The Possibilities are Endless

Fresh from my dreams I tread the dawn: hair mussed, voice froggy, sleep seeds not yet swept away—a rumpled pilgrim in love with the musky morning.

Heading east with my shadow trailing behind; Florence claims that the dog days are over, but Florida disagrees, smiling behind her frizzy hair; a curtain of humidity presenting hazy visions—the possibilities are endless.

My sensitive feet carry every bit of the load, and still; He keeps me waiting. I remember the thrill, biting my lip on the way up, and then screaming on the way down, “More more more!”

I discover Zen Cat Jr. spying from the fauna. Perhaps he has a fortune for me; Zen Cat Sr. lives at the base of the volcano. I miss that feral feline.

Fortune or misfortune, my secrets are kept, my steps inevitable, as I bold the a.m. asphalt. It’s always a mixed bag, a dizzying array of sunrise selections. I decide on the Daily Special: clouds iced in silver, perfect for dunking in the morning dew.

Monkey Mind Maybe

My meditation sitting didn’t go as planned this morning. I went into it feeling sort of blue, hoping to visit the tranquil center of my soul, but then Monkey Mind invaded my thinking. I taped my brain waves during this morning’s session and this is how it went. Please realize that Monkey Mind isn’t me. I don’t know who he is.

Monkey Mind: “So, why so glum chum? What’s the prob today? Something always seems to be bothering you. Aren’t you ever happy?”

Me: “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

Monkey Mind: “Aw… you’re confused and stuck, blue and bloated. Well, hells bells it sucks to be you. Have another banana and take one for the monkey.”

Me: “I am not my thoughts. I am the silence behind the thoughts—the lean back and breathe, the soft in the center.”

Monkey Mind: “Blubber tastes delicious to old-fashioned Eskimos but not to me. It’s too…blubbery. Lots of things on this planet are gross. I knew that life was going to be a bitch when I got slapped on the ass for showing up.”

Me: “Who said that?”

Monkey Mind: “I did.”

Me: “Who are you?”

Monkey Mind: “I don’t know, but I’m not you so relax. “

Me & Monkey Mind: “This is weird…me not being my thoughts. It makes me wonder…. Or is it someone else wondering? Hmmm.”

Monkey Mind: “There’s going to be a flogging at the village square—a tar and feathering—guilty guilty.”

Me: “Stand by the edge of the river and observe your thoughts floating by. Don’t let them distract you. They are not you.”

Monkey Mind: “I gotta pee.”

Me: “Shhh! Who are you anyway?”

Monkey Mind: “Um. God.”

Me: “No you’re not. Shut up so I can meditate. Lean back and observe the thoughts flowing by. I am not my thoughts…. Oh screw it. I’m getting a cup of coffee. You coming?”

Monkey Mind: “You betcha! Loser.”

Me: “What did you call me?”

Monkey Mind: “Nothing. Remember when you used to pick pussy willows by that covered bridge, like that movie with hunky Clint Eastwood in it? Hey I just met you…here’s my number, so call me maybe…

Me: ”It’s going to be a long day.”

Because misery loves company I'm featuring this video today. My friend Beth planted it in my head yesterday, so I wanted to pay it forward:

Are We There Yet?

As I walk, my path narrows, pinpointing my destination—a lofty target with margins that vanish into infinity. I wonder as I tread; what does this path hold for me? For if life is indeed a journey, and this trail is to get me there, you’d think I would be more certain about outcomes.

I’ve traveled many a road and found that up usually leads to down—and down to up. The climax becomes the foreplay, offering intimacies and secrets for new adventures, never really arriving at all, but rather continuing….

The mountaintop provides an intoxicating view from kingdom heights, allowing me to assess the topography of the landscape—map out the many mountains and valleys ahead that must be crossed.

Initially the mountaintop experience is euphoric—I want to stay there forever, but such high altitudes are incapable of sustaining life for any meaningful length of time, besides, the real rewards lie within the shadowy forests of the valley, where the rainbow’s colors bleed into the earth, burying the gold just below the surface, concealing it from thieves who pass by, their eager eyes always looking ahead, their hands too lazy to dig.

I walk circumspectly, aware of the indigenous plants—staying clear of the low-lying poisons with their showy blooms, instead turning my desires toward the simple fruits found high within the woodland’s emerald canopy, reclining on elevated boughs as I eat my meals in mottled sunlight.

This isn’t my first expedition, and I doubt it will be my last, but all along I’ve had to fight the urge to ask, “Are we there yet?”

Forgetaboutit!

Today, I’ve got an endless list of things to do…so much so much! Yet, I can’t get this blog out of my head—so here it is on paper. Let me apologize ahead of time if it’s a bit snappy, but I’m channeling my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Cronin, who was never one to pussyfoot around.

When life drones on like a drunken relative, leaving too much time for stinking thinking, and old worries dig their way out from their graves with zombie like skill, then it’s time to gather things up and set them in order.

If you don’t know what to do with a problem the best thing to do is to leave it alone. I mean really, look at it with its lunatic stare and inflamed gums, curled into the corner like Lizzie Borden ready to strike. Do you really feel capable of dealing with that thing, or would you rather take a dip in the pool? No brainer—right?

If you haven’t been able to fix the situation then chances are it’s not time to fix it. After all, it’s really not bothering anyone as long as you leave it alone. It’s only when you poke and prod it with your yardstick that it gets testy.

What? You say it’s a big problem? Well then this calls for big distractions, unless of course you have a solution, in which case go at it. Otherwise, step away from the joy killer and get a life.

