Inspiration

Like the Moon, I am new Again- shimmering, lifting, A scythe cutting Across purpled black skies Reborn from my dark self. Sweetness in life after life Re-cycled and worn, wearing Memories as musk Scenting light Night by night Expanding babe-slit of silver, becoming Vast roundness, wisdom and folly.

I remain in awe of my mind.  Would that it were for its brilliance.  No, I remain fascinated, because despite living in it lo these many years, it remains a mystery.  I have little understanding of how it really works.  What is this mind stuff? It powers the Universe. If I could consciously access the energy of my thoughts, particularly the dark ones, I might have the wattage of a power plant. The mind is a god to honor.  If I paid attention, without judgment, I might bring heaven to earth, or perceive earth as heaven.  If I honored the gods/goddess of the emotional mind, that engine ruling every thought, could I come to greater understanding?  Does the gut rule the brain, (Huna thoughts)or is the mind in my gut? From all we are discovering, it is probably a two way street.  Would I face anxious, fear-filled thoughts with greater equanimity if I moved toward, not away from? Learning to embrace and honor the alchemical substance of my Dark Gods? In doing so, accepting my true nature. When caught in webs of thought, which seem real, I miss out on their substance, their vibrant energy.  This dance of energies is often submerged under a plot line, or story -board I assume to be true.  Often, the worse I feel, the more I believe it to be true. Wise ones go to meditation of their own accord. Others of us are dragged by their Dark Gods, kicking and screaming.  Think of the energy available if I could embrace perceived failures, stupidity, carelessness, or regret. I would magically open to the vast unknown, misunderstood Self.  In this alchemical-sitting, learning to allow moods and mayhem not to rule, I’d learn of and from my dark gods. I would bow and thank them for their gifts of transformation. ……

In lingering days of winter, longing for the sun’s return, and the miracle of spring, when snow overwhelms the psyche, and the cold is very old, magical events are most welcome.  Early, in this morning’s first light, three fox romped not 20 yards away, at the doorstep of the garden shed; mom, dad, and tiny fox-lette.  Their wildness in bas relief to the garden’s structure; their primal energy playing against our civilized, coffee-routine.  The warm, reddish coloring was electric against stark white snow banks. Snapshots from the kitchen window do not begin to relay the wondrous energy of these unexpected visitors.  But they were not visiting. They had arrived to stay, for they crawled under and out of their new den, making dirt fly over the snow, counter point to our stillness, stock still with incredulity. We were the ones held captive. Are they portents an astonishing spring?  Are they a numinous sign of new life, of a cunning new life?  Or is it a simply haphazard event?  We are the ones with a shed, and they the ones caught with an early new born?  We can read into what we will, but un-expected gifts open us to move into life with greater enthusiasm. (‘Enthusiasm’-from Greek origin-to be inspired or possessed by the gods.) These fox are beautiful reminders that there are primal forces to whom we owe allegiance.  There is a world out there not connected to computers and the mayhem of modern life.  Simply the reminder it exists, offers enormous solace and balancing. They symbolize a simplicity of being.  My perspective of ‘being fox’ is to play, kill, eat, sleep, dig, and lick the baby.  And, oh yes-be beautiful.  Be yourself.  Be a wild spirit.  Create a home where you disturb only the rose bush, eat only with……

I recently went to hear an ex-Cirque de Soleil clown speak on failure.  Odd aspects of articulating our humanness never fail to intrigue, and Colin Gee, the clown, actor, and observer of life, was no exception. He also surprised, although with a billing of ‘clown, Cirque de Soleil, and failure,’ how can you not be surprised? His personal portrait revealed the clown’s willingness to fail, in order to reveal vulnerabilities…an elixir that makes laughter grow and love bloom.  Is that why clowns are loved?  We admire acrobats, who never fail, but we cherish the clown, who must fail in order to win trust.  Both work limits in the human condition, and the measure of success, or failure, is very high.  Both reveal themselves in bright lights, either in flight with angels, or bottoming out in seas of emotional weight.  Neither can pretend.  Neither can be half-assed. Both must succeed in un-expected ways.  Each works with well-defined constructs, dealing with a force greater than themselves, gravity—lest we forget: the primary mechanical principal of life on earth. Bringing clown-awareness into our daily lives is an important balancing tool to onslaught of push and shove to ‘excellence,’ and to our terrible fears of failure.  A base condition for the clown is humiliation, a state of non-grace we moderns shun.  Another base condition is listening, listening to audience response, listening to the ego’s ability to relinquish its hold, listening to the character we are inhabiting at any given moment.  The ear is another tool we are in jeopardy of loosing as we shout at each other through tweets, and likes, and links.  Who has time to listen when we need everyone to hear us?  I, for one, am making my list of  ‘Clown Rules’ –reminders for each day, before the linking, liking, and licking of……

In every hour, Do we come to the table To barter love? Is the journey Parsifal’s tale, Seeking Self In all the wrong places? Do we head for the shelf With first kiss? Seeds of passion sculpting countenance Velveteen Rabbits with luck, Damaged beyond repair Replete with love. Is pain the cradle of compassion? Is love the mother that rocks it? What counsel for risking all When bartering life with death? What hope without it?

Finding the truth is much like finding Nemo.  The cartoon film revels in facts of life, seen as a fish tale, revealing truth through laughter.  We are shown that the Self we hope to be, and truths we must comprehend are as much the work of imagination and intuition as they are of reality and hard work.  Deep truths lie in the balancing and adventure of becoming.  Truth, with a capitol T, is no longer the ‘the whole truth,’ if it ever was.  Recognizing some of this depends on evolving from the burden of who we are supposed to be to embrace who we hope to be. * This world has always been a magical place of truth and lies, tall tales, and dedicated honesty woven through a human matrix of confusion, bad memory, and desire.  We work at defending who we think we should be, bolstering it with stories and warm, if not hot air.  We rarely think the lie sits on our side of the table. Rather it is ‘the other’ who exaggerates out of all proportion.  We are offended.  We grow defended, and desiccated. As our days become drive-by practices in everything from eating to meditating, learning anything new requires true dedication.  I propose we spend ten minutes a day practicing the art of lying.  This will engage under-used muscle that supports and builds understanding, and use of truth.  It is the same with everything.  How can we feel compassion if we haven’t been hurt, and hurtful?  How do we know who we can be unless we’ve struggled with who we think we should be?  When we only tell the truth, when we only work at ‘shoulds,’ when we are only nice, where is the balancing polarity to see and be otherwise? There are fine and righteous things……