Archive for the ‘On the Path’ Category

On the Path #4

Just like the circle on my chest,
everything is spinning back again.

Being younger was easier, and harder. Having needs is more rewarding, and harder. Walking these steps again is eerie, and always.

I wonder if we will ever wander again, in so much space.

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands. – e.e. cummings (1931)

Oh, man, what I used to be.” – Robin Pecknold (2011)

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On the Path #3

It’s is difficult to find faith in what feels like a rudderless world.

One of the things I learned in the wake of immeasurable sadness was the power of empathy. The deeper understanding of another human’s emotions and experiences. Sometimes I feel like if you can grow in empathy, become a caring human and a thoughtful storyteller, you’ve mastered the hardest part of being human.

I call it finding the voices of others inside you. But before you can speak them, you have to learn how to listen. There may be a catalog of human voices in your body. And there is always a whisper somewhere.

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On the Path #2

Tattoo Old Folk

My body is slowly becoming covered in tattoos.

They’re reminders, I think, of lives I’ve lived before. Or things I’m living now. Maybe a little bit of both. It’s funny, because for so long I detested the idea of being marked by anything, good or bad. My father taught me to live a pristine life, to try and get through unmarked, and I think I internalized that both physically and emotionally.

But here I am, about to get another one in December. Sometimes I think they’re markers of something I’m experiencing in this life, but other times I wonder if it isn’t my skin making apparent the secrets from my past.

I am thankful that my reading of myself, and my place in the world, could be so wrong. My body is becoming a collection of stories. I am slowly re-learning them.

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On the Path #1

The Path

When I was a small child I used to wear my blankets around me like the robes of tibetan monks. The Dalai Lama waved at me. My father and I used to see ghosts everywhere. My father died earlier this year, and now I see him everywhere.

Sometimes I meet people who I’ve met before. A peacock, or a raven. It’s interesting to love something you know you’ve loved before. Like the space after a tooth falls out, it’s strange and well-worn.

Here I am, writing again. I thought I was done after the blog project, but somehow this seems different. Hopefully this will give me a space to explore my spiritual self, and all the lives I am living and have lived.

All of this has happened before, and will happen again. – BSG

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