Go do something else. Anything else! Hide a walky-talky in the bushes and then sit inside with the other walky-talky and say things to people when they walk by, like: “I saw what you did!” Or go to a crowded beach with a box of cheerios and feed the hungry seagulls, then act innocent when the sunbathers get dive-bombed and shat upon.

There are about a zillion other things you could be doing besides harassing your fears. So what that these pranks are a tad aggressive; it’s fun to kick back once in awhile, surely whatever karma these deeds trigger will be minor. Certainly nothing more than a flopped soufflé or a stubbed toe—it will be well worth it.

* Mrs. Cronin is a genius.

I find when I get busy living life, my problems fade, and my creativity rises. I also notice that I’m much more likely to discover solutions with my mind pacified. It gives the magic a chance to happen, allowing life to direct me with serendipitous events—events that I would never be clever enough to orchestrate on my own, and then abracadabra! the solution finds me.

This weekend a friend visited for an overnighter. She came with her jammies packed, along with some other useless bullshit that she wasn’t sure what to do with. You know… her collection of dilemmas that believe just because they belong to her that they are invited to go everywhere she goes.

I was well prepared for her visit, having spent many musical hours mixing sangria, and preparing a kick-ass meal. But, just one day prior to this I was obsessing over a situation of my own. One I’d been knocking around for years without any real solutions. Preparing for my friend’s visit distracted me from my neurosis, clearing the stage for some fun, while also equipping me with the strength to chase off some of her blues before they had a chance to spoil the party.

Some struggles have incredible longevity, hanging around for years, and like back-seat-drivers they nag and bully us—if we let them. We do have a choice. I believe that our trials are tailor-made, sent to teach us valuable lessons. In a way we must make room for them in our lives, while at the same time we must contain them by keeping them in their rightful places—until the solution comes along to claim them.

Fretting and obsessing over difficulties is busy-work for scaredy cats. Take your power back by doing something different, and then forgetaboutit!

Poetry Link Up With Andy David

Andy David has invited me to participate in a fun poetry link up session called Lover’s Cove. Andy is an amazing romantic poet whose words sing with love. I am participating in the third round which can be read Here at Andy’s

Here is my line:

Together we will explore love’s milky galaxies and claim the blushing moon as our own.

And here is the poem in its entirety:

If I were an artist, I would create the most beautiful flower in your image.

And I would draw your lips like two petals of rose waiting for the dew.

Brilliant strokes of pale September falling down softly upon your skin exposing the beauty within.

The beauty within your soul that kidnapped me to an endless dream of your own.

In each stroke of the brush flows a great affection devoted to you, my love.

Each colour relfecting the many seasons of your life and conveying all your intimate emotions.

The sweet whispers of our souls reflecting in the faces radiant with love.

I drink your hues, merge into me, be born with me in a new color.

Together we will explore love’s milky galaxies and claim the blushing moon as our own.

I pour its rouge glory to your dewy lips and color you to angelic perfection.

In Sync With The Moonlight

I thought I’d share some reflective thoughts that came to me recently when I was desperate enough to listen. Not that I think I’m Anaïs Nin or anything. I’m just me. Leah. Simple and somewhat vulnerable—but feisty enough stand my ground.

Anyway, I was taking a mid-night dip, reclaiming the moon and the stars— wondering how it was that the moment things seem to be going smoothly life sticks its bony leg into the isle and trips things up. In my state of cool quietude this is what I heard…

“Living in a vulnerable place with broken ground is a tricky thing, for therein lies the potential for a gravesite or a garden. The choice is yours.

When the earth is soft planting is easy. The seed nestles into the moist soil, and the two become one. The weeping sky cleanses the dirt while the brazen sun strengthens it. All the while a silent pome is growing, thanks to the nurturing elements and a soul laid bare.

Do not broadcast your seed out of season. Forcing things only yields frustration. Your seeds are your offerings to the world—your heart in a pod, sent to bear timely fruit. Relax.

Take care of yourself, for if the plant is sickly the seeds become diseased also, spreading gloom instead of light. Find refreshment from your solitary work and for added strength embrace the souls sent to love you.

You have within yourself all that is needed to live this life abundantly. Your pains and setbacks are in sync with your destiny, accept them in faith and continue onward. If you have to practice this exercise a hundred times a day, do it, for herein lies the path to peace and contentment.

Oh, and if this doesn’t work, try a jumpstart of Sangria for your spirits, a bit of moonlight for your mood, and a willing mate to awaken your senses.”

Okay, so the last line was inspired by an episode of Sex And The City; one must gather inspiration where one finds it;)

Sepia Silence

I tried to write a blog but all I found was rain and silence. I drew the silence unto myself, snuggling in for a mind-numbing cuddle. Silence initially manifests in black and white, like an old photo whispering sepia secrets, slowly mingling with my mind and stirring up color—stringing dreams across my soul like a gypsy clothesline.

When I close my eyes I can see eternity, the lofty things with no boundaries or limitations—my playground, my meditation hall, my burial ground. It’s such an unassuming place; who’d a thought that eternity resided on the other side of my eyelids.

I glide with the silence like a bird circling above in wide solo spirals, a hunger driven waltz on the day’s warm breath, posing on the tips of boney branches, puncturing the heavens, and pointing the way.

I wonder if silence is the same for everyone?

I fidget on my red futon, a Claymation character chained to the earth by my ankles with no place to go but down—six more feet perhaps, until I get my wings.

It’s still raining.

The clouds are always brooding over something.