Shallow people hurt shallowly,
Deep people hurt deeply.
Content people hurt with acceptance and
Complete people hurt with their whole being.
But what of the false people?
Their hurt is just an act.
Just the product of an end to a false relationship and
An opening to yet another false start.
I’d rather be deep and continue to hurt deeply than to
Never experience the truth that says
A hurt that runs this deeply is just more proof of
The joy of having loved the same.
The heat of a summer day softens and slips silently
Into evening twilight.
The shifting shadows and cooling breezes of evening chill my being and
Bring an acute awareness of sorrow and emptiness to my state of mind.
This subtle, soft twilight is lonely and empty now
But was beautiful at other times and under other circumstances in my life.
Twilight holds tenderness and acceptance of love in times of loving but
When love is missing or withheld, twilight is punishing in its loneliness.
A solitary stroll through the garden is a waste;
There is no joy in relaxing in the rocking hammock alone.
Light sadly leaves the landscape and drains the world of color
Just as this lost love drains my soul and heart of color.
The trees along the edge of the clearing blend into a fortress wall,
Locking me out in my loneliness.
Fireflies blink on and off but evade my eyes behind the fortress of trees
and the stark cold moon light accentuates my solitude by throwing only one shadow behind me.
In better times, when I was not alone, the deepiening twilight was a magical time,
Full of love and acceptance.
We walked the garden paths together, basking in the glow of the moon
And soaking in the softness of star-shine.
Our shadows moved willingly behind us, hand in hand,
And fireflies lit our way home.
I want to go back to that time, back to being a valuable part of two,
Back to the times of softened days that faded into loving nights of passion and acceptance.
I need you take me back there, please…
I’m lying in a hammock,
Sideways,
Staring at the canopy of trees above my head.
Their branches interlaced like the fingers of lovers in an act of passion.
They sway with the gentle breeze,
Each variety with its distinct leaf waiving and dancing to its own tune.
Above and beyond the boughs lies a deep blue sky, dotted with plumes of soft whiteness
Each drifting and changing with every second, never the same from moment to moment.
I watch this scene as the sunlight slowly turns to dusk.
The sun-powered breezes fade and the forest yawns and folds in on itself and sleeps.
I should do the same
But the magic of the transformation of day into night fixes me to this spot.
All form is erased, sky and forest become one, stars twinkle above and fireflies twinkle below as reflections of one another like sky in water.
Buzzing insects sounds are silenced and
A different cast of characters takes over the night shift.
An owl awakens and his hooting echoes between the sleeping trees,
Others answer in kind.
I hear the fox’s footsteps through the dry leaves and
Goosebumps cover my neck at the sound of his bark.
Less vocal creatures slink and stalk through the forest night
Taking their turn at life.
And me, I don’t fit into either cast,
I exist equally in both worlds but am not a participant in either and
Therein lays my sorrow.
I am only a watcher and always alone.
Sunday evening sorrow
A lonely time, a time in between.
The old week has ended,
The new not yet begun.
Another ending, freshly felt and remembered in sadness,
Will not end as easily as last week, it continues to linger and hurt, refusing to let go.
I am left behind,
Alone with this Sunday evening truth.
There is no space
No thought, no warmth.
Need is strong but left unattended, neglected,
And words that linger are incomplete.
Conversations left unfinished,
With thoughts not expressed or maybe expressed but not received or wanted.
It starts and stops,
Comes and goes but comes back only to stop again.
How can the coming stop,
But the stopping go on and on and on?
I thought there was no separation,
But now I accept that there is nothing to be separate from.
The empty space is all that remains within me,
The void was never filled, the dream never realized.
One thought had weight and ruled the results,
But mine did not.
But isn’t there really only one thought, one truth
One meaning?
I just don’t know anymore, I used to think I did, used to feel it in all there was
But now, it is gone and all that is left is the doubt.
I want to fight back, regain what I had, what I love
But I can’t. And even if I could, it would be futile; there is no longer another side.
