Throwback Thursday #2

In the spirit of my first Throwback Thursday post where I shared some of my earliest poetry pieces, I’ve decided to continue publishing what has otherwise been written on scraps of paper, napkins, old mail and whatever else I could find at the time, desperate to see the words in my mind exist in front of me.  For years these words have been stashed away in a box for no one else to see but me.  What follows was written who-knows-when exactly; I got out of the habit of dating my work.  I’m pretty sure these musings were written within the last 10 years, but I’m hoping their relevance is timeless. Happy Thursday!

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If I am to be a dreamer, I want only to dream that the moment is real.

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Let your desires be filled with a concern for others. Anything you achieve in this world, let it reflect a deep sense of compassion.

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Only when we learn to understand one another can we begin to understand ourselves.

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Love for the sake of loving,
Give for the sake of giving,
Ask for nothing in return and ye shall reap the benefits.

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You mock the blind by choosing not to see what is right in front of you.

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What you will find in the eyes of a mime–
That which was there the whole time.

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The greatest thing one can do for humanity is to utter only truth.

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If we knew how the story is supposed to end, why would we bother going cover to cover?

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The only thing that makes a villain a villain are the heroes of the world.

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The thrill of Hide-n-Seek is the process of being discovered. Once found, game over; it’s someone else’s turn to be “it”. Now run along and play nicely.

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All we are is just a series of memories getting passed down from generation to generation.

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I am but a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection
of pure consciousness
giving way to distortion.

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Life, I think, has more to do with the non-existence of life than of one’s ability to live and breathe.

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The boundaries you see before you are only imagined. The key, I believe, is to unimagine them.

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It’s not me that’s changing, it’s the weather.

Willing Myself Off The Couch

So, moments ago something brilliant happened: I knocked over a glass of water.  At first, I did not think it was very brilliant, in fact, I cursed at what had occurred.  Because now I had to get up, grab a towel, ya da ya da, so much effort, right?  I was really enjoying just sitting there.  

But then my brain went back to the split second before this incident occurred.  And what my brain was telling my body not to do was knock over that glass of water, spilling it all over me and the couch.  But guess what?  It fuckin’ didn’t matter because my body didn’t listen, or perhaps gravity wasn’t paying attention, or maybe… I willed it to happen.

By merely entertaining the thought, perhaps I invited that situation into my life.  And if that’s the case, how often do we do this?  We create things all the time that begin as nothing more than a mere inkling, the very vaguest of ideas, which could have the power to transform the whole world, or at least our own lives.  The fact that I can write these words onto a page (because originally I wrote this out on paper!) that started out blank is just an example.  Other artists do it all the time: turning nothing into something; bringing their ideas to fruition and watching them grow as they begin to inspire others to develop their own theories and abstractions.

But then I think: don’t we all do this?  Our life is a work of art if that’s how we choose to see it.  But first, we must will it to be.  Do we choose to labor with love, commitment, passion, and drive?  Or do we choose to confront our lives like I did when I spilled that glass of water?  “Fuckin A!  I don’t want to get off the couch!“

Busy Bodies

I hang up the phone after being told that she left this world peacefully about an hour ago.  Meanwhile, in my hands, are the gifts I meant to bring her, the cards I meant to send her.  She called a few weeks ago to tell me: no gifts, no cards this year.  I never returned her phone call.  In her message, she said a phone call would be better than a card.  I thought about calling her on Christmas.  I thought of her several times throughout the day.  But I knew I would have a hard time admitting to her (to anyone) that I was spending Christmas day alone.  And then I just got too busy… as usual.

It wasn’t until I got the message that it was time to say our last good-byes that I was willing to drop everything to go and be with her.  What if I had done that sooner?  She talked so often of having me and my kids over.  But either she would fall ill or I would forget because I was too damn… busy.

It isn’t right.  No one should keep themselves so busy that they can’t make time for friends and loved ones.  Time is precious and how much of it we have is completely unknown.  It’s like having a bank account that you continue to withdraw funds from, yet you have no idea when the money is going to run out.  In that situation, it seems obvious that we would spend it slowly, carefully, and with a conscious effort.  But we all rush around so fast, pretending our lives are going to last forever and that those we love and cherish will always be with us.  We waste so much time on things that simply do. not. matter.  Because nothing matters more than the people who give us a reason to live.

