A White Horse

You hide behind the myth of the
White horse.
As if it is I
Seeking the one who rides it.
But this is not
And has never been
What I am looking for.
The bemoaned knight
Is not the one I know
Or want.

Perhaps it is the horse itself,
Running wild and rampant
Over the plains.
Freedom incarnate,
In a tumble of mane
And hooves,
That I seek.
An unadulterated,
Open and unfettered
Creature.
Nostrils flared to take in
And release the clean air.

Riderless,
Not tied to me
Or any other
By duty or need.
Just brazen and laughing
Beating a path
Into the wind.
This is what I look for.
This, and the sweet moments
Of stillness.

When the equine beasts
Come to rest in the grass,
Simply themselves,
Suddenly showing us their dapples,
And dark hairs,
Coming up grey and gentled.
Not white,
Not wild after all.

Forgetting

I am realizing these days that my life has been a long process of forgetting and remembering all the wisdom I have ever had. I forget it, then life creeps up and gives me a sharp reminder in some form. Then I remember again. Writing things down, or at least some things, has given me a better way to track what I already knew, months or years before I learned it yet again. It keeps me honest with myself. Reminds me that in fact I have had my head screwed on pretty damn well from the get go. No need for self-flagellation.

My operating system has not been down or corrupt, as I thought recently, it was bang on, operating on all cylinders and guiding me home to myself once again. All of it, including the gaps and and confusion and missing pieces and things that have seem like mistakes have all been exactly....right and good. The self doubt and fretting over actions taken and not taken have also been just the right thing, all in the right time. Even the ugly bits, the painful and seemingly tragic twists in the road have been something to be deeply grateful for, showing me my humanity and the humanity of the people in both the inner circle and the periphery of my life. It is teaching me to loosen my grip on the controls yet again, to release the need for a specific outcome.

This is true courage - all of it. Not just the part about remembering, but the forgetting too. Courage is as much about the holding on as it is about the letting go. It is about recovering my essential good nature, my ability to weather storms and be authentically and painfully human. Taking way too much responsibility for other people's feelings, and taking none at all have all been part of me getting it right. The learning curve that I am inhabiting right now, is bang on. Do not mistake this for arrogance, because it is etched with the humility that is inherent in not knowing what next, of understanding that writing it down does not fix anything into permanence, and of seeing that with each assertion I am always opening the door to be proven wrong. In some ways perhaps I hope for some mistake in perception as there is always some new revelation in this unwinding spiral. Courage is being willing to risk all of this, to get it wrong all over again just for another chance to live. Even my darkest moments are laced with sunlight.

This is a long game, full of imperfections and second chances, and constant change. The only thing I know for sure is that there is no such thing as certainty or security for the living.

Learning to Read

Between the lines there can be found
Some measure of real truth.
The type that is hard to perceive
When I am consumed with telling
My own story.
In seeking to be understood and
Seeking to understand even,
There can be too much interference,
Too much otherness.
Too much wanting things to be different.

The best remedy for this seems to be
Silence.
Despite other impulses,
Removal from outer stimuli creates a
Still point.
A place where I can see
Without looking.
Breathe
Without thinking.
Perceive all the scriptures in a
Moment,
Without slowly drawing my finger beneath
Each word
Too distracted by
Form and structure
To feel their sacredness.

I have shifted,
Away from the dervish's that
Swirl in dramatic dusty circles.
Removing myself slowly,
Deliberately,
Willing myself not to look back.
Able to perceive
This spaciousness
As it is slowly unfolding and
Illuminating the path
Directly in front of my next
Footfall.

I perch here,
Leaning slightly forward,
Still breathing,
Still living,
Understanding nothing.
But somehow
Sensing it all.

Anger

Unrestrained,

Like the pull of the moon upon my skin.

Flowing out of my gut and through my lips 

To be set free into the world,

and let go.

Beautiful anger.

The stuff so many of us fear

And revile.

The shame that comes with the expression of it is

Powerful.

But suppression is made of 

Control and fear,

Not grace.

So this time I let it flow.

In one ear and out the other;

In the way that only friends are able to listen,

Sifting and allowing all the 

Bitterness to slip through the gaps

Of perception.

I am uncorked,

And know that this too shall pass.

In this expression,

This impermanent mosaic of 

Fire and ice,

I am releasing the need to be 

Good or fair.

And falling back into 

Freedom, 

Raging full-hearted with

Betrayal and loss.

I slip beneath the surface

And drop into the churning currents below.

Relaxed but furious,

Strangely calm.

Knowing 

That the whirlpools can pull me down

Into their darkness,

Trusting that

Healing cleansing place below.

Fearless.
Understanding
That struggle is the way

To be kept

Longer than I need to be.

Trapped by my own

Fight.

If I allow myself,

Release myself,

Let go 

Into the cyclones of

Helical flow,

I will one day find myself rising to the

Surface.

Washed clean and able

To breathe new air into 

These lungs.

Even now.

(In Gratitude for Anger).

Song

"You already have".
I don't say it out loud,
but it echoes in me.
Loud and clear.
Cliche, but true.


