Melodious Mnemony

2010-01-07T09:06:00.004-07:00

So history reiterates itself. Everything different, and likewise all the same. Another heartache, another year. I've read again all I've written here, and it could stand in for the present just as well. The same messages, hopes, tremblings, fears. The same self-told wisdom and warnings. You'd think I would learn.

Different, but the same, but different. When will I stop being surprised by the waywardness of my heart? I rein her in--tell her calmly it's for our own good. But she is an idealist, despite all the cynicism and practicality I can muster, and without warning she gallops off to seek and nestle against the true self of another, all evidence that might dissuade her notwithstanding.

She is in love again, and it looks as hopeless as it always has before. Does she only love those who cannot love her in return?

2008-04-23T10:36:00.001-07:00

There is no way
to keep the wind off your neck,
except, perhaps, in sleep.

I would have danced
were I not already full
to bursting with the throb
and thrum of God
pulsing from the pot
belly of a
drum.

But there was no space
left for dancing
in my heart of hearts.
There is no place for souls to linger
in quarantine from
the defiling relentless rush
of mad busyness
after such transcendence.
No safe holding tank
for souls scrubbed clean
with wood and leather--
Germ-free and ecstatic.

There is no way
to keep the wind off your neck,
except, perhaps, in sleep.

2007-12-17T19:16:00.000-07:00

It is impossible to discern what may have gone wrong. Was I living too long on oatmeal and cotton candy? I struggle to drag myself beyond the confines of my hermitage, where it is clear I have stayed too long. I can only hope that tomorrow I shall be strong enough for my daily labor, and shall be able to put aside both despair and longing.

Why so soon must appear the thwarting of hope that threatened to burst so brightly despite all attempts to temper it?

2007-11-30T14:48:00.000-07:00

I'm discovering for my own part that happiness can be a matter of the choosing. And that personal inclinations are not fixed, but malleable entities, which are capable of significant twists, even complete double-backs when the occasion calls for it. A person can choose to like something they were once not so enthusiastic about, and it would seem that the converse is also true--that a person can choose to dislike, or at least to shun, something they once thought adamantly they could not do without. Eventually the choosing, which begins as an awkward struggle to bend oneself in a direction seemingly contrary to the natural grain, in the right circumstances, can produce and cultivate positive sensations so natural, that one would wonder--and often does--exactly where the point of struggle was. Why was it so difficult to choose that which would have ultimately been the remedy for so much striving?

2007-10-18T20:22:00.000-07:00

I fear that I talk too much. I do this mostly when I'm nervous, anxious, or otherwise stressed, but anymore, it has practically become the norm. It's as though I'm frantic to be heard--to be understood. But, then I panic with the sudden realization that I'd far rather not be fully understood. I'd far rather cherish my secrets and magic than have them vulgarly laid open before the gaze of all.

A wise person speaks but little, and does not feel so intensely the need to be understood, if indeed at all. I know I am far from wise, and forgive myself for it, and yet, I wish to be wise.

Sin is but missing the mark. I am, at once, not as I should be, and yet everything I am able to be at this time. One day, I shall know better, and shall not strive so any longer. One day, I shall know balance.

2007-10-02T19:07:00.000-07:00

Reason's inexorable commentary causes Emotion to shudder--to cower and cringe in humiliation. Emotion begs mercy of Reason, but Reason points to fact and past proofs, and in their harsh, unforgiving light, Emotion can only concede, though with heavy heart and weary feet.

Hope flees witless and starving.

2007-10-01T22:39:00.001-07:00

Every second of every day, it's already over. It's been and done and gone. This moment, alone, is all there is.

Relinquish, relinquish, my dear. It is to your destruction you would cling.

2007-09-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

It may be difficult, but you must set it to one side, dear. Not forget, per se--that would likely be impossible--but as though for safe keeping. Or better, like a delicacy that is best savored after a long wait.

Go about your life. What else is there to do?

2007-09-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

Hope without expectation conjures up images of birds without wings or ships without sails. How can hope be made more than abstract without hoping for something. Hope without the thought of an object—a goal, is vain indeed. Empty wind, buoying . . . nothing.

But then, where is the hope of hope, when the reality of disappointed expectation thwarts its bright trajectory? Is hope merely the belief in that which is good, surviving against all odds? Or is it of the fourth dimension—a suffused but indirect light scattered over the nebulous, ever-receding future?

Or, is it simply the taking of joy in each step: the bursting juice of berries, warm feathery breezes, sunshine smiles? Is hope merely the belief that the world will continue to be there, when we wake up in the morning, and that there will still be loveliness in it to enjoy?

2007-09-26T09:21:00.000-07:00

How do I quell this longing—this age old ache, that’s followed me so long? My emptiness is all I’ve known, and in it, I am, in a way, full. The more arduous task would be to release my illusion of emptiness and envelop the true vacuum without collapsing under external pressure. Indeed, the vacuum must increase, if the benefit of fullness is to mean anything—if only to carve out within me more space for its blessing. Here is where self-discipline would serve me well, but I have neglected it: even now, as I write these words, I’m suffering for lack of it.