Pick up the phone.  Tell someone you love them.  When you see them, be sure to squeeze them tight.

Our bodies are but vessels for the pure being inside.  Without it, those now surrounding us feel far removed from us.  They are no longer confined to this world; they can travel the depths of space and time.

My intentions were good and my love for her runs deep.  I hope she feels that because these gifts in my hand are of no use to her now.

Limbo

Isn’t it
a grand view of the world
way up high,
all alone,
yet all you love within sight?
The calm you may know,
the peace you might feel;
for a moment
soaring without flight,
for a second
breathing without breath;
your own air becoming
the gust of wind
along which you coast
travelling through time
remaining off and on
in the in between,
finding perfection in the pain,
understanding the loss
in the gain.
Would there still be
a place to call home
in limbo?

negative exponents

How can something be less than nothing?
How do wrongs become righted?
I wonder if something could be
anything other than what it seems.
I wonder if there are never rights and
never wrongs.

infinite tapestry

Did you forget
your infinite divinity?
Did you forget
we all came from the same?
One begets more of oneself;

my particles replenish unto themselves,
every moment captured in my being.
Knitting together,
constantly unraveling,
never knowing
how to pinpoint the beginning of it all.

supernova

And so it seems,
everywhere I turn —
People scared of my fire
knowing not of my desire;
for by knowing would be
to unleash
a blazing torrent of my soul,
leaving me no choice but to
cast my light upon them —
They who think only of themselves
have no room therefore
for me.
So there we are —
Creating a point of reference where
mistakes start repeating,
feelings become fleeting;
our lives always coming back to this.

Helix

There are blessings all around us,
there is good in each of us;
even the ones who make us crazy,
make us regret the day we were born.
I sit and stare at my reflection,
though not a mirror is in sight.
I ponder the great open window,
the darkness of the night.
I wonder how it is that two
can become one,
then back to two again;
an entity separating itself
so that it may know thy self;
a universe spinning out of control,
yet with exact precision and depth
so as to create something
star inspiringly beautiful.

apocalypse

I.

May your gracious light shine upon me;

feel my body to be sure I am real.

There is security in what I see;

there is something to be made whole.

For a mere parcel am I made

of many parts

of a world,

a universe,

an infinity of surprises

unfolding before me,

leaving me to wonder

how or why

I became. 

II.

Darkness surrounds

But then

through a break

there is light.

I appear,

vulnerable and naked,

clinging to your warmth 

as I surrender old dreams,

those that brought me here before. 

I am one of you now,

my mind as limited as yours.

My memory serving me well enough for this life,

but not well enough to grasp

the timelessness of our existence.

Living By The Lists

When I was a kid I had lists for everything. I retained them in my head and I’d review them over and over until I could recite them perfectly. Whether it was some game which I would not allow myself to play until I mentally reviewed the instructions and object of the game precisely, or the lay out of a house in which I would not feel comfortable until I examined and approved every tiny detail. If I thought something looked off, I’d try to adjust it so that my mind could make sense of my surroundings. This was freakishly weird! (I thought at the time.) I assumed something was wrong with me and that I was the only one to ever suffer from the same obsessive mental madness. Years later, when I would go on to take various psychology and sociology courses, I realized that while still weird perhaps, there are actually people out there with similar Obsessive Compulsive Disorders …and there was a name for it! Of course, by then I no longer carried the lists around with me. At least, not to the same extreme.

However, now as an adult I find that the lists, while different in content and intensity, still define my life. And I have so many lists: things to do, things to buy, places to go, people to call and email, projects to complete… The lists are never ending.  Yet I write them with the anticipation of being able to cross things off, one accomplishment at a time, as if to prove that I am doing something with my life.  And as though there will soon come a day when I won’t have anything left to scratch off.  But then what?  Because I also realize that the day there isn’t anything left for me to do–no errand to run, no groceries to pick up, no person to get in touch with–is the day I will draw my last breath.

There will always be things to do.  And there will always be chaos. Making lists has just always been my way of bringing order to my life; of feeling in control. I suspect that even as I was growing up, when things around me didn’t make sense, this too was the purpose of my wacky lists.  I can’t see myself ever fully functioning without writing things down; my lists are little reminders of all that there is to do.  (And as a single mother of two, there is always lots to do.)  I just can’t help but feel sometimes that by living by the lists, I am also dying by them one check mark at a time.