Inkling

I begin to think something, an inkling of something. Possibility. My potential capacity to actualize aspiration. I feel the edges of my unlived life and quiver at its magnitude. I begin to think I am capable of incredible feats. A life of health, wholeness, joy, and deep commitment. So what stands in my way?

Rising

I can feel myself growing with each day. 

New opportunities are presenting themselves. 

For love. 

For work. 

For art. 

I am leaving behind what distracts me. 

And working hard to face what is in front of me. 

Breaking out on my own. 

Finding a space that is entirely mine. 

Setting boundaries with people. 

Finding myself within my own field. 

Cultivating peace and inner security. 

It is my inner strength that is bringing all this to pass. 

Taking refuge in the jewel of my own heart 

And thriving there. 

This is a new world I’m treading in. 

A new world of possibilities and satisfaction. 

Of needs met and passions pursued.

What starts from within will inevitably make its way out. 

And so I am beginning with the blank canvas of my soul, 

Forging ahead with a new life. 

One grounded in love and care and strength and resilience and fluidity. 

And I am excited for the day when finally my dreams come to pass 

Somewhere there is a layer of skin I no longer need, 

A shell going back to the earth 

While I rise 

Little by little 

Into the heavens. 

Avocados

I walked to the grocery store the other day 

For a bag of jumbo avocados. 

I took them home and mashed them 

Into guacamole for a birthday party.

I added lime juice,

Red onions – diced,

And tomatoes — the kind that tastes more like a vegetable than a fruit.

I added garlic salt, 

Lemon pepper 

Cayenne,

And sugar.

I tasted it every step of the way. 

I sat down at a table among friends.

We ate the finest homemade macaroni and cheese. 

We slurped up sweet zoodles,

And whole heaps of cheap wine. 

At one point a baby raccoon wandered into the yard.

We told stories on a small pink stage. 

We made s’mores with peanut butter cups. 

We sat until the embers burned 

And the partygoers left. 

We smoked cigarettes and talked about shame 

And the limitations of our power. 

We reconciled differences, 

And laughed with each other.

We looked at stars 

And fathomed at their deaths. 

When the night ended I went inside 

With a ball of fear heavy in my chest. 

I found the lovers hugging in the kitchen. 

I did dishes until the ball disappeared.

The guacamole was gone

But for the hardened, discolored remains 

In the bowl. 

I put my hand under the hot water  

And let it run. 

A voice in my head said something about a global water crisis. 

I turned the faucet off and stood there alone. 

I looked out the window into the yard, 

Where the puppy had dropped another baby raccoon

Dead in the grass.

I thought about masks falling off, 

And the smell of nag champa.

I thought about the desert,

And vision quests, 

And galaxies, 

And love. 

I thought about how some things turn bad 

Faster than avocados 

And how the things worth staying for 

Are often taken for granted. 

I looked at my reflection 

And saw the abandoned house next door. 

I saw the bushes rustle 

And the shadows dance 

I saw among the darkness something like a home. 

I fell asleep at dawn with my headphones in 

And my heart threatening to burst wide open. 

Home, Wherever.

I am growing tired of this life, and in the short distance I sense a new world on my horizon. Since I’ve no pull in anyone direction, I feel am becoming accustomed to this perpetual fall. But soon I suspect this momentum will carry me home. People ask me, “where are you living nowadays?” I tell them the truth. Well, first I laugh–if for no other reason than to celebrate the absurdity of my current circumstances. But then I tell them: I don’t really have a home right now and I’m becoming okay with that. “Well where are you sleeping?” They ask. “Wherever. Here and there.” 

For a long time I have regarded things like a lease or a job as weights–burdens–shackles, ball, and chain. I have avoided their grasp. Allowed myself the space to wander without certain aim. My aim is inward. The direction of growth. Learning. Evolving my person. It is a matter of striving to be the best human I can be. To make the most of this mess we call life. And while I may not know where my physical home is, I know where my etheric home is; I know that I can always pursue higher plateaus of self. Wherever I roam, the journey remains essentially the same: be a good person, embody my joy, humble myself before the mirror of others. And be present for what I’m in contact with. That’s all there is really. 

Thoughts on Expectation

It is difficult to divorce myself from the expectation of outcome. Even as I write this I wonder, how many views will it get? Will anyone read it? Does it matter that I am writing it at all? How easy it is for me to slip into a nihilistic void with my art! Down the spiral, I begin to say nothing matters; that writing serves no purpose at all; that in the end, death comes to find us; and our accomplishments are weighed back to zero. So what is the point? I hope my work touches someone; but will it do so in a meaningful way? Will there be some larger meaning behind my work? Some larger reason for persisting with it? Or should I get up from this chair right now and slip into the river naked and ready to drown?

Haiku on Residency

Long walks in the woods,

Contemplative talks with cows,

A river flows north.

The strong walnut desk 

Sitting in my studio 

Gazing at sycamore trees 

And the ghostly tune 

Of invisible specters 

Playing by the shore.

I am so transfixed

By these mythical pastures 

And this blessed place.