Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion




Every thought I have is a passing thought. It is not real. It is not substantiated. It is not significant.

Nothing I create is without vital energetic pause, collected from the whole of the collective unconscious and collective experience of what I interpret as ‘past.’

None of my thoughts belong to me; they are merely free-flowing water, much like the substance that carries the debris in the rivers, and much like the substance that houses the lives of many.

Nothing is fresh or spoiled but rather set upon a plate of nourishing discovery. I can attend to my thoughts as I do refreshments or entertainer’s mastery: nibble, devour, gorge, detest, delight.

Whatever I choose is neither right nor wrong, nor justified. It is simply where I am in that moment.

If I gather myself into a netted wonderment, and swim without limbs, drowning in my own discoveries, so be it. If I graduate from the banks of the river and run freely through the nearby forest of endless mystery, so be it.

It is I who ultimately choses. The I that stands significantly behind the all of me and watches, as this so-called body and mind travels through the hindrances of life.

It is not this something separate or someone beyond that exists as the constant observer; rather I am he. I am the wanderer and wonderer, remaining steadfast outside the realm of trappings, so named ‘reality.’


Slumber is a necessary component to my suffering self.

When I cannot slumber deeply then I shall remind my body to stop. To stop completely what it is partaking in and who it is partaking in. For always this mind travels somewhere with some definite and finite object and objection. Even when I am not privy to the inner-workings, I become the constant companion of the streams of query and interposing debate.

Best to give us all a break: the body, the spirit, the mind, and see what dreams may come. Let the subconscious realm run rapid and deteriorate the substantial reality to bring forth the avenues of undiscovered breathing beneath the labyrinth of rationale.


I have come to see myself as whole in and of myself, and in the same measure complete with the knowing I am part of the collective whole.

My thoughts are others’ thoughts. My passion shared by many. My sorrow shared by most.

Nothing I think, feel, experience, detect, decipher, insinuate, or create is superior or inferior. I am simply a part of the makings of the entire infrastructure, so named ‘humanity.’

Nothing I do or say is unique, and nothing I feel, think, or transpire is in isolation.

Once I accept I am not alone, no longer, and never was alone, then I can simultaneously detect I am also not in suffering without the all.

Every single one of my emotions has been and will be experienced by someone else. If not a thousand upon a thousand times before, then soon somewhere, in someone.

To think I am alone in my suffering and misery is the biggest thievery of our days. Nothing is in isolation. Everything works together, gives and takes, responds and deciphers, as a living breathing organism of life.

It is best for me, if best be, to move with the ocean of emotions as one would move as ship captain receiving retreat for the coming days, resting submerged in the comfort of the feather bed, whilst another trusted one steers the crew asunder.

If I aim to please myself, the only measure is to sweetly surrender to the coming storms and waves, to rest the same in rough waters as I do in gentle moonlit days.

Nothing is to be determined and controlled by me. Absolutely nothing. Receiving myself at rest, allowing myself to let go of the clutching and steering, and ways that demands route, is the only feasible course.

Make way for the ship in a manner that is not of demanding. Make way for the ship in which whatever way we travel, we go freely.

I know no answers.

Nothing I succumb to in theory or recognition is a truth.

I need only look back a span of time from now to see what I was then is not what I am now. And today, as the recognition of self becomes exponential in reflection and understanding, I see with each passing hour, I have already transformed from what I thought I knew to what I do not know.

My emotions are at bay, waving up upon the shore. I am in a state of responding to stimuli and stimuli responding to me.

I am neither able to claim myself stagnant from one moment to the next, as I am neither able to reclaim a former part of self. There is no turning back to what I was a second ago, and no way of knowing what I will be in the next moment.

I am at constant. Nothing I do or say is actually me. For me will no longer exist with the blink of an eye.

I cannot become attached to something that is fluid and part of the whole. There is first and foremost no part to collect. To find myself would be equivalent to trying to take hold of the piece of the ocean that represented the whole of self, the whole of my established existence.

