Wrists

If the tables were turned, would you feel the way that I feel now?
Would you yearn to see and smell and hear and feel and taste the city lights
As they call to you from the endless darkness of the urban night

Would you be drawn to the highest point in your small neighbourhood
Just to see as much of the view as you possible could?
Would you do all this despite the dropping temperature?

I'd do all those things, if the tables were turned.
If there were two clouds of rising breath instead of one.
I'd do all those things if the snow hosted two sets of footprints,
Differing in size and stride.

Stamping on that wooden floor in the overturned ark,
I am often struck by a paradox. You are everything and nothing
My heart is so bursting with love that sometimes it's aimed at you
But sometimes it's like there isn't room.

This isn't doubt. I'm sitting here in the darkness, singing
Feeling like a daughter.
Feeling like the moon is reaching down to us on earth to say,
Sleep, now. But those who wish to keep me company, I will soothe you.
And I am soothed.

The price to pay is a melancholy ache, but it is tame.
There is still a smile on my lips as I think about raising my burdens to God.
I am laying on a moonlit field with my heart wide open like a blooming lotus.
Oh, if I had the paints and canvas, I would bring this to life.

I won't need patience when I understand. And I do understand - I just forget.
I forget that I am not alone.

I want to remember how to run wild through the flora.

Ruffle My Tailfeathers

Some things just seem to make sense.
Let's apply them.

Hope

I feel opressed by sorrow, but I know in my head, even, that that isn't what will help the Earth. Faith and a good, strong heart will help, yet I feel heavy. I feel sad for the people who were lost in Japan, and for their families, be they living or dead. However, my sadness makes me realize that people are lost every moment of every day, and just because it isn't covered by CNN or Fox News doesn't mean it doesn't matter. It doesn't mean that those people who die obscured by the veil of distance or disconnection have any less value or merit any less love than those whose deaths are widely publisized. It shouldn't be this way - instead of just feeling sad for those whose losses we witness via the television, I see two options:

1. Feel sadness for all losses, including those unknown (In which case we would all be but Weeping Yogis, carrying the weight of death upon our shoulders without letting the Light dissolve our burdens)

or,

2. Sympathize, but refrain from getting too caught in the pain of others.



I feel as though my energies could be put to better use by shifting my focus - weeping alone in my room at night for the victims of a natural disaster will not help those still in need. How ignorant a race are we to ignore the threat until it has already been made manifest and taken lives? At risk of sounding cynical or abusing dark humor, I feel as though (myself included) we carry on our lives with blinders on, worrying about comparatively trivial problems (I don't have enough money for this video game that I want) when people are suffering and struggling to fulfill the bottom of the hierarchy of needs.



But how can this possibly be sustainable? How can one live a life of unrest until these problems are solved? One can work tirelessly and endlessly for years and it will not stop the waves. It will not stop the fires or the quakes or the car accidents. There is death and sickness in this world.

So why is this sad?



A Buddhist would tell me that the root of all pain and unhappiness is attachment. Perhaps this is logical and true, but does that mean we should not grow attached to things? Does the love of God not flow through attachment?

So let's say both these statements are true: pain roots in loss which is a situational consequence of attachment; while these attachments are fulfilling to the human spirit and educational to the soul. What is the answer?



I believe Yoda puts it best:
"Death is a natural part of life. Rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force. Mourn them do not. Miss them do not. Attachment leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed, that is."

It is difficult. Maybe you think I'm heartless by saying these things, and if I ever shed a tear due to a loss, think me not a hypocrite. I'm not attempting to communicate there will be no pain, or that there should be no pain. My point is that there will be, because death is an ending. My point is also that there is birth, and it is beautiful, and when we get caught up in one or the other we lose balance. What if CNN reported the birth of every new and healthy baby in the world? Would that not lose it's novelty? However, death is perpetually frightening. This is still a mystery to me.
I have to go now, but I pray the best for Japan, and I pray for the grief to be lifted from where it weighs the heaviest. I pray that light shine on the darkness and the will of God be carried out in love. I love you all. Sleep well, now.

Confusing Dreams

Totally woke up thinking it was Monday - in my dream it was a Monday morning at 6AM.
Then I awoke to find it was Sunday at noon -
Then I went upstairs to find it was Sunday at one.