My mind wanders so easily—so readily meanders towards that which I must doggedly turn it away from. I find that the temptation to surrender to thoughts which seem like blessed rain after a lifetime of drought can only be blunted by recollecting that what appears to be a cool clear stream could prove a sandy mirage--or worse, that grasping at the thoughts might even thwart the fruition of their inspiration. So, despite dryness, and the insinuation of sweetness, I must press forward and disregard both, until it assumes more substance than shadow.

2007-09-23T10:04:00.000-07:00

Please, I beg you, do not intrude. Allow my soul to slumber in bliss. It does not wish to be awakened now, not even by a gentle touch. Only in sleep has it been able to find peace from yearning, and the rest is sorely needed. Let me retrieve, in my dreams and reveries, my own self, that I may live in strength and dignity--whether you touch me or no.

2007-09-19T22:35:00.000-07:00

10.

Can you coax your mind from its wandering
and keep to the original oneness?
Can you let your body become
supple as a newborn child's?
Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see nothing but the light?
Can you love people and lead them
without imposing your will?
Can you deal with the most vital matters
by letting events take their course?
Can you step back from you own mind
and thus understand all things?

Giving birth and nourishing,
having without possessing,
acting with no expectations,
leading and not trying to control:
this is the supreme virtue.

From The Tao Te Ching

2007-09-19T07:39:00.000-07:00

Don't fear, little one. You have more help than you ever thought you could have. Cry your tears--it's okay. You're exhausted, and you carried the burden for as long as you could. There's no reason to feel ashamed.

2007-09-16T23:49:00.000-07:00

I feel like a rubber band. I hope I don't break.

2007-09-12T15:43:00.000-07:00

I refuse to be beaten by this. I will live and live well. I may walk alone, but it doesn't follow that my life will be less fulfilling for it. It shall be glorious--even if only I shall see it so.

2007-09-12T11:06:00.001-07:00

God, why? The downhill spiral. Blind, and on the edge of a pit without knowing. The ground suddenly gives way, and I don’t know . . . anything. Everything I thought I knew turns upside down, and gets spattered, if not slathered, with mud. I too am covered in it, and fear I shall never be clean again. And though that may seem the least of my troubles, it is actually the grease which makes my desperate grasp and foothold at the edge of the abandoned well so tenuous and difficult. And it is that mud which will leave me feeling tainted and vulnerable, even after I muster all of my strength to pull myself out.

I shouldn’t look, but I do. I shouldn’t think about it, but my brain cells gather around it like iron filings before a magnet. If you looked closely, you could observe and diagram the lines of the field in those tracings—the lines of force. Much as I try to break the pattern—to manage the alchemy of conversion from iron to lead, the going is slow, and often tedious. I grow curious about the other side of the fence, and peek over again, only to see the same repetition of cold hard facts I saw before. Except I don’t always recognize them as such: Perhaps this time it will be different--perhaps there is something there I didn’t notice before, that would color all differently. But then memory beckons, and the icy whisper of reason takes hold of my ear. “There is nothing for you here,” the old crone hisses, in her cracked tones. “Can’t you see, fool? There never was. You only imagined.”

I would only be kidding myself, were I to look over the next fence with hope. It is more than likely there is nothing there for me either.

2007-09-11T23:31:00.000-07:00

Things go in cycles. It is both the greatest comfort, and the most pedantic annoyance that this, too, shall pass.

2007-09-09T16:18:00.000-07:00

My thoughts may be small, and my ways undisciplined. But this does not mean that I am unworthy of life and affection. I am a mere insect--but even the insect may fly and know the sunshine.

2007-09-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

If I failed to follow, it was because my allegiance was divided. I could not be wholly devoted when I lived in the fear that in "having Him, I must have naught beside."

2007-09-07T08:28:00.000-07:00

Let it go. It’s of no consequence if you’re deficient of understanding. Everyone has blind spots, and no one can be master of everything. The firefly is not an offense to the starry night, because he doesn’t gleam so for the appraisal of men. He graces the night, because it is his nature to glow, and he does so, quietly and without question.

If you want to become whole,
let yourself be partial.
If you want to become straight,
let yourself be crooked.
If you want to become full,
let yourself be empty.
If you want to be reborn,
let yourself die.
If you want to be given everything,
give everything up . . .

When the ancient Masters said,
"If you want to be given everything,
give everything up,"
they weren't using empty phrases.
Only in being lived by the Tao can you be truly yourself.

From the Tao Te Ching

2007-09-06T17:31:00.001-07:00

Will I be able to resign myself to inability? It seems that now is the first time I’ve given admission to the thought. Perhaps it’s alright for me to just be alive, and not impress another living soul. Then, I could permit myself to like and dislike what I choose, and pursue my own thoughts with impunity. It’s high time I learned to spin my own magic and live in my own mysteries.

I rescued a grasshopper from a living burial in the cold marble vault of the office restroom.