There is no place from which self can be collected. I cannot scoop up a part of me without separating me from the whole. I do not end.

If I was to siphon the whole of the ocean into the sum of a god-size cup, this collection would still not represent me in completion. For what of the water gathered in the sky? What of the clouds? The rain? The melancholic mist?

All is me. For I am the all.

I am in constant rejuvenation and cyclic metamorphosis. Biologically, energetically, spiritually, and naturalistically, I am a beating, pulsating part of the many parts that expand and create the whole.

I am incomprehensible and impossible to capture, see, or imagine fully. And in this way I am free. For there is nothing outside myself to search for.

I am already a part of that which I think I need and think I desire to discover. All is me. I am the all.

I am already complete.


The Dwelling Place

I am entangled in an unknown arena: a place of darkness with light, a place of light with darkness.

There doesn’t seem to be an opportunity for navigation into the comfort zone. Everything is either heightened into an elevated state of awareness or lowered into an isolated state of escape.

To have a ‘good’ day, whatever one deems good, will inevitably lead to a day categorized as ‘bad.’ Something, it seems, beyond the sensory capacity, evens out the score, applies this cryptic state of karmic leveling, yin-yang doing, or substantial energetic balancing.

It is as if an over-seer self-corrects and steers me back to a place of equilibrium, balancing out all that was undone and compromised, and leading me into the middle point of existence. A place that is incompressible, unrecognizable, and unexplainable.

There is a bleakness to the solidarity, yet, also a hopeful uplifting in which I am made to feel the complexities of both ends of the spectrum of being.

In my living, I am neither on the number line of existence, nor on any recognizable solid foundation. I am substance itself, and all that occurs, exists within me.

Though I continually step outside of self, attempting to navigate the world as I see fit according to the demonstrated structures and laws of man, I again rewind myself, and am led back to the starting point of I am.

There doesn’t appear to be an alternate route. I am not made or bred or substantiated by the power of being to be anything other than that of what I am.

If I navigate too far to the right or too far to the left of the straight line, I am pushed or pulled back by an unknown force that appears to be me. However, even on the middle ground, amongst the avenue of appearing ‘straight,’ I am not there. I am nowhere. I am neither, in this state, uncomfortable or comfortable, I just am.

Here is where I remain, but only momentarily, for a blinking of an eye, and then I am brought back to the equilibrium unmasked, brought back and returned to a place of discomfort I choose not to live.

Again, I am here, fashioned into something or someone I do not recognize and do not wish to be. Again I return to the straight line of nonexistence in an attempt to catch a breath of life, of living, only to be reminded of my own effervescent fluidity, and returned from whence I came.

I belong on a plane that is not a plane, in an existence that is neither identifiable, nor part of reality. Even as the ghosts around me scream factuality and actuality, I recognize the inner hinderances of justifying the existence of naught.

I watch, as observer of self, fluctuating between absorbing the lies of existence and the truth of non-existence. And I am trapped in between the dwelling place of knowing nothing and everything. Made drunk by my own wishing to know, blinded in my actions to soften the blow of truth with the substances of earth unnecessary for growth.

Here I dwindle, with such un-delight, suffering in the cause of my own suffering. Pulling apart pieces of me to find only illusion.

If not I be, then who is this am that apparently strums the strings of hope? And if not I be, then what runs through me so thick like baptized blood of my forefathers? If not I be then where do I stand, and on what legs, and of what existence?

The mind queries from a place of inner dwelling, so deep the waters split and reveal the ocean floor below the ocean floor, the end and the start of the depths themselves.

I am haunted by the makings of my corridors, the inner dwellings in which the image of what I am ponders and stirs in and out of mysteries unwoven and spread out: strings and more strings. The threading I lost in the struggle.

Where am I, I call out, from the darkness. If I be not this angelic form or this demonic device, then what of the voice I hear. From whence does the voice come, and to whom does the voice carry her spirit forth?

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Loves Coming

Photo on 12-3-13 at 1.11 PM

As I feel the pain in my heart and stomach, the crushing pain that comes on suddenly, and centers my attention on hurt, I am learning to sit with the pain and question the coming.