Next thing I know I'm going to get a mysterious letter in the mail, printed on a laminated poster of the Prince of Bel Air, telling me that I am actually an alien observer from some unknown planet who was implanted into the body of a blonde teenager to observe the seismic patterns of North America. "Stop playing video games," It'll say. "You're losing focus."

But how was I supposed to know I'm actually an alien?! And then I'll get all defensive and I'll sprout two extra arms.

Do you see what happens when I blog right after waking up?! My dream body's still playing.

Endlessness

I find it hard to hookshot the future.
Zelda reference, anyone?
Leave it to me to incorporate nerdy references into colloquial philosophical rants. Sigh.

What I mean by my first phrase is that I found myself mildly panicked at the thought of cancelling my plans this evening. I had set up a schedule for myself, but alas, I am too tired and broke and sore to do anything but venture into Ferelden. Is it really escapism when I am conscious of the current world? Or, when one is reminded that time is simply a fabrication of man? We all exist simultaneously, and by 'we all' I don't just mean our separate human forms. I mean our pasts, our presents, our futures. I am me, but at the same time I am me, had I made different choices in my past. All of those parallels reside within my soul, dancing joyfully together in celebration of the path I have chosen to take - be it wisest or not, that is not subject to anyone's judgement but God. And he will do with me what he pleases, as I am submissive and willing. I am not a sucker - I will fight like a feral wildcat to love in freedom and to be free in love - but I will not bloody my sword. I identify with a warrior and a pacifist; predator and prey.

I find it quite amusing that these thoughts and spiritual wonderings that so frequently occupy my thoughts rarely manifest in anything other than this blog, which few read. Do I really write for the masses, though? Or is it the curve of the font and colour that soothe me when I translate from heart to tapping of keys?

I'm gonna go crack open a beer and play some Dragon Age. Talk to you later, kiddo. <3

This Is The Funniest

You see, kids, hormones are a dangerous thing. "WHY ARE YOU WRITING THIS

Can you at least be cryptic and poetic about it?"

"HahahaHAAAAAAAA"

"Why... You're a terrible person"

Well, maybe I am, but this is hilarious and ridiculous because I'm not even depressed about this. Not even lonely. Not even frustrated.

I am in the eye of a storm as an accidental observer.

I want some tew

/D:

International Womens Day

"There is probably no better or more reliable measure of whether a woman has spent time in ugly duckling status at some point or all throughout her life than her inability to digest a sincere compliment. Although it could be a matter of modesty, or could be attributed to shyness- although too many serious wounds are carelessly written off as "nothing but shyness"- more often a compliment is stuttered around about because it sets up an automatic and unpleasant dialogue in the woman's mind.

If you say how lovely she is, or how beautiful her art is, or compliment anything else her soul took part in, inspired, or suffused, something in her mind says she is undeserving and you, the complimentor, are an idiot for thinking such a thing to begin with. Rather than understand that the beauty of her soul shines through when she is being herself, the woman changes the subject and effectively snatches nourishment away from the soul-self, which thrives on being acknowledged."

"I must admit, I sometimes find it useful in my practice to delineate the various typologies of personality as cats and hens and ducks and swans and so forth. If warranted, I might ask my client to assume for a moment that she is a swan who does not realize it. Assume also for a moment that she has been brought up by or is currently surrounded by ducks.

There is nothing wrong with ducks, I assure them, or with swans. But ducks are ducks and swans are swans. Sometimes to make the point I have to move to other animal metaphors. I like to use mice. What if you were raised by the mice people? But what if you're, say, a swan. Swans and mice hate each other's food for the most part. They each think the other smells funny. They are not interested in spending time together, and if they did, one would be constantly harassing the other.

But what if you, being a swan, had to pretend you were a mouse? What if you had to pretend to be gray and furry and tiny? What you had no long snaky tail to carry in the air on tail-carrying day? What if wherever you went you tried to walk like a mouse, but you waddled instead? What if you tried to talk like a mouse, but instead out came a honk every time? Wouldn't you be the most miserable creature in the world?

The answer is an inequivocal yes. So why, if this is all so and too true, do women keep trying to bend and fold themselves into shapes that are not theirs? I must say, from years of clinical observation of this problem, that most of the time it is not because of deep-seated masochism or a malignant dedication to self-destruction or anything of that nature. More often it is because the woman simply doesn't know any better. She is unmothered."

— Clarissa Pinkola Estés (Women Who Run with the Wolves)