Human / Stranger

Photo: Grandmother’s Rose, taken by JP, Seattle, June 2009

“We are not human beings

on a spiritual journey. We

are spiritual beings on a

human journey.”

~ Stephen Covey
US author, speaker, consultant (1935- )

“The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes.”
~ William James
US psychologist, philosopher and author (1842-1910)

“When one is a stranger to oneself then one is estranged from others too.”
~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh
US aviator and author (1906-2001)

This journey that we are on, the journey from cradle to grave, is an opportunity to learn and contribute; and, we are given a powerful tool in this journey – the brain.

The brain allows the spirit to control the body and articulate cognition and perception. It also contains the capacity to translate love into an experience by forming attachments and connections to individuals, humanity and God.

The brain connects body to soul. And as William James so aptly noted, we have the power to alter our lives, our journey, by using the powerful tool of the brain.

Tonight’s poem is dedicated to being human.

Her face softened in her sixtieth and seventieth
Years into the memory I now hold
She had relinquished the hardness of earlier days
Cast-off rusted pipe dreams
Buried transgressions committed and received

She choose happiness in her sixtieth and seventieth
Years she knew her heart’s desire
And wore her winter white plumage with pride
Peace wrapped in understanding
She was no longer a stranger to herself

Her daughter didn’t choose so well
When she reached her sixtieth decade
The cancer of ignorance and want grew deep
And mindfulness was left to rot in
Catacombs of a lost soul

What could the mother do
If she were still here?


For more thought’s on Human, visit this week’s Sunday Scribblings.
For more thought’s on The Stranger, visit the week’s One Single Impression.

Vision Assimilation

Photo: Sedum Assimilation, taken by JP, Seattle, June 2009

“The fundamental relationship that constitutes all knowledge is not, therefore, a mere ‘association’ between objects, for this notion neglects the active role of the subject, but rather the ‘assimilation’ of objects to the schemes of that subject.”
~ Jean Piaget

“If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him.”

~ John F. Kennedy

“It is a terrible thing to see and have no vision.”

~ Helen Keller

We assimilate to the world around us and to the knowledge that is imbued in that world. In doing so, we become a part of that which we seek to understand.

Desire something, wish for it, learn it and become a part of it, so that which you seek is now an intrinsic part of who you are. Wear your dreams, eat your quest, drink your questions and you will become the answer, the nourishment, and the aspiration.

Tonight’s poem is dedicated to the art of exploration, the path of vision, and the assimilation of the two.

I used to wear my intellectual helmet
And proportional thoughts like an
Effortless punctuation mark
A comma or ellipses falling
Short like silent clatter
On flecked linoleum
Smooth like a clockwise kiss

Then hair became too matted
Sewn to a shrinking scalp
Punctuated by fragments and particles
I ferried them up in my arms
The median nerves grasping
At knowledge like a precipice
I fell generously deep

A plummeting stone
Projecting my future self …

For more thoughts on Vision, visit this week’s Sunday Scribblings.
For more thoughts on Assimilation, visit the week’s One Single Impression.

Absurd Wall

Photo: It’s The Claw, Taken by JP, Seattle, April 2009

“Absurdity is what I like most in life, and there's humor in struggling in ignorance. If you saw a man repeatedly running into a wall until he was a bloody pulp, after a while it would make you laugh because it becomes absurd.”

~ David Lynch

I think we’re all prone to being the absurd one; to repeatedly running into the wall instead of climbing it, walking around it, or taking an entirely different path instead. Unlike David Lynch, the absurd doesn’t necessarily make me laugh. The bloody pulp, truly or metaphorically, of a person hell bent on an absurd course of action, often leaves me feeling sad and melancholic.

The cosmic joke about people, who repeat the same actions over and over again, hoping for a different result, doesn’t have a very funny punch line. I know several people in this boat. Watching them, being witness to the struggling, is painful.

The Sunday Scribbling’s prompt today is Absurd and the One Single Impression prompt is Walls - for both I have challenged myself with a villanelle.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the absurdity of repeatedly hitting the same wall.

