I AM NOT

I am not just my thoughts.

I am not just my things.

I am not just my experiences.

I am not just my feelings.

I am not just my failures.

I am not just my successes.

I am not just my accomplishments.

I am not just my acquisitions.

I am not just my aspirations.

I am not just my net worth.

I am not just my physical girth.

I am not just my sadness and grief.

I am not just my bad decisions.

I am not just my addictions.

I am not just my shortcomings.

I am not just my setbacks.

I am not just my past.

I am not just my future.

I am not just my relationships.

I am not just my politics.

I am not just this pandemic.

I am not just my opinions.

I am not just my attitudes.

I am not just my prejudices.

I am not just my beliefs.

I am not just my biases.

I am not just my abilities.

I am not just my inabilities.

I am not just what others think of me.

I am not just what I think of me.

Sometimes (for me, daily...at least) we need to stop and press our personal “I AM NOT” reset button. I find this to be especially true in moments like these when we’re dealing with international disasters like Covid-19--as well as intentionally manipulated confusion, fear, doubt, anxiety, angst and egotistical ambitions of others--that blind us to the incredible and inherent beauty of who each of us is, to the magnificence of what it means to be fully human, and to the brave new world of possibilities lying right in front of us even in this very--and evolving--moment.

TODAY.

LET’S GIVE THE WORLD & OURSELVES A GIFT.

LET’S TAKE TIME TO THINK ABOUT HOW WE THINK.

LIFE'S PENCHANT FOR LIFE

Yes. All things animate die.

The multi-greens of early spring

are now drifting to the hard dry ground,

-the lucky ones going out in a blaze of color-

but all are listless and lifeless just the same.

Yet that’s not the end of their story.

Even now they re-turn to the earth,

and even that is not their end.

They will decompose until tiny dynamos of life,

then they’ll take another form, at least for now.

But most certainly. Most importantly. They’ll be back.

Life will return to life.

Fortunately, it doesn’t work the other way around.

Death has no penchant for death

or none of us would be here. We couldn’t be.

Yes. Death can be devastating,

but it doesn’t get to be our last word.

Despair and disappointment come. But then they go.

They never stay for good. They won’t because they can’t.

No matter how long it takes, life will be back.

Many sequoia-size questions in all of this.

None of us knows what happens to us after we die.

But apparently such long-sought wisdom isn’t necessary

since life unveils all we need to know--and then some.

There is something very reassuring though,

something very hopeful, something very enlivening

that comes with grasping that,

one way or another, we’ll be back.

Sure. We want details! Now! But we don’t need them

in order for life to beget life to beget life today.

And that’s what really matters, isn’t it?

It seems life penchant for life lies deepest within our nature

even when we’re feeling death and decay up on our surface.

We are happiest and healthiest and yes, even holiest,

when we recognize the cosmic consequences of this gift.

Even now my sleepy heart awakens to its profound joy,

a joy that resides in and resumes each of us

Even now my spirit begins anew its ascent

into the blue true illimitable skies of this new day.

Yes, yesterday may be dead and gone.

But the one who said, “Behold, I make all things new,”

is doing it again.

BEAUTY FOR BEAUTY'S SAKE

Waves from somewhere beyond the glistening horizon,

now in their final moment of glory, 

morph into huge translucent turquoise curls

and pummel ancient rusty Acadian ledges,

their backs splitting shards of the late afternoon sun

an instant before they bury their proud prows 

into the Venus-fly-trap boulders that so welcome their arrival.

If these thunderous waterworks time their antics just right, 

gargantuan towers of froth burst forth, 

splaying the moist salty breezes

before slapping loudly on the rocks beneath 

and scurrying back into the sea to do it again.

 

Overhead a seagull screeches hungry incantations while, 

with the slightest tacking maneuver of its silvery body, 

it artfully flips to the wind. And flips again. 

Within a few fathoms of the craggy granite bulwarks,

a harp seal’s silken head flashes in the roiling waters 

and thick-beaked eider ducks bob for breakfast.

Choosing not to work so hard, kelley green carpets of algae, 

happily suction themselves to the rocky facades

and wait for whatever liquid feast washes over them.

The scene is one of incredible beauty, 

beauty to behold--beauty to be held. Savored. Saved.

But if I, if no one, witnesses such splendors,

then what is this beauty’s purpose?

Why do these skies sail so blue?

For whom does this majestic spray fling itself so gustily?

To what end do these marine thespians perform 

as if for Cirque du Soleil?

This is the rarest of beauty;

neither for entertainment nor consumption,

not for the ego’s gratification nor heart’s inspiration

not to be captured nor even coveted,

but simply to be beauty for beauty’s sake.

Could it possibly be so simple as this:

That we humans, like the seas and seagulls, 

living rocks and waving waters,

are here simply to create beauty for beauty’s sake?

SAMPLER PLATTER

We want it all. All the time. And, we want it right here. Right now.

But what if all we get is a taste--a taste of this, a taste of that--because the taste IS the all? To “taste” something is to experience the “all” of it right here right now--just for this moment--which is all we have, right?

What if there really is nothing to miss out on out there? What if FOMO is just a figment of our own misguided imaginations and emotions? In this particular moment, all we can experience is whatever is part of this particular moment--and even here only the part that we happen to clue in on--like a photographer who can only capture one shot among infinite possibilities. What if living a FOMO existence is like sleeping with the enemy where FOMO itself causes us to miss out on what really does matter--what’s right here right now--the unique profile of beauty, joy and generosity that’s inside each of us.

Maybe the reason we’re tempted to go for the sampler platter in the restaurant isn’t just because we can’t make up our mind. Maybe it’s not because of our FOMO. Maybe it’s because, at a deeper level, that’s what life (and this day) is...a sampler platter.

