We try to live out of constant flux.
A flat-lined life where every moment
of every day is good... and that's good.

Yesterday the wind blew,
in fury of nothing.
It just blew, and
things fell down.

Yesterday it rained,
in torment of nothing.
It just rained, and
things got wet.

But today what yesterday was,
is but a gentle breeze on cloudless day.
Mother Nature too has her moments,
and things are still again.
Really still.

Don’t let each day
And the woes at play
Carve out wrinkles on your face

Take time to breathe
and plant a seed
of a much more peaceful place

It’ll take some will
To get perfectly still
Where the mind stops running the show

Once you get there
Acknowledge the fear
Observe your breath, and just let go.

I had spent a couple of nights
Listening to your silence
I had made the sea turn red
Sinking to your fretful calmness.

I departed.

After singling out necessities and throwing out electronic extremities that tied me down like a social slave, I took two feet to the mountains of the world. Here I eat fresh food and observe the cities and the backdrop clouds that hold the sky. Philosophies of the mind run rampant here and this is where all my ideas stem from, as far as I have convinced myself. Sometimes, in the long months alone, I awake in the midst of expanding darkness and notice the silence. This is what I wanted to write about. The silence that exists in the solitude of being. Where no yearning is experienced, just a full, keen awareness. What is the importance of this time, I wish I knew. What I've wanted to communicate might have been plain to see.

This moment is hushed by ecstasy.
The moment's breathe is held~
and you can see the dusty particles
floating through the pillars of light.
This is the exhale,
and is also the silence.
The observation tower of consciousness..
It all just orbits-
Minute molecules gyrate
in vast space.
The waves oscillate
in numberless meditation.
This is where thought
originates from.

It is the nature
of the mountain air.
It is the emptiness
in between speech.
It is the moment of possibility
when a loved one is leaving.
It is the moment experienced
when holding a baby first breathing.
It is the stem of
importance and meaning.

I am starting to remember
where we have been
and where we are going.

How She Loved Me

After she broke her neck, the diagnosis advised her to
avoid all moving when she could.
Once she agreed, three vertebrae were fused together,
and a cushion braced her instead of us.
We were not allowed.

Days passed. Weeks passed. Maybe three.

She sat in her chair and rocked and rocked
and rocked – until the hinges snapped, too.
The repairman repeated those two words:
Don’t. Move.

I avoided her after that – ran right past her when I could –
let my legs leap and fly and bend and breathe.
But even my knees knew how she watched,
how she waited for me to look.

I only did once.

On the day the sky became a lake,
she walked onto the deck like a dock,
threaded the wind with her fingers,
rose her chest when she breathed,
and bounced onto the trampoline.

She stretched and sprung and skipped into a flip
only stopping to giggle about her favorite rollercoasters.

And I stood still to listen.
I stood still and watched.

My heart
dies, an ancient
awful death inside
this chamber of
silence.

I forgot what's it like to
trust whole-heartedly
in someone, or something
to raise my hands
and close my eyes
and know
know for absolute
certain what the story
is, that I'm acting in
and how it ends.

When I go every week
to sit in pews to remind
myself what I'm supposed
to be believing
I can't even sing.
The words fall like
raindrops and needles
soaking and bleeding
my eyes as I read
them, my anxiety
overflows.

Here I stand empty
and coming here
adds emptiness
to my emptiness
till I'm carrying around
more containers than I
can hold.
They're strapped to
my back and my chest and my feet
and I can hardly
believe no one
notices.

How do they not
see all the rain
that never hits the
ground?

I stopped coming
to this place for
answers, they're
too hard to find
and I'm starting to
believe they may not
exist.

So I sit here with
my questions
burning holes in my
heart, or maybe
they're openings?
Sometimes they hurt
so bad I can't stand
it anymore.
And sometimes I just
listen, resting my
aching soul on
someone else's
trust for a minute.

If I can't believe
anymore, than maybe
someone else can

It's a funny thing
giving up
or almost giving up
but at the last second
finding a touch of
peace or grace and
turning the whole
train around.

The stillness scares
me and haunts me
yet it's the only
place I feel safe.
It's become my new
home, here in the dark
with little flashes of
light sometimes
coming in around the
edges. The quiet
here is calming
a cool balm to
my wounds
little shelves for my
questions to rest
upon in this waiting
place that's become
my friend, my solace
my hope.

When I leave here
the room fills up
with panic, coming
in on all sides
with teeth and
razors and voices
screaming and
judging and trying
to fix what can't
be fixed, and I'm
not even sure is even
broken.

This is
the end. This is
the end of where
everything that was
can take me, and if
I step over this line
will it be gone forever?
Or will I come back
around?

Will there be a time
when the stillness
leaves, and light
floods my darkness?
Or will I only know
sparks and sputters
from now till...

Some days I can live
with that, most days.
And every once in a while
I'll come across pure
trust. Certainty.
And I want to whisper
to that person

Stay here.
Cherish this.
Because when it's
gone, it's ******* gone

And maybe it's an
illusion in the
first place, but it's
still nice.
I can't go back
to black and white, and I
wouldn't, if I had
the choice.
But sometimes I
wish I could have
that peace of mind
that isn't built on
paradox or mystery
liminality, the
in between.

But here I am
wading in and out
following the waves to
the edge, or the center
I can't be sure.
Surprised by who I
meet floating along
out here.
Maybe my little boat
can bump into your's
and we can just
breathe, knowing
someone else feels
this same suffocating
peace.

And sitting around
the table
we can be together
in our aloneness.
And if we can't
touch a little bit of
light, we can at least
sit together in the
darkness.

I know change is
coming. I can feel it
like a warm fire
in my gut. Somehow
still, and yet growing.

I came here for
answers. Well, maybe
not. There aren't
many answers I
would believe.

But the stillness? Yes,
I believe the stillness
and the ache I have
when I'm not here.
The panic that closes
in on my chest, the
way I forget to
breathe.

Can I stay
here when I go?

still hours in
still company
still sitting-- waiting
stilly
how long until
we break this
monotony--
are these the hoursminutesseconds we regret?
is this where it all went when say- 80 and dying
you recall and all you have around you is
a familiar stillness
still it can’t all be that bad--
you were alive you were breathing you were still-
digesting and growing and learning and
you heart all the while was beating
you were never still at all
just a vessel for the motion of life
80 years of it
and then it’s all just a return to the good earth
to nurture the movement of life through
a blade of grass a dandelion an acorn
the beauty of your existence was how
you carried the torch of life so brilliantly
cradling it in your breast for so long
even as your youth crept away and your blood slowed down
and the memories faded and the thoughts all but stopped

but here we are
still here