Tag Archives: heart

mind and heart talking

I do not understand my trust
and that is its nature

mind and faith cannot know each other fully
and that which cannot be known cannot be trusted fully

or, is it so?

The mind says:
Faith is another word for stupidity.

The heart says:
I have knowing that defies logic or reason.

The mind says:
You believe so you can sleep.

The heart says:
Wake with me.

The mind says:
We mean nothing. We are nothing. There is nothing. You are dust.

The heart says:
That’s something.

The mind says:
If you practiced – if you woke up and watched and were aware of everything, you would understand the universe. You would not need to believe.

The heart says:
In the moment before I die, I will not seek to understand. I will seek to love.

The mind says:
I keep you safe.

The heart says:
I fear nothing.

The mind says:
You are beautiful, you are brilliant.

The heart says:
(nothing. Shine.)

The mind says:
Who can I share this with, to make it more perfect?

The heart says:
There is no more perfection, than perfection.

The mind says:
Than why your longing? Always longing?

The heart says:
To evolve. The purpose of longing is evolution.

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Filed under Big G., lisa goettel, offerings

Moving, Electing, Noveling.

Oh my, my.  I moved today, for the 14th time since July (but who’s counting.)  And I am living in America, a country I am proud to live in for the first time in 8 long, long years.  And I am many thousands of words behind in my novel-writing word count, but am having a fantastic time now, after days of less than fantasticness.

** Moving **

I am learning the art of moving gracefully and painlessly.  I am not yet to a place of enthusiasm.  But I am grateful.  Grateful for having so many amazing friends who have extended their homes to me whenever I need them.  I am grateful for living rent-free for 4 and-a-half months.  I am grateful for the awesome realization of freedom that hit me at 4:00 today, that I could pick up and drive anywhere on the continent and make a life there, right now. I am grateful for getting rid of things, slowly, with each move, and I don’t miss any of them.  (I can’t even remember them.)

** OH! BAMA! **

Speaking of grateful… although truth be told, ecstatic is the better word.  Or ebullient, giddy or glee-filled.  AMEN! HALLELUJAH! AMEN! (this is being sung by a big gospel choir in my head.)

I watched the returns come in Tuesday, accidentally, down at Esalen with the only person I know in Big Sur who is as big of a political junkie as I am.  We shook and laughed and cried and screamed and sat quietly and hugged. (Thank you, J.)  This was followed by a trip down to the local pub where there was much dancing and whooping. The profundity of this decision sunk in only after the fact: a black man, a black man with integrity and heart, a black man with courage and humility and vision and presence and grace, has been elected President of the United States by the majority of Americans.  I can’t decide which is more impossible to believe: that Obama actually won, or that whole states of people out there voted for Sarah Palin.

I am learning what it feels like to be represented(!) and what it’s like to be in the majority(!).  I am finding myself two degrees more courageous since Tuesday.  I am just a little bit more willing to risk hoping.  And I am reveling in discovering that just a little bit is so, so big.

** Writing Novels **

All I can do is sigh, with pity for this little human that I am.  This ambitious and earnest and fragile little person.  On Wednesday, I still didn’t have any vision for my story.  I was writing disjointed fragments and as quickly as I wrote them I hated them.  I hated my characters, my lack of a plot or vision, this whole big dumb idea of writing a novel.  I stared at my screen for one whole hour without writing one whole word.  I got up and ate chocolate and drank wine. I sat down to write again and fell asleep instead.  I woke up and walked around slamming doors.

It was about this time that a little voice whispered in my ear, saying “This is why you signed up for this. Right now. This.

I looked up an e-mail that I got from my super bestest novel-writing mentor ever, P, in the week before the NaNoWriMo started.   I had relayed my anxiety to her about the whole thing and she offered this response.  (She offered a complete list of points a thru i, but I only needed to read to d, this time. Hope you don’t mind me sharing, P.)  She writes:

oh, i hear you, sister friend. i hear you.

and i hope that you will:

a. give yourself permission to write the worst crap ever. like, seriously awful crap.

b. and that for a while it bothers you, how much crap you’re slinging. that you start to wonder if you have any business at all writing.

c. and i hope that when that happens (because it will) you keep writing.

d. and after you keep writing even though you hate everything coming out of you, that you start to think it’s fun and silly and awesome (because you will and it is).

It was the two degrees of relief and hope and trust that I needed to start writing again.  I haven’t stopped since.  I am still way behind the word count I should be at, but I don’t much care.

If you fancy reading the occasional, random excerpt, I’m posting them at:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/425881 (Click “Novel Info”)

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Filed under life, politics, writing

Waterings

I was driving down Highway One tonight in a delightful, blissed out, open heart, giddy, love-for-humanity place. I saw a bumpersticker on the car in front of me – something demanding-sounding that I don’t remember – and I had a sudden little fantasy: what if every car in the world had only bumper stickers that were kind, loving reminders?  Stickers everywhere that said things like “Receive.” or “Enjoy.” or “Thank you.”

Maybe I’ll start a business.

This reminded me of all the little wisdoms and reassurances I’ve been writing for myself every morning, which reminded me of a list of “good parent messages” that my friend Linda dictated to me over a glass of Pinot at the Big Sur Bakery the other day.  I know this list is part of some probably copyrighted teaching I should credit**.  Someone, presumably with a psycho-something background, created this list – a conglomeration of the primary messages we (ideally) should have received (but almost none of us did) as kids.  The list is intended to be something practiced and spoken by the internalized parent we all now carry around in us.

For some reason tonight, sitting in the middle of my spontaneous compassion for all of us and our foibles and perfections, I want more than anything for me and you (yes, you) and the whole wide wounded world to hear and receive and know each of these things. Unflinchingly and in your bones.

I love you.

I want you.

You are special to me.

I see you and hear you.

I love you and I give you permission to be different from me.

It’s not what you do but who you are that I love.

I’ll take care of you.

I’ll be there for you.

I’ll be there for you even when you die.

You don’t have to be alone anymore.

You don’t have to be afraid anymore.

You can trust me.

Sometimes I will tell you no and that’s because I love you.

My love will make you well.

I welcome and cherish your love.

(you might want to read it again.

slowly.

out loud.)

Can you imagine what a world it would be if we all knew these things?

As Linda said to me, on the dark days, reciting this list can have the miraculous effect of actually feeling like someone else is speaking it – that “it’s like drops of water on a wilting flower.”  I love that.

**Since posting this, I have since learned that credit goes to Jack Rosenberg and Beverly Morse. (Thanks!)

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Filed under offerings

In the village

I am really really wanting to figure this out.  This thing I do. This way I get pulled out into the circle of the people I’m with and lose my own feet. This way my consciousness gets right up and goes and sits on your lap.

I am the fern who grows only into the little space offered by my neighboring ivy and sage.

I am the bright foreign exchange student who knows philosophies with intuitive insight but cannot say “I want a loaf of bread” in English.

I am the small child who knows how to shield his mother from anger but cannot tie his shoes.

I will tell you what I think, then read your face to learn my wisdom.

Was I brilliant or naive tonight?

I am a prophet with him and an empty shell with her.

Where is my own heart and the knowing of things when you stand here?

My mind is looking for the thing it alone obstructs.

I try relating with form where there is none.

There is no this for figuring.

Only coming back here, to where I live.  Alone and amongst all of you.

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Filed under life, writing