Painted thoughts on a broad concrete wall
Painted persuasion: yellow, green and blue
Piecemeal wishes shall tempt with matte appall

While jawboned words thunder like front-lined squalls
The absurd assumes he can break on through
Painted thoughts on a broad concrete wall

Blockaded dreams bloodied with every fall
Until the ending is long-overdue
Piecemeal wishes shall tempt with matte appall

Were blindness to heal like Apostle Paul
Insight and grasp would dance a pas-de-deux
Painted thoughts on a broad concrete wall

Ferried dreams, not to reach their port of call
Subverted by that which they lay waste to
Piecemeal wishes shall tempt with matte appall

Memories are all that is left to enthrall
As anatomy fades from certain view
Painted thoughts on a broad concrete wall

Piecemeal wishes shall tempt with matte appall

Soulmate Intersection

Photo: Intersection of Flavor, taken by JP, April 2009

Our soulmate is the one who makes life come to life.

~ Richard Bach

If we are a metaphor of the universe, the human couple is the metaphor par excellence, the point of intersection of all forces and the seed of all forms. The couple is time recaptured, the return to the time before time.

~ Octavio Paz

This weekend’s writing prompts include Soul Mate from Sunday Scribblings and Intersections from One Single Impression. As Octavio Paz points out, the human couple is the “point of intersection of all forces and the seed of all forms.” When we connect and couple with another person that intersecting event is a force of creation and life. Richard Bach said it as well … that the point of intersection when we find our soulmate “makes life come to life.”

We may believe in something without having experienced it. We may have faith, dreams, and hope that propel our beliefs. Yet, when dreams come to reality, when life comes to life, when we find ourselves at the intersection where we truly connect … well, that is when we find ourselves back at the place of birth.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the intersection between looking for and finding your soulmate.

before I knew, with certainty,
that a place existed
before I knew, by experience,
by resting my feet on the soil
by tasting the food of local chefs
by drinking the wine that was
grown in the sloped hills of Bourgogne
or the oceanic ambiance of Bordeaux
before I knew, I believed
with certainty that my soul
would be fed with a place
so beautiful, layered and imbued
with the ordinary passage of time
that everyday objects would
elevate their status to the sublime

before I knew, with certainty,
that an intersection between
soul and mate would manifest
in the streets and avenues between
Elliott Bay and Lake Washington
in busy cafes or noisy bars
before wine-drenched talks
or wind blown walks
before meals were consumed
and dreams were brought to light
before the folly of unbridled
I knew days unfolding
would join the soul to mate
and birth another star

Covert Dénouement

Great Mass in C minor, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart [YouTube]



Sunday Scribblings: covert - concealed; secret; disguised. [dictionary.com]
Secrecy or furtiveness is the practice of sharing information among a group of people, which can be as small as one person, while hiding it from all others. That which is kept hidden is known as the secret. Secrecy is often controversial, depending on the content of the secret, the group or people keeping the secret, and the motivation for secrecy. [Wikipedia]

One Single Impression: denouement, dénouement - the final resolution of the intricacies of a plot, as of a drama or novel. [dictionary.com]
In literature, a dénouement consists of a series of events that follow the climax of a drama or narrative, and thus serves as the conclusion of the story. Conflicts are resolved, creating normality for the characters and a sense of catharsis, or release of tension and anxiety, for the reader. Etymologically, the French word dénouement is derived from the Old French word denoer, "to untie", and from nodus, Latin for "knot." Simply put, dénouement is the unraveling or untying of the complexities of a plot. [Wikipedia]

This weekend’s writing prompt is dedicated to untying the secret of love.

Silent submarines swam
Through a swollen dusky sky
Motorized ink blots
As we drove home
When sunset and moonrise
Danced slow in indigo

The secrets of the day
Untied ribbons in eager hands
Given as gifts in the threaded
Pages of a love story
Covert wishes unraveled
A dénouement
In minor C.

