A Meditation

Look at the sky. In this moment. The clouds, the color, the birds, the sun.

It cannot be other than it is, in this moment.

Now turn your attention to the “sky” of your mind: the same vast backdrop—formless, ethereal, infinite.

The “weather” and activity of your mind also cannot be other than it is, in this moment.

Who would you blame for the sky in this moment? If the sun is too hot, the birds too busy, the clouds too gloomy?

Who would you blame? God? The Universe? Nature?

Certainly, you would not blame your self, or any other person.

And if there is no one to blame, then all that is left is to come to terms with what IS, in this moment, and every moment that follows.

Special

We learn more about ourselves from what we can’t do than from what we can. Most of us settle for “mediocrity,” not because we’ve given up, but because we’ve wisely surrendered to the limits of our natural being.

Surrender is different than failure. Failure comes from a will defeated. Surrender comes from an enlightened one. Fortunately, life’s greatest gifts lie dormant in the mundane. The so-called “geniuses” are often apotheosized long after their deaths, and their lives are often marked by unrewarded despair.

If I exploited my brain and body to the limit, I might produce something worthy of the echelon of “genius.”  But it would very well cost me my sanity to do so. I spent three months writing a single poem once, and it came out quite well. But the rest of my existence was quite far from it.

I am not a naturally gifted writer. I am mediocre. It has taken me a long time to accept that, and to recognize what is special in being “unspecial”—what is dignified in being simply human.

This blog is my journey into the magic of mundanity, where all that really matters—love, friendship, beauty, peace, dignity—is found in abundance, if only we give ourselves the space and time to rediscover it. Life was special when we were born, when we were more limited than ever. It never ceased to be so.

Life

Gentle hairs. Weathered skin.

A metacarpal canvas cracked with wear,

soft with promised years.

 

Bulbous veins, oily digits, and solitude end

where bliss begins—your face, your hand,

your commiseration.

 

Life does not exist alone.

It begins not at conception, but companionship.

Where two breaths make one.

And one heart pumps another’s blood.