TODAY.

LET'S GIVE THE WORLD & OURSELVES A GIFT.

LET'S TAKE TIME TO THINK ABOUT HOW WE THINK.

BODY TALK

Just the two of us,

and a soft, sanctifying evening

after another day of sprinting.

Sitting still for the first time since breakfast,

we enjoy a simple quiet dinner here at home.

A playlist of old favorites

croons softly in the background.

We toast. We taste. We talk.

Two lovers who haven’t lost it.

I reach my hand across the table.

Her soft musical fingers sense my invitation

and sashay over to mine.

They meet somewhere in the middle,

between the condiments and the candles.

Then. There. I feel it. Two squeezes.

Soft yet strong. Subtle yet sensual.

Unexpected and unmistakably wonderful.

Still the thrill.

We’d agreed so many years ago,

so many squeezes ago:

Two in rapid succession

always means the same thing: “I love you.”

For some reason they feel so good tonight,

especially coming as a mini-surprise like this.

To her beat, I send two back. . . .“I love you, too.”

Sometimes they have an added meaning

like. . . . ”I’m sorry,” or “I forgive you,”

like “This is so much fun!” or “We’ll get through this,”

or like tonight, just. . . . “Life’s been good with you.”

Sometimes it seems as if our bodies

understand each other even when our minds don’t.

Sometimes they want to be together

even when our minds are miles apart.

Sometimes, I think,

because our minds are miles apart.

Their timing is flawless and impeccable,

knowing just when and where and how to touch.

They neither seek nor wait for permission,

just speaking sweet nothings to each other

whenever they feel like it.

One day, a day that will surely come,

there will be a last time, a last two squeezes.

One of us will send them to the other.

But they won’t come back.

We’ll send them again. And again. And again.

That one of us will cry out,

“No! This can’t be happening! Not yet!”

But nothing. Nothing will come back.

In that moment, then, the squeezes sent

will be a final bittersweet “Farewell for now.”

A sacred, if silent, body-to-body benediction.

A blessing of all things physical between us.

One last “Thank you,” for all the joy

our bodies have brought to each other.

But not tonight.

Tonight we’ll toast, taste, talk...and touch.

Then we’ll clean up the kitchen together

just like a thousand and one other nights.

Later, we'll crawl into bed,

and melt into each other's tired but trustworthy mold.

Two lovers who haven’t lost it.

So thankful. Oh, so thankful.

for so many years,

So many squeezes.

So many “I love you’s.”

BEYOND

Everywhere I turn I see it: Blessing. We call it by other names like “lucky” or “fortunate,” but where is this blessing coming from? What or who is its source? People sometimes say, “It’s beyond me!” Certainly the phrase fits here! Wherever this universal experience of blessing is coming from, it's beyond us. Whether it’s so far beyond us we can’t comprehend it or it’s just far enough to be indescribable, either way it’s beyond what we know, beyond what we understand, beyond what we can articulate.

But we try anyway.

Some call this beyond “God,” some their guardian angel, some the divine, some Allah, some a higher power, the Universe--or a million other names (the Bible alone has over 1000 names or references for this “beyond” experience that Christians call “God.”)--none of which matters until and unless we assign attributes and functions to the name or names we choose.

They are all just names, in other words, they are just like the label on the jar of jam--and not the jam itself. Whatever names we choose, we do so for our use and benefit, not for that of whatever this “beyond” is. It has no such need. With the way it gives of itself, the way it blesses everyone and everything--infinitely and therefore equally so--it obviously has no egoic need to be “separate and superior” as Richard Rohr says.

Are we (‘we’ being every living thing on earth) not fashioned in the same way, having infinite opportunity--and therefore infinite capacity--to bless life in every direction around us in just this one day?

And for that matter, are we the labels we use on each other? Or, are we each the physical, emotional, mental and spiritual embodiment of indescribable blessing from beyond?

TODAY.

LET’S DO THE WORLD & OURSELVES A FAVOR.

LET’S TAKE TIME TO THINK ABOUT HOW WE THINK.

A BOY OF LETTERS

I love it. To write. Always have. Always will.

Not just the thinking of thoughts

that call words and worlds into being,

but also the penning of each letter one by one;

the forming “g’s,” the crossing “t’s.”

I read Rilke and say, “That’s me!”

Silly, you say? Perhaps. I can’t know.

It’s all much too close to my heart’s heart.

Too much a part of the who that I am.

As a young boy, my favorite back-to-school activity?

Buying and filling my new plastic pencil case!

But always I did it with mixed feelings---

excited for the fun prophesied by each purchase,

yet shy to admit this joy not meant for a boy.

Then, a few years later, a typing class. Love, on a lark!

Still, I was ashamed to admit my glee.

Now. So many years have played out and passed on.

Still, I remember the sweet spirit of that boy, that young man.

Still, I’m stirred by his ever-present effervescent smile.

Still, his early love of writing calls to me from everywhere.

Still, this exuberant joy in thinking thoughts, tapping keys.

Still, this love that claims to know me so well

invites me into an intimacy with myself, my world, my ways,

the likes of which we preserve for the precious. The few.

And still, I wrestle with giving myself permission

Especially to write what I feel.

To reveal the who that I am.

Maybe to me as much as to you.

Such is the art and act

of my coming into being again today.

Like e.e. cummings wrote,

the hardest part of becoming one’s self

is a world bent on making us into someone else.

Can we do otherwise and still be true to our loves?

This beckoning from beyond

may not be a game that we can win,

but neither is it one we dare forfeit.

To it we must wholly and whole-heartedly give ourselves.

“To be or not to be,” isn’t just the question.

It’s the quest.