Dropped / Worry

Photo: On the Path, taken by JP, Seattle, April 2009

“Love is a piano dropped from a fourth story window, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
~ Ani DiFranco

“I have learned not to worry about love; but to honor its coming with all my heart.”

~ Alice Walker

“Love is life. And if you miss love, you miss life.”

~ Leo Buscaglia

As I’ve written on here, love came out of the clear blue sky and hit me on the head at the beginning of the year. I wasn’t in the right place, nor was it the right time, but I honored its coming with all my heart. Because when you are presented with an opportunity, with a gift, and with a chance to experience and be a part of a love you always dreamed about (but perhaps never fully believed was out there) … then you cease to worry and embrace the fortunes of the heart.

I used to worry that I would never have that which I dreamed of. In past relationships I settled for too little. I fabricated contentment, which, not surprisingly, was flimsy and disappointing. I ignored the beating of my own heart. I focused on other things - my children, my career – but I also diluted life with an ambiguous and persistent worry that I was missing out.

And I was. I was missing out on so many fronts.

I know some may perceive my choices as irresponsible. Or hurtful. Or unfair. I changed my life and impacted the lives of others. But ultimately I chose love. I chose life. And I chose myself.

Today’s poem is dedicated to dropping the worry and embracing the love.

a faithful melody
sang over tracts of houses
smiling all the same in that way
that screams, refreshed paradise waits!

a grand female genuinely absorbed
in the toil of acceptance
unconsciously moves in that same way
that smelled of freshly clipped lawns

bladed saints
moved up and down with strident function
but varnished sorrow hung in the air
abbreviating days, weeks, months

she was in the wrong place
at the wrong time and everything
became so right as the earth shook
opening up beneath her clipped feet

the winds lamented through
graded yards and trees wept
with newborn leaves
she packed her northward dreams

and never looked back.

For more thoughts on Dropped, visit this week's One Single Impression ... and,

for more thoughts on Worry, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings. Peace, JP/deb

What's it Like Healing?

Photo: Urban Channel, taken by JP, Seattle, Washington 2009

“Healing in a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.”

~ Hippocrates

“Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it.”

~ Tori Amos

“It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

~ E. L. Doctorow

This weekend’s writing prompts include “what’s it like?” on One Single Impression and “healing” on Sunday Scribblings. My partner and I have been talking about healing tonight. We both have childhood experiences that still resurface, that we realize we’re still healing from, even if we can now understand and rationalize them in our adulthood.

But, the funny thing is that the adult comprehension and awareness does not shield us from the old pain of the inner child. Not to sound too cliché or self-help-bookish, but the truth is that our inner children walk around with the band-aids and dressings for wounds deep and coarse. They move forward in time with our aging selves, many times silent, until the moment in which the band-aid or dressing is disturbed by a painful reminder of the old hurt.

As the above-referenced quotes state, healing is a matter of time, opportunity and courage. Until that takes place, we may be like that car driving at night – never making our way further than the headlights show us. Maybe, for some of us, we make the whole trip like that … for others, perhaps we have to pull over, reassess and regroup. Maybe we need the blinding sunlight to show everything that surrounds us in this journey, maybe we need more than just right now. Maybe we need to feel it all, be it all, and see it all.

Tonight’s poem is dedicated to healing – and what it is like …

What’s it like when metal shines
On a driving car down the US-6, heading east
Toward the tip of yesterday

Maybe it’s like the scab torn and bare
Beaten down by western rains
For the three hundredth and fifth time

What’s it like when healing begins
In a driving car down the US-6, heading east
Away from the pain of today

Maybe it’s like the child wrapped
In parsed memories and resilience
Visible confidence and mustered courage

What’s it like when forty odd necrotic years
Start to heal, growing new channels
Casting away pain that no longer serves a purpose

Maybe it’s exactly like courage
and time and opportunity.
Maybe it’s making the drive in the broad
shining daylight.
Maybe it’s called feeling good.