Last night after yoga class
My bike rolled up to the intersection,
A man with a basketball
Is standing on the corner.
Eyes red, liver ruined,
He looks at me from two feet away
And for a split second I imagine
Ignoring him.
But I am playing with my fight and flight,
As the light takes it's long turn being red.
Learning to stand unprotected
Sometimes, even when I am scared
Or feel threatened.
And I understand that in ignoring him
I might miss something
Important.
So I wait, open to what's next.

I look to him.
Make eye contact, say hi.
He asks,
"Can I sing you a native song?"
I pause, but say yes.
Keeping myself open
So I can see the being inside him.
The depth of it
Wounded beyond imagining,
but still there,
Somewhere.
"Can I sing you a native song?"
He says again,
And twice more.
Each time I say yes.

He drops the ball and it rolls across the sidewalk
As a man comes towards him with a bottle
Wrapped in a paper bag.
My friend has not yet sung his song.
He looks at me,
Away from the bottle for a moment,
our eyes meeting again.
As the basketball drops off the curb
And onto the street,
He stretches his hand towards my chest.

"Can I touch your heart?"
I say no.
But my heart says,
You already have.

The light turns,
The bottle reaches him.
We part ways.


Today at work
I arrived to find the group
That had gathered there
Drumming, singing.
They have come from First Nations communities
Across the island,
Being here in this place
Now devoid of ancient human traditions,
Absconded by colonists.
Disconnected.
They are breathing spirit back into it,
Into us
With a song.

Imperfect as things are in this world,
As I am,
I wonder how the circles
That hold us separate from each other,
Are starting to close.
Or if they can.

As we listened, grateful and vibrating,
The drums played us out of lunch.
The hall filled with beating hearts,
And strong voices
Singing a native song.

Not Yet

Yesterday I reposted a piece I wrote 2 years ago about 'the still point'. It is a borrowed idea, from where I'm not sure, but these found words are apt for something that has been my awareness, although not always within my reach, for as long as I can remember.

Life does not wait. No matter how much we might need or want the train to stop speeding along the tracks it is something that will always be beyond our ability to control. Whether it feels like a speeding locomotive, or a giant boulder rolling inexorably downhill, 'time' (for all of it's constructed meanings) will not pause long enough for us to catch up.

In some way, I am aware that this is where regret comes from, this sense that we missed an opportunity that was ripe and passing by as we muddled through some other turmoil, eyes to the sky, or the ground, or gazing back over our shoulder to puzzle out something long gone.

In the past month I stopped consuming coffee, in some part because I knew that I needed this body and mind to slow down in the midst of a difficult and confuddling period. It came from a realization that I had missed something important, and that something was  within me, silenced and hidden away and just waiting for an opening. I restarted a more regular yoga and meditation practice, which I had let slide over the course of two years or more. All this happened in a crux of 'busyness' at work, a stretch of time where I am being asked to give more of my life away. Simultaneously, I had was heeding some inner guidance and was making a commitment to make a practice of 'wanting what is here' (see http://artofstaying.blogspot.ca/2017/04/wanting.html). Over the past two weeks in my busiest time of year, I have felt more calm and grounded. I have not taken a break, or quit my job, or gone into hiding. I have just invited myself to attend to my days in the light of my own compassionate attention. At work I am surrounded by young people and trees, which are two of the most awesome things I know of.

Of course, because of all this, everything has slowed down. Not what is happening outside of me of course, but rather my need to try to keep up with it. Here I find it, my still point, doing it's utmost to remind me that although that the pace I have been moving at has seemed too slow, and not result oriented in the material sense, it has been absolutely needed.  I have done many things messily, and seemingly out of order, and retreated when I could have opened at times. But I am not alone in being imperfect. All of us humans get to inhabit that way of being, and maybe it's actually just perfect after all. All of it leading us to the dark places that are begging for more light.

There are external events that have led me to go deep into self reflection, but I know the movement has been building in these underground tunnels over time. I can track it in my writing - signposts that perhaps only I can see, but they are there, having emerged from the unconscious realms to occupy the page. My process over these few years has been frustrating and slow, but was made more so by my own inability to wait it out, to say no on occasion and let myself be. To forgive myself my imperfections. To understand that 'not yet' is an acceptable and valid answer to the heart's ardent call. I did not let myself off the hook. I was being pushed and was pushing myself for answers that I did not have, so I created one out of ether and circumstance. But the real answer was simple; not yet.

Not yet can be terrifying, because in sitting with it, we sometimes allow things of great beauty to pass us by, as some realizations take time. But it can also be a place of deepening readiness. If we fail to honour the speed at which the heart chooses to move, it will sink us, every time. Trying to rush to a desired end, forcing the wound closed with patches sewn together from the strands of hope, distraction and desire, we fail to reckon with the true nature of the injury. More importantly, we miss the gifts that lie hidden behind the veil of our deepest struggles when we get locked into the 'want it now' mentality. All beings deserve happiness, but sometimes this can be found most potently in the pause. In the expansive wonder that permeates the here and now.

I drove home yesterday evening along damp country roads, the spring forest leafing green and whispering the scent of blossoms and wet bark through the cracks in my car windows. The dog's nose lifted to the other messengers that were wafting in, detected by him alone.
All things unfold.
And I see now with an almost-clarity, that the things I thought were the most painful losses, have actually been incredible gifts, enabling me to sink below the level of words and explanations, blame and judgment, to a wellspring of life not yet fully received.

“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible in us be found.” 

― Pema Chödrön