GRACE

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Grace seems unwarranted, the caprice of the gods, or the mercy of God, yet it is the restoration of ourselves to the movement of a thought, the flutter of a wing, to an immanent intuition when expression and insight are one. Grace is the light between events revealing our invisible awareness in space and time through sound and movement. It reveals “who” we are without watching ourselves be. When at ease with and we affirm life purely we drop paraphrase for poetry, forsake the normal for the unique, our thoughts spread like pond ripples to sail a lotus past sorrow. Grace is kindness’ answer to self-interest and intrigue, nature’s breath when spirit incarnates as body. Grace speaks within a whisper of a song.

New Year

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All year long the zero approaches, progressing as if on a mental slide rule to a mathematic empty set, but as a calendar date, while — shall we call it the neglected invisible? — the absence through which spirit flows as freedom to begin anew — indeed spirit itself — awaits our ritual recognition as a number. Like an axle of a wheel or a pine forest at night spindling star light — it is always here — with no attempt to rain on the parade, pageant or party or the cannon-shot confetti to glitter the world’s ionosphere — it’s not the resolution of a day or a date but for us to convey through that missing ‘something’ — our resolve to create and begin until our end.

On Love (From Noticing and Awe)

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The lover’s struggle is to resist narrowing emotion into a formula or it slowly passes from poetic metaphor to cliché. Love is a poetry, the re-invention of another as a hero or princess, as the greatest person in the world, even if one fully realizes their flaws. And each of us must be a true poet to love. We are poets when we dream each night. It’s not strictly about writing or verse. We conjure out of nothing films with “scripts” nearly all night every night to revive from a contracted and often cruel waking world. We are all in practice for love quite naturally as dreamers. But the waking dream of love means to practice and compose if one wills beyond infatuation and serial romance. Love is waking to a dream of another soul as the poem of one’s life.

Spirituality

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We should be vague as seldom as possible about it. Vagueness, like waves of cloud and color, may entertain those who observe a star, but pure light bespeaks transparency. Like intuition, to perceive what makes perception possible will ever remain illusive yet the enigma reveals our freedom: where does our awareness come from, why us at this time, why once, why the universe, why love, freedom, evil – the enigma only ends when we do, and perhaps not even then. We do not and cannot know everything, indeed we know very little. Spirit is the life of our aspiration not to know but pry open our awareness, and if we wish to embrace and praise it, our song, our wing, our truth, our life. Spirit is the river to wisdom: knowledge the experience of the voyage, love our companion, suffering the wreckage of all we’d value before we reach it.

Benevolence

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Consider each moment when despair flees before a realization that all is well, despite one’s tragedies and the world’s, mortality, crime and hypocrisy, despite injustice, that it’s possible for all to feel even in the most impossible circumstances a faint benevolence passing and subtle. Suppose that others yet born will thrive in total disregard that we ever lived, and our small earth, smaller for its disputes, will also vanish, and even the limited frontier of tomorrow’s attention will ignore us not a block, field or a conversation away from where we live and die, that our greatness is simply that we can perceive. A stark picture surfaces: the universe, even if it cannot love back can be loved … and invisible to us, many others and the unborn may, even in crisis, so absurdly love, since for a few moments a wave destined to crash upon a beach of nothingness, rolled anyway, with beauty and power.

To live in the moment return to the world while remaking it.

creativity., Philosophy, poetry, psychology

We speak here not of the replacement of self but its invention.

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We impose a puzzle over what we perceive then call it a “complex”.

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We respond to one name (self) not many, but within earshot — a symphony.

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May we live to re-define the self as love with our every step on earth?

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We rebel every time we call ourselves human.

Love

Philosophy, poetry, psychology

The lover’s struggle is to resist narrowing emotion into a formula, or it slowly passes from poetic metaphor to cliché. Love is a poetry, the re-invention of another as a hero or princess, as the greatest person in the world, even if one fully realizes their flaws. And each of us must be a true poet to love. We are poets when we dream each night. It’s not strictly about writing or verse. We conjure out of nothing films with “scripts” nearly all night every night to rest and revive from a contracted and often cruel waking world. We are all in practice for love quite naturally as dreamers. But the waking dream of love means to constantly practice and compose if one wills beyond infatuation and serial romance. Love is waking to a dream of another soul as the poem of one’s life.