Skip to main content


There is a softness that I access without the mind. There is release of a gripping sensation around the heart and head. The breath flows with more ease, as if a dam has given way. The sides of the mouth curve up gently, as something smiles within.

Most mornings I wake up, and feel the burden of my mind, that drags old beliefs, old fears, old judgements around with it, as I journey forth, as I ride the waves of the mighty sea. Like barnacles crusting over an old ship, they ride with me, and mistaken for alive, I grant them sanctuary, no matter that they enshroud the splendor of my spirit, and weigh me down.

The cantankerous passengers have formed so gradually over time, and have been with me for so long, that I don't remember what it felt like to be shiny and new. I might feel incomplete without their company.

And yet I notice, I am still afloat.

I turn inward. I recognize the weariness of being at sea for so long, at staring out into the emptiness and not really seeing, because I'm still looking for something I haven't found. But it has been so long since there was the promise of land that sometimes I forget what it is I'm even searching for-- but I look anyway.

It used to be the promise of a quiet bit of paradise, the bounty to sustain-- freedom, whatever that means. But after many days under scorching sun, coupled with the unpredictable turn of the weather, I'm not even sure paradise is what I want anymore. And what if all that I've taken on has compromised the ship? What if the bottom is rusted over, and it can't withstand the breaking of the rocky shoreline?

And I can't ignore something that tells me that the shade of the foliage on dry land might not be enough after a while, not better than my cabin below anyway. It might even get a little suffocating to live where the sky is obscured by a thick jungle canopy. And the stability of land, quiet and still beneath my feet-- might it not give way to dreams about sailing into the open sea, to be part of the whim of such a mighty maestro?

I might miss his capriciousness. Who's to say? I've tired of him at the moment.

I turn inward again. This time I witness the part of me holding out to be rescued. From what?

From both: sea and land-- And then what? Maybe, to be rescued again?

I turn even further inward, shedding all of my story, until there is no more mast to be steered, until there is no more ship at all, no more ocean, no more dreams of paradise, and setting foot on dry land.

The mind fades into silence. The body fades too, and any meaning with it.

Clear. Newborn. There is only the breath now, and the silence between the inhale and the exhale. The present moment-- and I am light. I am the sun that shines effortlessly over the sea, with the magic to dance and sparkle as I skim over the top, and penetrate its depths; no longer a divide between earth and sky-- but who would notice, what with the spectacular display of luminescence, never choreographed, but somehow revealing the most extraordinary of patterns.

There is no past. There is no future. There is no body. There is no separation.

And herein exist all the possibilities, all the promise. And the peace. I can't forget the peace. Although, in this space there is no distinction of anything really. And so language runs out.

The word 'love' would be perhaps the closest description, but only if it has shed all that it has ever conjured up in you before.

I smile and find myself back in what I believe is my body. I open my eyes to this new day.

And oh the possibilities...


  1. wow. I kind-of just want to leave it at "wow," because i don't think i have the words to describe how deeply touching this was.

    You took me somewhere i want to go back to again and again, somewhere that is nowhere. somewhere we can all "go" at any moment.

    What a gift you are.

  2. You blew me away with this one.

    Loved the descriptions.

    What a shift last weekend was for you.


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, mag


Photo by Ben Herbert on I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing. I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline. The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here. There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons. My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a singl

Partaking of the Fruit

Photo by Anya Vasilieva on What I most struggle with in creative writing is that there are some ideas that just feel like they belong in the ether, in the natural born clouds. They aren’t meant to be pinned down, and every time I try to pin them down into a practical form on a page, I wound them a little bit, and must throw them back up into the ether for repair, to restore their more nebulous characteristics. This content isn’t supposed to have legs and weight, and to make noise when it walks, or to have such things as a name and defining characteristics. Rather, just whiffs of possibility that hint at an undercurrent of parallel worlds so vast and amazing as to put any Tolkien or Rowling to shame. Its just supposed to hang there, ripe for plucking, but the plucker beware. The fruit bruises easily. And yet, there are those books that seem to pin down something that doesn’t maim the central cast of characters, and in fact broadens the material into something that change