It’s not about me . . .

20 01 2016

DSC_0189

It’s not about me. . .

 

Although the wall of defensiveness surrounding me –

built by my own hands,

seems to indicate otherwise.

 

Although the perception of myself as frequent victim,

seems to point to a belief that it is all about me.

 

Although the belief that I am responsible for you

(and all the world around me and beyond as far as that goes),

seems to have the feel that it is all about me.

 

Although fear screams inside me;

fear that breeds constant over-functioning anxiety;

fear that implores me to believe that you spend all your time wrapped

in the missed details of our interactions;

seems to point to the consideration that I know it is all about me.

 

But it is not…

 

O, ego. You are a sly one – convincing me to believe it is so vital to my living.

 

What is it anyway, that we would give it so much power?

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limited consciousness . . .

2 01 2016

Gettysburg Fence

What bliss it is to live in the realm of limited consciousness;

defending defined borders along the unknown lands:

staving off responsibility for the depth of who we are;

Here, we live in complacent simplicity –

separating and dividing;

categorizing and generalizing;

delineating between “us and them”;

coveting absolutes not ambiguity;

Allowing the container of who we are to become the content –

no more, no less.

 

Fear, in this storyline, is the primary plot device.

The ego is driven to manufacture a god for our comfort;

holding tight the wardrobe keys so Narnia will remain undiscovered;

seeking self-preservation.

 

We work so hard.

We deceive ourselves.

 

But there is always an invitation to explore the Limitless:

in the truth that all of who we are, light and shadow, is already loved –

no strings attached;

in faith that we can risk hiking into the unknown;

in trust that we can embrace blurred boundaries;

in hope of discovering the depth of who we are created to be;

in the joy of living into

True Love;Little River Rain

True Self;

True Freedom;

True Life;

True God;

 

What Bliss . . .





Help me to love. . .

29 12 2015
Little River Stairs

Help me to love.

A simple request, this may seem;

but, if genuine, there is a cost – my ego…

 

I proceed, then, with trepidation; in faith, but with apprehension –

faith in the Love for which I thirst;

faith in the essence of the I-Am-Who-I-Am DNA from which I was created;

created in love, by Love.

 

So help me to love –

in the presence of kindness but also within accumulating animosity;

in the presence of thoughtfulness but also within the novocaine of indifference;

in the presence of goodness but also among incessant evil;

in the presence of joy but also within piercing pain;

in the presence of light but also in life’s seemingly non-ending darkness;

in the presence of gratefulness but also within the expectations of entitlement;

in the presence of inclusion but also in the pith of prejudice’s narrowness;

in the presence of those who build up but also in the presence of those who destroy;

in the presence of like-minded believers but also among control-based condemners.

 

Help me love neighbor and self as well – for the mirror into which I look reflects all that has been named.

I am not clean of these adjectives, adverbs, verbs and nouns.

 

This is what You ask, right? The One who is Love? To love…all?

 

Give me courage, then, to risk letting go:

of ego;

of who I believe I am suppose to be;

of fear-based living…

 

Help me love…

Townsend Tunnel





Freedom . . .

23 08 2015

along the parkway

Caged soul-expression;

longing to be free – to take flight;

chained by links of prescribed shoulds and ought-tos;

of fears, insecurities, and self-abandonment.

Imagination’s big bang longing to expand — creativity’s resurrection;

suppressed by years of conformity;

held by dark matter’s invisible force (mostly of my own doing);

chasing fallacious love — perceived to be the liberator of who I am.

A poem waiting for its completion;

a verse lived day-by-day;

a prose – the story of who I am becoming – revealed in the living out.

Mystery – the poem;

Creator – the liberator of imagination and inspiration;

Presence – the deliverer of the soul’s captured language;

Love – the emancipator of who I am . . .





Lovable?

15 08 2015

Ocean City, NJ Pier:BW

Lovable?

Maybe –

I hear it;

I say I know it;

I pretend I believe it –

because I’m suppose to?

But I’m not sure it dwells in my bones.

Do I believe it – truly?

Is it ingrained in me?

Does it flow through my veins like life?

And who tells me otherwise?

“They”?

Power seekers?

Wealth addicted?

Fearful “others” – needing to protect themselves?

Control hungry egos?

Religion?

Family?

You?

Me?

When did I start trying to “measure up?”

When did I abandon a childlike trust?

What if . . .

I am treasured more deeply than I know?

I am loved by Love?

What possibilities . . .

what change for good;

what risks I would take;

how I could love others more deeply – be love-able . . .

If I but lived this truth and bore it deep in my bones…

Sunrise over Atlantic City





Paradox of Pain . . .

1 07 2015

DSC_0327edited

Pain knows me;

It comes like a thief – unexpected;

like wild horses – uncontrollable;

an enduring guest – unwelcome.

Pain – eliciting a deep soul scream;

taking me to the edge of what I believe I can bear;

clothing me in darkness;

rationing the sweet tones of hope.

Pain, threatening to take the very heart of me;

the essence of my spirit –

of who I am.

Pain borne from the hands of the other –

held in the hands of the other;

In the mirror, a moment of clarity . . .

                        so distant from myself – I am the other . . .

Denial is my drug;

escapism my addiction . . .

I’m not suppose to be here . . .

I don’t want to be here . . .

listen . .

breathe . . .be still . . .

listen . . .

Can I believe this echo in the canyons of my being?

Can salvation come from within what I would try to deny?

From what I so desperately want to escape?

Does Love arise from pain?

Can Love be borne from within pain?

Out of pain?

Is pain’s voice not the final sound?

A portal to deeper meaning – Love…

Pain knows me . . .

but . . .

I’m beginning to know pain…

Blue Ridge Parkway 1





7th Street . . .

28 06 2015

pure joyOn 7th Street in old Ocean City,

looking between wires;

through balconies;

over cars . . .

I see the endless ocean kissing the horizon –

no wires;

no balconies;

no cars . . .

A reminder of the beginning –

God and creation;

I Am Who I Am and

We – who we were to truly be . . .

Funny how the ordinary gives sight into the extraordinary . . .

I wonder if the extraordinary was intended to be the ordinary?