A Meeting Point

A meeting point:

here, this moment, it's a meeting point - and nothing has to happen, only what's occurring now and the ease of our response. Everything is accepted in the immediacy of this instant, it's where life meets itself in all of its various guise and through every event. This is where we always find ourselves, this point, and without escape from sorrow, that suffering occurs here, and so too all true joy and happiness. Life is always at this moment. 

most truly, it's a meeting point where the world comes together through our own particular view - this is where everything comes to belong at once, a synchronicity of events that's always found at the very moment of our awareness.  The world occurs here, noticed through our experience of living, and never once stays from our attention. 

from our own meeting point, 

we are essential for the world to be.

and yet, 

it's here too that a self occurs, where we meet ourselves in persona, a face of our own creation and imagination, designed to help us navigate the world. This is where emptiness meets itself as form, a sense self evolving from spacious observation, capacity at first notice of its own appearance. It's a meeting point of everything and nothing at once, the genesis of our true becoming. 

life occurs. 

here, this moment, it's a meeting point - 

this is where we greet the world. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Directly

Directly:

Meeting each moment directly - and with this I find no true measure of an instant separated from another, only a seamless occurrence of experience, flowing, and that I'm aware, present to this happening. Without commentary, an inner dialog of description, there's a clarity here, the simplicity of action immediately accepted, calm, even in the midst of infinite things occurring now. 

This is the secret of early morning, everything's revealed in first hint of light, before the sun is even seen, but only sensed in its arrival. The world stirs in hushed tones, nothing rushed yet, just the pace set by the true nature of things, yielding, more spacious. For me, it seems easier to meet things directly in the softer mood surrounding dawn. Early light comes slow, without confrontation, and I see a bit more with every measure of light given. 

awakening with the world.

these hours are my time of a more quiet grief, with things that seem absent in harsher light, shown now as still present in a different way. Perhaps it's due to the between time of dawn, holding worlds together as a moment of its own, an inclusion of night as it's led to its own parting, another day even now appearing. Nothing is really lost here, only a shifting in that seamless occurrence of experience, and if met directly I find no absence of a loved one, no past beyond a memory, the future not yet dreamed - only presence, now, an at once of every moment. It allows a softer grief, mourning of a change of form, and not an actual loss of presence. These hours, so early, reveal these things in gradual light, the dawn of my own understanding. 

and now, directly, seamless in occurrence,

 I meet two worlds for just a moment.

~

Peace, Eric 

Spontaneous Events

Spontaneous events: 

often, there's no plan of what I'll write of, no outline, nor idea of theme, not even the first word arrives to me until I sit before the screen. It's an experience of spontaneous creation, allowing words to flow and pause at a pace entirely of their own. This takes a certain trust on my end, relieves me of control, and simply allows me to become an instrument within the process - surrendering to the spontaneous events of writing, with no true author really found. 

and more so, this seems to carry through with life, that is all spontaneous events only seemingly arranged, mystery in its purest sense. This is my understanding of karma, effects following effects without apparent cause, just threads of possibilities through the web of time. My writing reflects this, and even more now, my life too is about surrendering to this faith of not knowing, allowing mystery to flow without belief in my personal interference. This isn't fatalistic, but simply recognizing that I'm a mere, yet essential participant within this web of possibilities, with no true idea of how this story will be told.

my writing than, is similar to each morning, dawn appearing as an invitation, faith that the day will be spontaneous in events, possibilities, and that by simply waking I am already a full participant within its flow. My only plan needed is to be part of this, present, remembering that I belong fully within the whole, essential by my very nature. The first word always appears, a theme makes itself known, a thread within this web of possibilities. Waking to this...

my day begins. 

~

Peace, Eric 

What's Experienced

What's experienced:

it's change, not that my experience of the world is always changing, but that I'm not set apart from the constant motion of life, there's only the happening of a moment, reality shifting with my notice. What's experienced is life, my belonging to it through every facet, and at no point is there a separate witness to events, an eternal watcher removed from these affairs. 

only life, and my full participation. 

what I find is that awareness is a built in presence to this motion, not an unchanging self that plays witness to life, no, it's all too seamless and dynamic for this to be so. There's only change, and each moment reveals my intimacy with this, being most truly this process too, an unfolding of this continuous event, life. What I don't find is a self that is aware, nothing that may be claimed as even slightly removed from what unfolds. 

there's just aware.

right now there's the experience of life at pre-dawn, only this, and it includes a self that believes these early morning events are occurring exclusively to him. It's all simply what's happening, listening to the beginning stir of another day, but no true listener, watching light in slow reach of a dawn, and there's no watcher present, nothing apart from this moment. I'm part of it all, and yet there's no real sense of a singular me separate from the happening. 

what's experienced is mystery, and then a story told later, and even this occurs as mystery too, unfolding as the present moment. 

seamless. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Doing

Not my doing:

knowing exactly what to write, yet only as each word appears, spontaneous, as if everything is prearranged in order and my only role is to wait for its arrival. Patience is the true art, allowing words and theme to find me without effort of my own. Of course their is skill involved, creativity and imagination used to my advantage, there is effort applied with the tools that are available. But the words themselves, whatever inspiration is delivered, that is not my doing. 

with this, there is no actual doer.

and so it is with all of life - I am not the originator of my thoughts. I'm not the source of my very best ideas, nor worst of my decisions. What I am is some essential part within the process, finding myself somewhere within the silence of true listening. It's the Heart Sutra of writing, emptiness at play as words as well as the appearance of a writer. 