What I thought was one is now two.
There is no energy, no anger, only the wanting and needing.
And so I sit, just sit on my cushions
In this Sunday evening loneliness
And watch the candles burn away the time
And hurt of love left behind.
The sound of rain takes me to a place of inner peace as the
Rain falls in sheets and slides down the roof over its edge in a curtain of water.
Tree leaves dance with the weight of the rain and
Flowers wash their faces in its freshness.
The sky is lower on rainy days and
Holds us close and grounded.
Sounds are muted and muffled and
Light is defused in grayness.
But it is not a sad and depressing grayness,
But a soothing and peaceful shade
Full of the necessity of sorrow.
A rainy day is soft and dark. It begs us to stop, rest and be mindful of our surrounds and loves.
It reminds us to take the time to be lulled by the patter of rain on the windows
Into a place of inner stillness,
And there remain, content to just be and accept what is.
I have to wait, just wait,
There is nothing left to do.
Tonight is cold and dark,
I must wait for the sun.
My love is intense and passionate,
I must wait for its object.
My mind is confused and alone,
I must wait for a friend.
My heart aches and pines,
I must wait for a song.
My life is a series of waits,
But my soul is tired of waiting.
Time must slow down,
So I can catch up.
And when I do, all of the waiting will have been for nothing,
Because I will find that it is all already here.
The sky hovers over us,
Watching…
The trees stand where they grow,
Waiting…
And birds fly by wondering
Why…
But we pay no attention to them; we don’t even see them anymore.
Mindlessly, our roadways creep farther and farther into the wilderness,
Our houses spring up like mushrooms in the fall… seemingly overnight, as
Again and again we push all that is not of our making out of our way until,
The trees fall where they grow,
The sky hangs its head in sorrow and
The birds stop wondering
And just say goodbye.
The street lights blink out at dawn, and
On at dusk, as do my thoughts of him.
The night gives them permission to rise and be, but at dawn
The sun diminishes their power and they hide and sleep.
If they would just stay asleep, and
Leave me alone it would be so much easier, but they don’t listen to what I want.
They are crafty and sneak around the edge and into my heart
When I’m not looking.
They creep into the conversations in my head
Unnoticed until it is too late.
They lie in wait for me just inside
The front door when I get home from work,
Ready to snuggle in
For the night as soon as I walk through the door.
I don’t understand their persistence.
Do they think anything will change? Do they know something I don’t?
Are they worried there will come a time when
I will forget about them, or him? If that is the case, then they don’t understand that
for me forgetting is not an option.
I don’t choose who I love or who I want.
Therefore, I also cannot choose who I will
Forget.
My love is based on honesty, the truth of my feelings,
And passion, lots and lots of passion, and I cannot pretend it is any other way.
So in spite of my objections, these thoughts have stayed
Sad but comfortable, friends in their familiarity, taking up space in my being.
And if they ever leave, what will replace them?
What will fill the hole they leave behind in my heart, my soul, my mind?
I don’t know.
If that time comes and they leave, how long it will take me to notice,
That they have gone?
I don’t know.
And will the me that remains behind be the same me as before?
Before the dawn turned out the lights and he consumed my soul?
I may never know.
I like to think that it is settling down now, fading away, but maybe not.
It is done and yet…
Some things die hard, and
Other things die harder.
The light has gone out so
There is nothing more to see,
Nothing to look forward to, nothing and no one to hold and
Although the disconnect is intentional,
The physical reality has not changed, it has
Not gone away because, after all, I still remain.
My perception of the circumstances has shifted, slightly.
It is based more on the truth now but the intentional disconnect remains the reality.
Is it the same for the other? I think not.
He has no reason and no meaning to his thinking as it is all based on deception.
He deceived me
And himself and
A life based on lies can hold
No meaning.
Some things die hard, and
Other things die harder.