I am noticing specific ways in which I allow myself to hurt, not through intention and deliberate attraction, but primarily through habit. Primarily through expectation, want, need, and attachment.

I confuse myself with another self, forgetting where I end and another begins. I recognize we are all one, and in this way the lines blur. Yet, I recognize, equally, whilst in this body, whilst representing this being, I am the one responsible for my actions and reactions. I am the one ultimately in charge and in control of my thought processes and the navigating of my land.

Were it so, we were each liberated, and entirely free, cast out of the burden of societal expectations, greed, and exploitation, perchance, per very good chance, my life would be less burdensome, and my mind more free. For I would not pick up on multiple levels of destitution and misery; I would not cling to the wallowing fear that penetrates the world.

Still, as it is, I have a choice. I see this clearly, now. Through months of tears and processing, both at a spiritual and mental level, I have reached an agreement internally that at last makes some sense. The primary answer being in the way I choose to take in what others give out in response to their own life and choice of being.

I have mastered the element of acceptance, the willingness and ability to accept my own self in completion, through the shadows of guilt and the shadows of admiration, without pause for trouble. I am no longer challenged by what I am, or who I am, and I have left the cluster and preponderance of the reasons behind the truth of me on a shelf somewhere served better for a time before time, not in this moment of entrapment. And so I go on, very much solid in my light and truth, yet, still without the freedom of the absence of ache.

I hurt. I hurt at the deepest level of a self, if self be. And I cry out for reprieve hourly; and even then, inside the molecules of minutes I weep. My days are a constant deciphering of joy and sorrow; each moment set upon me as a wave that breaks open the soul’s heart; each moment another beat of me broken. I do not say this with a tone of demise or misery, nor do I speak of this with acceptance, but rather with what is. This is what is. In truth it is nothing more than standing back as observer of what be, and watching some form transpire and move through what is. I am nothing more than this: the observer of being.

And what is of being, well this steadily alludes me.

Still I watch without caution, instilled with the coating of miraculous. My eyes beseeching more of what is naught than what can be claimed as real. My trumpet calling out in the music of form undone. The sound breaking through the barrier of nonexistence. For had I not been here, I would not be, and had I not found myself, I would still be. The thoughts drifting like philosopher’s broken spittle, splatterings of splintered mysteries.

I am that I am.

And all else ceases to be.

So what of the ache that calls and surrenders my will, brings me to knees, and springs question my own self worth, worth of a self that no longer exists? What is this attachment and to whom is it sewn, stitch by stitch, the needle bleeding out into the fabric of another lost soul?

I see, now, clearly, it isn’t that I am made destitute by another, it is that I choose to harbor in the bay of old ways; if not by habit, then by the enticement of what is familiar and deemed adequate.

I choose to be in the wallowing of what I know as real, when indeed the real is only based on the familiar brought on by repetition.

Had my words made more sense then, I’d be not where I am now. So still, I remain, lost in the confusion of the mind, whispering to myself, such nonsense you spill. But still I go on, rather as observer then spindling one of ego-breath.

How can it be that I can step back so freely and open, and divide open the wall before me and find the inner truths? I often ask myself this, as I bleed out through the trumpeting of fractured I.

And still I carry on. Some lost soldier in search of nothing but the return of home.

Walking forward when no direction exists; no plane for that matter. It is the casualty of the sleeper awoken, the line that folds and bends as string between presence and no presence, between being and un-being. Substantially, I walk, as the seal without purpose, pouncing the heaviness of my body on this wobbly fin of truth.

Is it not this man, I chose to be my god, instead of me? Is it not this woman, I chose to be my truth, instead of me?

This is the barrier of light unveiled. To think I put my light in the hands of another, when all along I had released nothing but phantom. For no man, bearer of truth or not, be what I be. I am that I am, and, thusly so, no other can take the light that begets source, that forms my sun, that is my light.