I am simply part of what appears. 

it's about ideas, not just of writing, but of everything I've ever believed myself to be - ideas of writer, poet, athlete, every single identity, even to the role of a person, the one who entertains these thoughts. All ideas, and not a single one true in any real sense. Any truth would be a lasting reality and ideas, no matter how passionately believed, are malleable, changing as more information is received.  

the temptation here, right now, is to write what I most truly am, offering a sense of something profoundly aware of all that changes, unaffected by change itself, a witness to these affairs. But that would just be more ideas, temporary labels added to the mix. I only have ideas of what I am, and every one, in someway, can be dismissed. If ideas are taken away, whatever remains, than that is what I am. 

and in more subtle ways too, I am not separate from ideas either, existing, not existing, distinctions that make no demands really. Everything simply is, as it is, now. Words appeared, as did idea of writer, and it all unfolded without my doing. 

writing happened. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Cooperating Parts

Cooperating parts:

we're based on cooperation, from cells in communication across the body, atoms of select elements acting to bring us into solid view, and particles drawn to one another for any of this to even be - we are cooperating parts, yet seamless as the whole. 

and more than this, we are a vast allowing space, emptiness that somehow lends itself to form, thought, and the varied details of our expressions. It's a true cooperation of one things alone, capacity that seeks its own fulfillment, and with this the world comes into being,

in this light, they're are no real cooperating parts, but an agreement of reality to be expressed in certain order, no inherent qualities of any one thing that keeps it separate from the whole. Life is far too seamless for it to be other. This is the oneness of mystical nature, sage described, and seer envisioned. It's the implicit order of quantum view, and deeper yet, it's all still mystery, remaining always unexplained by words. 

it simply...is. 

 so, we see ourselves too within this order, cooperating parts as well, and that we're of vital interest to the whole expression. This is our purpose for being here, our only real assignment, and it's simply to allow ourselves to be expressed as a unique aspect of life, a once upon lifetime to be shown in beauty and seeming flaw, complete yet somehow believed broken. Nothing is off limits as to what's displayed, no point of being that doesn't belong. They entire universe cooperates for this single moment to be, it's ours, for us to be exactly what we are, right now,

and for every moment that follows. 

let's show our full beauty,

completely.

~

Peace, Eric 

Without Need

Without need: 

without need of explanation - everything belongs as it does, simply and for reasons of their own appearance. Life doesn't offer apologies, what occurs is the only ever way that things could unfold and there is no real argument otherwise. Of course we will debate this, second guess ourselves and each event that seemingly turns against us. Yet no argument will ever change the past course that has led to this moment. 

it's here, we always find ourselves.

reminding myself of this, of where I find myself right now, who I am - and it seems important to the accept this moment as it's offered, just this, no more until the next instant seamlessly arrives. There are many questions that make their way to me, doubts, and even blame. I find myself wishing to have been a better caretaker, a more caring son, and at least another thousand thoughts rush to lay their claim of guilt and fault. This is where I find myself, here, and no escape. 

and of course there's no other possible place to be, the course of life and apparent choices have brought me to this moment. I meet it all directly, without need of explanation. To properly grieve has little to do with acceptance of the past, nor mourning a future that will not include what's now gone. That's all a process that always, and can only, leave me here, alone with the company of those thousand haunting questions. Yet life doesn't ask me to deal with this by revisiting past event, replaying lost scenario's  with a wish of doing better. I am asked only to be present, and if this moment seems filled by questions, doubt, memories of situations wished different - than this is what I sit with, allowing, nothing pushed away, no explanations needed. This is what the moment holds, and I won't do battle with myself, adding to my grief with an internal struggle of what belongs versus what I believe doesn't. I sit with it all, present, because there is nowhere else to possibly be. 

just here,

without need of explanation.

things settle, it's the wisdom of being present, not seeking an escape. Perhaps a thousand questions still remain, maybe doubt continuous with its visits, but everything settles to a calm known only to this moment. This is where I find myself, always here, always present. Nothing needs to be chased away, refused entry to the moment, no explanations are needed. What's present, is now accepted, even as I wish for something other. It's a paradox, yes, and with this...

things begin to settle. 

