To those of us who contemplate our comma in the sentence of eternity,

For each breath in, take two breaths out
And slowly fade away.
Your burdens will get heavier
Day by painful day.

You give your food to others who
would have you starve as well
Gray gets only grayer in
the very depths of hell.

Search, contemplate your dark abyss
You'll find no sure way out.
Life lived in colorless expanse
Is worse than death or drought.

Though leave you can't, you'll comfort find
In echos or the hand
That reaches in and hold your heart.
And maybe then you can

At least exist. At least go on.
At least for one more day.
You're stronger than you were before
So [slowly] wend your way.

Light ahoy? Perhaps it's still
too early to be told.
But light I'll find, I'm sure I will.
At least I can grow old.

There's something about not only knowing where you are, but having the comfort that others know as well. It makes the ignorance we suffer feel less catastrophic. It makes us feel we are valid WITH trials we face. The moment we allow ourselves to have problems is the moment we can remove the weighty label of guilt on our already heavy, mortal baggage. It's the moment we stop looking for a non-existent exit, all the while cursing the pieces of us that get in the way, and turn instead towards accepting what we have and doing what we can: moving, however slowly it may be.

After all, when looking back on someone's life or even while they're still alive, we rarely define them by what they have failed to accomplish. When asked "Who is she?" we never say "Well, she's not a pianist, she's never hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro, and her name isn't and never will be Suzie." With a few exceptions, we define people by what they are accomplishing or have accomplished. "Well, she's this awesome girl who's studying English Teaching. She speaks Chinese and has the coolest family ever and the most awesome friends. She's an artist, musician, writer, runner, and super nerdy. Although she's vain enough to write paragraphs about how great she is, she's pretty cool."

Be

Philosophy for the day.

Today while coming home from work I found myself humming one of my all time favorite songs from Donavan:

Happiness runs in a circular motion

Thought is like a little boat upon the sea

Everybody is a part of everything anyway

You can have everything if you let yourself be.

In the original version, the last word is "see," but my mom always sang it "be." I was struck by the last line by seeing things a way I never have before. I've always read it as "You can have everything if you let yourself be happy," but I think a more powerful way of reading it is this: "You can have everything if you let yourself alone."

There's a lot to be said about letting yourself be happy, about not stressing about the unimportant things. However, the way we do that is never something easy to find. The way we let ourselves be happy is to let go of ourselves. Let your life be about what someone else needs and your needs will be drastically less remarkable to you.

In sticking to the original "see," see the world around you. Don't think about yourself in terms of one. If you allow yourself to see others and be a useful part of society, you can have it all. By having a hand in the lives of others, you become a part of each other. The more you help and the more you give, the more you are fulfilled and the more you receive.

The Nature of a Poem

A poem is a silly thing

It’s made straight from emotion.

Not really words, not really form

It’s something like an ocean.

A poem is a vastish thing

And yet it is so tiny.

It means so much in one small life,

But on the page is finey.

A poem is a fiercish thing

A nail made of words.

Tis true it’s small, but when it pushed,

The point comes through in thirds.

A poem is a growing thing

What comes out comes in.

It’s meant to let emotions out,

But that is what it brings.

Reflections on Age

It is a supreme goal of mine to absolutely never become old without first obtaining and maintaining a convincing, if not tried and true, English accent. Somehow, you can't really be decrepit then. I've been spending a lot of time where you hear people get so old that they start over-pronouncing their "r's" so much they sound like they're not only really close to dying, they're also extremely uneducated. They could be talking about the historiographical morphology of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and you still think to yourself, "Poor old guy. It would suck to lose your mind like that." If, however you happen to have a high English accent at around 87, you're suddenly the Queen. Then, you could tell people that Swiss cheese is the new California State Flower and people would admire your grace and elegance instead of realizing what Swiss cheese has to do with flowers or California and why in the world that could possibly be the Queen of England's business. Yes, it's much better to be a respected idiot than a forgotten scholar.

Prelude to Poem

I went for my first bike ride of the season yesterday; Mother Nature's been pretty brutal up until now. I went over this little bridge into a park and found an arch of trees with a tinsy little path going through it. I followed it in, and just as I suspected: it was a portal into a fairy kingdom! It had a stream and small paths and some lovely benches. And best of all, everything was green and alive. And secluded. It was like a little room of living green. I sat there for a while and knew I had to write a poem when I got back. So here it is!

To the Trees

I remember the trees

and their canopies

heaving with breathing.

Flecks of skyblue

glittered

through the leaves.

God was everywhere.

I try and remember now

as I sit on the floor

heaving and breathing

my quiet (despair)ation

As I eat my

small single serving

I try to

Remember

what it was.

What was it to breathe like trees?

Can you close your eyes and feel your own song?

Can you close your I's and hear its duet?

Can you follow?

Little robin sings his own Search Song.

All. Throughout. May.

He lives

(and sings)

And breathes

(and sings)

He lives alone

(but sings)

Courageously:

He is.

I am.

We are.

Intro

This blog was created under the pretense of being for you. It's not. Not really. I'm not saying I don't hope it can help you, but it is initially mine. Hope is the medicine of the miserable (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure) and the wings to the grounded. By recognizing and appreciating it in my own journey, I plan on capturing it and making it my own, winged bottle of spiritual aspirin. It will be like the point in Jane Eyre, when a ray of hope is found glimmering in the wreck of ash and ruins and Jane says to herself "I breathed again." My life is far from ruins, but not everyone's is. I hope my small words can find a home in someone's heart. I think that mostly I just want to write down everything that makes me happy and see if it spills out anywhere.