Though, still I think that this is so, that some beacon of hope exists outside the realm of one. That some echo of man has left a trail of footsteps to follow to his lap, and in this way I can sit and be sheltered, lathered in the folds of someone else, protected in the fashion of the proverbial shepherd shielding his singular chosen from flock.

And still, I wonder about, lost in a world of confusion, searching for this one, this answer, even as I know the answer be in me, in the chambers I have opened and the window I have entered into my own light.

And so my key be this. My key be forged and cast for thine eyes alone. What is in me is enough. I need not remain lost anymore in the quest for another.

I am the other. I am that which is that. I am that which is all. And no truth remains outside of the love of self. For once the burden of discovery and hunting is laid down as sacrifice, and the quest is given up, for no reason except acceptance, then the truth unfolds as willingly and merrily as the present retrieved by joy-filled child.

I am this innocent one, opened up as the ocean, dived into and brought to my very own surface. Untouched and unmoved, and endlessly penetrated by the waters of love.

It isn’t that he exists out there. It isn’t that she exists out there. No one there harbors my soul, for my soul is already safe: tucked in the waters of thy grace.

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Tears of Splendor

Photo on 12-4-13 at 8.11 PM

I am crying a bit in a way that makes the soul sing.

I understand I am light. I understand I am worthy. I know I am beauty.

But still this ache sits at my soul: a bird on a ledge who is lost and forsaken; her beak open; her mouth full. And still she bleeds out starvation.

“Why world do you persecute me?” she cries.
“Why do you torment me?”
“Why do you harbor such ill will?”
“Why am I trapped in such a terrible, wicked place?”

Indeed, the universe answers back:

Is it not you we have made in the richest colors, the hues of honesty, righteousness, caressing kisses, and adoration, akin to the angels? Have we not given you visions, and possibilities, endless possibilities? Have we not answered each and every prayer, as you wished?

When is it enough, my dear? We cannot make heaven into earth. We cannot bring you what you long for without taking your first from where you are. Come hither and see, peek into our world and we shall hold you still; but we cannot take that which is naught and spin it into the golden staircase of liberation.

Break open this spell you cast upon your own weary eyes; the ways of withering have ended. Expand your soul to the endless sunlight, and dance in the reign of our glory. For you are not alone, were never alone, and shall never be. Each and everyone of our children is free. Each and everyone unified, whole, and enriched with the flavor of Christ.

You aren’t but this toy found in the gutter: broken, useless, played out. You are the maker, the breaker, the very essence of the joy unleashed in the play yard. Can you not see, you are the child running through the meadow’s grass, burdens lifted, aches released as the funnel that steers the water blue from the sap of morrows.

Look and you will see that the coming has neither ceased nor begun, but always has been. Look and you will see that there is not this wallowing in pain, as no pain can transpire whilst dancing in the light of grace.

Why do you fear us in the way you fear the rest, when all about we call out to you in unison. “Come my lady of the valley spring, where the flowers cast out the weeds’ fears. Come my lady of the river’s ocean, leading us as one into the blending of life blood.”

All is as all is, and yet you wander about, some lost child of the universe, weeping for the way home. You are home. Can you not see this? All about you is home. The beauty awaits you in the sunlit hours of your dreams. Hither forward no more, and cease the pattering of the cause. We are the cause. We are the way. And all about you we pour out the splendid repercussion of our union.

Can you not see we dance in you; our wings lifted in tailor-made splendor, waving across the chalice of your soul. We are never more gone than the wind, never more missing than the sliver of hope that sleeps in the depths of your beauty.

Oh, our beautiful, beautiful one, do not lose hope. Do not think you are this or that. You are what we are, untied from the burdens of castration and set down upon our threshold as the sacrificial lamb of love. As we are, you are. And together we aspire to greatness. Not because we are great. Not because we be great. Not because we claim a stake where others sleep in splendid slumber deep. But because they all are this. They all are the coming together of unity. And each thread, though frayed and sprawled out in infinite rainbows, is this beauty.

Breathe. Breathe in and feel the glory of us, and no longer fluster yourself in the reasons behind no reason. All is, and in this way, we are.