There is a thickness to life, a depth and a knowing, an observer and an observed. I feel the depth deepening. I see the” I” as ego and separate from the observer, when this separation is complete, bliss will remain and be all pervasive. I feel it coming; a flood of knowing is approaching. Glimpses of becoming, I see the 3D effect, the truth in believing without the believing, or the truth. To dis-identify with the body is to watch it change and grow, watch it become and not, watch it be and not and know there is no death to the being that is observing. The bliss’s will follow, don’t grab at it, just let it be.
It really no longer matters if he loved me or not, it really doesn’t – that is just ego. I say to him in my head, “you have no power over me” and the glass breaks, the mirror shatters and that which is identified with is gone, leaving only the essence of being, of eternal being, not dependent on anything or anyone external. A freeing of non-self but all self, without ego, a smiling face beyond thought, above resistance to what is, in spite of “myself” recognizing and seeing it in everything and everyone, even the many who don’t see, who don’t know there is anything to see or know.
My body changes, it needs food, water and rest. It doesn’t ask for it, it demands it and takes it. It is its due as a vessel of importance. It holds my humanness but is not who I am. The universal consciousness powers my physical being. It makes me breathe in my sleep, it lights my inner darkness with a promise of the eternal. It whispers “no fear, no death, no end to being” to my soul and shows me the way to peace. Its peace, like a warm blanket, descends to wrap my soul and quiet its longings. It holds and comforts until the longing stops, and then it holds some more.
To be given this gift of life for however long the body lasts, is the ultimate blessing. It provides a benchmark of sorts; a non-being to give being its meaning. It provides a sense of the temporary to illustrate the permanent, the enlessness of being. It provides the physical to complete the picture and therein comes the depth and texture of existence, eternal existence.
This little body, this perfect creation is lovely. I feel its aliveness; I watch in awe how in spite of me, and my abuse of it, it continues on. I see how I think of it, when I honor it with truth and love, it glows, it reacts as a whole with a flushing of the skin, it is telling me it knows, it hears me. But it is ageing, only doing what it is meant to do and I have been privileged to be able to watch as the un-manifested became manifested, how it learned and experienced and how now it is fading back to the formless again but richer and aware of being aware, it is all what we choose it to be, but only if we know.
Just be still and let it come, whatever “it” is, no concept, no thought, all freedom, stop labeling, feel and not, see and not, know and don’t, be without being. I can’t help but think in words, but try to stop thinking and be, be as the fresh night air that is flowing through my bedroom window. Sharing itself with my being, the fragrance of the moist early spring earth just is and buy its just being it imbibes my being with a wonder and joy. I experience it without thought as to the why or how of it, my being knowing its being.
When we can truly embrace this knowing, when we can truly embrace this mess that is our human condition, when we can finally stop pointing and touching with the broken finger only then can we experience the eternal hallelujah. As L. Cohen wrote, “It is a cold and broke hallelujah”. But thank goodness for the pain, for the depth, for the experience, for all of it. But to hold that being, to maintain that presence, to accept and believe in its fleeting nature is sometimes so far out of reach because of my ego, and when that unreachable feeling comes over me, then it is time to sit, to be silent, to let the being take hold in silence.
In my sitting, there are bursts of joy, bliss and understanding of being, felt not thought, a spontaneous smile but then I try to grab it, to hold on to the majic and by doing so I chase it back into the silence from where it came. By being silent and just sitting and being, I invite it back. It acts like a timid bird, wanting to be close but afraid of me and my ego. It shows itself and thereby makes the lack if it, or the absense of it when I have chased it away, so empty and flat, uncomfortable and shallow, dark and cold, I don’t’ like it. It is not reality, or more accurately it is reality without the knowing and I don’t want to stay there. But when I try to rise above it the effort seems too great. It is only when I don’t try that it is effortless. I need to stop getting in my own way, stop getting in my beings way.
The sights, smells, senses of life are wonderful. We and all the beings on this earth share our presence here together. We enrich each other’s physical experience; and by doing so we make that cold and broken hallelujah no so cold or broken after all.
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