Freedom From

If you are climbing, clawing, and searching your whole life for happiness you will not find it, if you are looking in the eyes, arms, and attention of all around you for love, you will forever long for it.

These aspects of your reality are an ebb, or flow; however you see it.

They are at one side of the pendulum of your life, to constantly search for the pleasure of joy or Elation, is to think that there is only one side of a coin.

There is a duality that we cannot escape by only concentrating on the feel-good part of existence. The duality must be balanced by the third, and that third is peace. Peace with the pain, peace from love, it is the stabilizing aspect of the triad. Don’t pray for love, pray for peace from it; don’t pray for joy, pray to be free from its illusion.

Take a moment and realize that every bit of star dust, every atom, earth quake, and solar flare has been leading up to this moment. You are chosen to read these words, you are chosen to synthesize every wrong and right done to you, and form the complete being that you will one day become. Your life is a ballet, it is beautiful and tragic; it makes one weep, laugh, and love, and one day your existence will balance the opposing forces and give you peace.

What Are We?

    If you were to think about it, are you the result of some mammal that simply got tired of lounging in a tree with a cornucopia within arm’s reach, then it climbed down to battle large predators for the hope of grubs and grains. More explicitly you may not even be that, you may be nothing more than an amalgamation of soulless single celled organisms working in a symphony unbeknownst to them. Just a blob of millions of little life forms going through space and time, while your consciousness is a manifestation created by the legion to merely hold it all together. What if they simply decided to go their separate ways? Is your life, and mine so simply held together, and so easily disbanded?

    What if the earth was a spinning domicile of life and death as Darwin saw it, yet infinitely more complex than his 19th century mind could articulate? What if a single cell was so intricate that its mere existence and operation could be viewed as a miracle?

    Let me offer you an interpretation; you can either rationalize intelligent design out of your reality and thus be intellectually above morality, or you can stop looking at the damn flowerbox and look at the flowers for a moment.

    Your mass of cells working in concert is endlessly complex, not only are they interminably multifaceted, but they work together in infinite relationships, and their entire purpose revolves around one thing; You, or maintaining what it is to be You. Revolving is a key word here, the earth spins, the moon revolves around the earth, the earth around the sun, and the solar system is part of a spinning galaxy. You DNA spirals and electrons revolve around protons in the smallest building blocks currently known to man.

    There is a beat to this song, and it is 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, & so on... everything is spiraling from the smallest atom to the largest galaxy. You are but one part of a grand design so vast that we cannot even reconcile the relationships between quantum physics and relativity, just as it is not easy to reconcile Fibonacci’s sequence with Pythagoreanism; the vastness of the mind of God is simply beyond our feeble understanding.

    The cells in your body are a microcosmic representation of the universe. As the observations made by Hermes Trismegistus declare “What is the above is from the below and the below is from the above. The work of wonders is from One”. You are created in God’s image because your body is a schematic of the workings of the universe, the Book of Nature, and thus the mind of God; you’re simply to finite to comprehend the infinite. The very fact that these particulates do not tear themselves apart, the fact that there are “laws” of nature, gravity, and physics that the universe follows gives credence to the idea that someone built the flowerbox.

Wow.

 

Epitaph

http://fav.me/d1bz7pu

I lie in the cool comfortable soil

With my breath still and quite

I finally get to rest

Forever free from my toil

I can feel the larvae tickle from within

While I become a part of the humus

I have the roots of the acacia consume me

And live and die with the plant kingdom again and again

I am carried by the winds

And adrift in the sea

I am purified by flame

With each adventure returning me to my beginning, and my end

I observe the four seasons as if they were nothing

And I am beyond love, hate, and greed

I am even beyond memory

For I am truly unending

The Dead and the Dying

Originally written June 21^st 2008

 

 An uneventful night at the Wynnewood bar with too many toos, too many beers, too many cigarettes, too old to still be living like this.

 Well uneventful until we passed the Paoli Cemetery in a perpendicular manor.

 A field of stone that houses my ancestors, all of them perfectly spaced and planted to await there physical resurrection and the second coming.

 Where by order of the full moon, and the assistance of the exterior lights, our passing reflection was cast in all of that solemnly polished granite.

 A reflection abstracted, yet still discernible

 We were reflecting their death and literal representation of mortality, and they our life and refusal to acknowledge such a notion.

 For that very brief, strange, and beautiful moment, the living and the dead reached across that eerie threshold, and acknowledged each other with indifference. 

Plant a Tree in Me

ESTHER SARTO, 'FOREST OF OBSCURITY'

Plant a tree in me

To feel the roots grow deep

The trunk stretching the skin

How interesting that would be

To stroll in constant shade

Observe the gentle dance of the canopy

Serenaded by song full birds

An experience I would not evade

To watch the lichens grow

Accepting the grubs that bore within

To carry this immense burden

All of this with spirits low

This is my blessing, and my curse

Were I to cut free this monolithic parasite

And be left with the sweet sad cavity

I would have the happiest wounds to nurse

Autumn is a Sweet Death

Autumn Tree

Autumn is a sweet death, it does not possess the love and beauty of spring, nor the life and tranquility of summer, nor does it possess the graceful slumber of winter, but a sweet retiring release. It is not like one who longs for death, like one who has gone through years of illness or morning, but more like a waltz that is gingerly coming to a close.

Autumn is like a loving migrant mother singing the last lullaby to her desolate child, she knows it is the child’s last song and soon hers will follow. She contains virtuosity, and strength, while failing her spawn in all of the material needs, she can swallow back her immense despair, and muster all that remains of her soul, everything that is left, and draw together one last sonnet, to ease the only thing that matters to her , to the other side.

It is not right, but when nothing is right in this world, it suddenly becomes condonable, and in a since it suddenly becomes wonderful. To find beauty in all of this ugliness, is truly the spiritual constitution of a Saint. To find the pleasant aroma in the delicate decay of autumn, is to truly realize, we all succumb to a sweet death.