of the vines, and how here I am spending my time, as the saying goes, watching until the watching turns into feeling, so that I feel I am myself a small bird with a terrible hunger, with a thin beak probing and dipping and a heart that races so fast it is only a heart beat ahead of breaking– and I am the hunger and assuagement, and also I am the leaves and the blossoms, and, like them, I am full of delight and shaking

I have refused to live locked in the orderly house of reasons and proofs. The world I live in and believe in is wider than that. And anyway, what’s wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn’t believe what once or twice I have seen. I’ll just tell you this: only if there are angels in your head will you ever, possibly, see one.

Today I’m flying low and I’m not saying a word I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

The world goes on as it must, the bees in the garden rumbling a little, the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten. And so forth.

But I’m taking the day off. Quiet as a feather. I hardly move though really I’m traveling a terrific distance.

Stillness. One of the doors into the temple.

There are days

when the sun goes down

like a fist,

though of course

if you see anything

in the heavens

in this way

you had better get

your eyes checked

or, better,

still your diminished spirit.

The heavens

have no fist,

or wouldn't they have been

shaking it

for a thousand years now,

and even

longer than that,

at the dull, brutish

ways of mankind—

heaven's own

creation?

Instead: such patience!

Such willingness

to let us continue!

To hear,

little by little,

the voices—

only, so far, in

pockets of the world—

suggesting

the possibilities

of peace?

Keep looking.

Behold, how the fist opens

with invitation.

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice —

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations —

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice,

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do —

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn,

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, “Stay awhile.” The light flows from their branches. And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories, and into the windows of, even, the miserable and crotchety–

best preacher that ever was, dear star, that just happens to be where you are in the universe to keep us from ever-darkness, to ease us with warm touching, to hold us in the great hands of light– good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

I thought of happiness, how it is woven Out of the silence in the empty house each day And how it is not sudden and it is not given But is creation itself like the growth of a tree. No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark Another circle is growing in the expanding ring. No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark, But the tree is lifted by this inward work And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering. So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours And strikes its roots deep in the house alone: The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors, White curtains softly and continually blown As the free air moves quietly about the room; A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall–– These are the dear familiar gods of home, And here the work of faith can best be done, The growing tree is green and musical For what is happiness but growth in peace, The timeless sense of time when furniture Has stood a life's span in a single place, And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir The shining leaves of present happiness? No one has heard thought or listened to a mind, But where people have lived in inwardness The air is charged with blessing and does bless; Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Dive in

beyond the reef.

And what will you call it?

What will you name

this grand adventure?

Will you call it

"Into the deep,"

"The day I finally learned to breathe,"

"The strength I did not know I would need,"

or will you simply call it

"Be"?

For after all,

this is what

you are doing:

discovering

the courage

living inside of you

is not as distant

as it seemed.

No matter how this season ends,

you will walk away knowing

what you did not know back then.

This year will not end like last year,

nor any other year before.

Poem from Morgan Harper Nichols book, All Along You Were Blooming

I'd dare to make more mistakes next time. I'd relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would take more trips. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans.

I would perhaps have more actual troubles but I'd have fewer imaginary ones.

You see, I'm one of those people who live sensibly and sanely hour after hour, day after day.

Oh, I've had my moments and if I had it to do over again, I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to have nothing else. Just moments.

One after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day.

I've been one of those people who never go anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat and a parachute.

If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall.

If I had it to do again, I would travel lighter next time. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.

Nadine Stair (Age 85)

Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth

What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

A man crosses the street in rain, stepping gently, looking two times north and south, because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him. No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo but he’s not marked. Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing. He hears the hum of a boy’s dream deep inside him.

We’re not going to be able to live in this world if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing with one another.

The road will only be wide. The rain will never stop falling.

Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you, If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you.

An old Native American elder story rendered into modern English by David Wagoner

Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency. The circular afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks. All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can't be touched. Paper, book, pencil, glass, rest in the shade of their names. Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood. The light turns the indifferent wall into a ghostly theater of reflections. I find myself in the middle of an eye, watching myself in its blank stare. The moment scatters. Motionless, I stay and go: I am a pause

What if there is no need to change, no need to try to transform yourself into someone who is more compassionate, more present, more loving or wise? How would this affect all the places in your life where you are endlessly trying to be better?

What if the task is simply to unfold, to become who you already are in your essential nature—gentle, compassionate, and capable of living fully and passionately present?...

What if the question is not why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be, but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am? How would this change what you think you have to learn?

What if becoming who and what we truly are happens not through striving and trying but by recognizing and receiving the people and places and practices that offer us the warmth of encouragement we need to unfold? How would this shape the choices you make about how to spend today?

What if you knew that the impulse to move in a way that creates beauty in the world will arise from deep within and guide you every time you simply pay attention and wait? How would this shape your stillness, your movement, your willingness to follow this impulse, to just let go and dance?

Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language, let's stop for a second, and not move our arms so much. It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead in winter and later proves to be alive. Now I'll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.