Doorways Traveler
Doorways Traveler

white room.

i have spent a lifetime clinging to those who would love me.

i know rejection, betrayal. of being too much and too loud and too needy.

so if you would love me, then i would stay loyal through my own reservation.

and then the electric buzz, the shaking. the broken blood vessels. the passing out. the breath that couldn’t be caught. the lexapro.

because forgive does not mean forsake. you does not mean the absence of me.

eventually, the fog will lift. and everything will be on the table just exactly where it was left.

and i will sit in this white room, emptied of distraction.

still grateful. still understanding. but rising with a tide that cannot be restrained.

terrified. sudden. still.

awake.

healing
begins
the moment
you
want it to

-time

~nayyirah waheed,  from Salt

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler

the wonder of such things.

i sift through the assigned values. a life well spent. worth while. lived hard and run free. time off and time on. hard won and easy coming.

i know how to spit and cuss, answer and call, bend down and lift up, gaze and unravel.

i know dirt and sand and a few things from books and classrooms, churches and temples. i know love and commitment. i know the tastes of pomegranate and ginger.

i know the tax and utility of the machinery, of the musts and the unyielding.

i know concession and forgiving, gluttony and parch, empathy and emptiness.

and yet there is so much i have forgotten. lapses in time and doing, where, when, how.

making a list seems bothersome when there is a universe of stars and a sternum to pry up.

solitude, submersion and synapses are my current obsessions.

i am curious whether something will actually be born of this culmination of being. some thing prolific that you can someday hold in your hand. a book, a memory, a purpose that is radiantly clear.

it is drifting father away, though, less frantic and more habit, the wonder of such things. so much more, i am taken by the brazen idea of making fire, of putting my whole self in the flames,

and being consumed by light.

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler

the new.

we stripped the dining room table in time for 2015, finding a way to make new that which remembers the nourishment and the countless spills.

it is kind of like that, each reinvention. thick varnished layers need to be removed with chemicals and elbow grease, to reveal the still solid and beautiful beginning.

among the things i was grateful for in the past year:

fire, friendship, tequila.

burning, releasing, letting go (the usual).

help.

the opportunity to see more of the world. again.

mirrors, hunger, decisions, connection, gathering, dinners, my family, the truth.

time in nature, sleep.

those that have stayed, those that have left.

humility. oh blessed humility.

the unhooking.

the quiet.

the awakening.

thank you for the new.

i am moving into a year of light, of lightness of being, of strength without burden.

and i am ready to be seen again.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a
miracle,
Every inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is
spread with the same,

Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs,
of men and women, and all that concerns
them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

~Walt Whitman,  from Poem of Perfect Miracles

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler

all of me.

it is no longer the uphill that i fear. it is braking hard on the downhill, only to be sacrificed in a cloud of dust and shock.

i take them both, the saint and the fool, on every quest. companions in this human life, the dirty and the divine.
only in the empty full beginning end can i shift and reshape.

oh how i love that moment when the shaman prays over me. when i am heady with temple offerings and the hunger to prostrate.
the mark of the bindi, the red string on the wrist. the black snake and the pulsing sky.

but there is also the sugar and the seva. the descension. the embers fading into ash. the what next and how soon. the plateau and the pining. the now and the numb.

and, of course, there is no real debate, no real inquiry.

only the same.

to be free: the heart must open, the light must shine, the wild must wander, the totality must be trusted,

the fragments must fuse.

i understand,

this edge, this threshold, this auspicious anguish,

is an invitation.

if you tear a piece of that shroud and fasten it round your chest, a tavern will open up from your soul.  ~rumi

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler
Doorways Traveler