~

Peace, Eric 

This Body Too

This Body too:

it's this body too that awakens, a wisdom of parts that function as a whole, cohesion, and even as we age, grow ill, and eventually die - we are present through every stage, witness and embodied though every point of its existence. We are not removed from the story of the body, not a separate nor higher self that's somehow greater than our form. The body is soul,  the stuff of earth, and stars, particles in trade of infinite lifeforms eons before the blink of this one. To think that we are other and wiser than this is a delusion of belief, a mistaken thought of what we truly are. 

bodies, constant in out change.

yet, there is something larger in play here as well, that our true and real body is vaster than imagined, without borders, and that our every cell, each atom present in this existence carries the memory of this reality. What we are now is a pattern, an arrangement of infinitely small parts that come to a specific form, and an energy that attracts and holds it all together. And there are endless patterns, and if somehow we gained perspective of a greater view, we might see that our particular pattern is no more than a design within a swirling change of emptiness and form, life in its primordial essence, energy. 

perhaps our present pattern knows this, deep in the memory of cells and atoms, slowly awakening to another shift in form. It's not death, but a remembering of itself, the shifting of a pattern into the primordial mix of life. Again. And there is always an again, endlessly becoming, arranging, one design lending itself to another. Yet always this energy, the attraction to become, life. 

it's the body too that awakens, aware of its true and shifting nature. 

 and through death, wiser than we know. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Least Effort

through least effort, and this is the wisdom of the way, Tao, nature - I acknowledge this in body, the efficiency of my heart that beats without need of willful thought, that my lungs function with an ease of breath, air found at the ready. There is great cohesion here, a natural cooperation of seeming parts for the benefit of the whole. Yet there's a larger body at play too, infinite, and I am a seamless aspect of it's order, vital in my presence.

and all with least effort of my own.

it was great relief to me, this insight, awakening to my own easy belonging to life, without need to prove a single worth, nor to justify the right of my existence. Absolutely nothing had to be done to earn this, no belief of higher wisdom granting me this right. My life was simply gifted. 

really, it's a miracle, coming to life with conditions set so beautifully for me to thrive, air immediately available for very first breath, sunlight present by just the right distance, oceans, gravity, everything precise. And I belong to this, an aspect of it's order, life. 

at some point, and for many years, I forgot all of this, forgot that I belonged to the larger body of world and stars, that I am an aspect of the whole. For many years I struggled, my life demanding so much effort to be merely satisfied. This isn't about work, the necessity of a job, nor even of the certain roles played to navigate modern life. No, what I forgot, and what later dawned on me anew, is the simplicity and undeniable reality of my belonging. Whatever role I played, job held, status achieved, or if all stripped and taken from me - I belong. 

everything does.

why I forgot, and even my remembering is just a story. For truthfully it was all imagined, even through pain and often struggle there was no point that I was ever set apart, separated from the whole. None of us all, we're all this cohesive unit, universal in our belonging. This is our service to each other, to the world, and it's no more than simply being. 

just this.

no real effort of our own.

~

Peace, Eric 

A Caregiver Still

Caregiver still: 

so many wonderful people, close and long time friends, acquaintances through familiar circles, and people barely known except to distance reach of social media, all caring people who shared a moment of my grief, concern, and provided comfort during sorrow. Thank you all, truly, your love brought me through the first days of darkness. 

many now wish to know how I am, am I taking care of myself, allowing myself the time to grieve, and making room to heal. The answer to these questions is yes, and those close to me at home are making sure this is so. But it doesn't answer how I am, not really and certainly not honestly. I'm not sure if this is something to share, if a stoic approach is best or just a front to keep me from pouring my heart to the emptiness of a page, perhaps my words will fill a similar void within me. I have no idea, none, but what I do is write, keeping true to a promise I made to myself, that I would never censor the urge to share whatever words appear, honoring my commitment to the page, to my creative heart, to what the moment holds for me.

so how am I? 

lonely, I'm lonely, and scared of the comfort that I find here, deep within myself, hidden. I'm lonely. That's the answer, it's honest, and it's not how I feel, more than a mood, heavier than grief. It's a loneliness cloaked against me, but now worn down to the bone, no longer a momentary wear, but constant in its cover. I'm lonely, haunted by care that's no longer given, by a deeper care no longer available to me. I've lost something, not just my father, and not only the routine we shared, something, and I'm unable to say exactly what it is, some essence gone now, central to my being. 

and that's how I am, for now.

everything changes and this certainly will too - and I am grateful to all who reach out, I appreciate your concern, your care. In writing this I come to the place I so often do while writing openly of my experiences. I arrive to the bare essentials of the moment, a confrontation that eases to awareness, more acceptance now, allowed. There is nothing for me to change, no void that isn't already filled by attention to what's present. My role is to not make any of this wrong, to befriend myself through troubled times, and simply be true to the exactness of what I'm feeling, to not wish a single thought away. So I sit with what's present, I write whatever words words appear. I tend to myself...

a caregiver still. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Gifted

Gifted:

that so little is required of me, truly, for life itself is given freely and without my asking - I am blessed by my own presence, gifted by the grace of simply being here, alive, and aware. Yet still, much is taken for granted, unnoticed by its ease. 

such as breath, drawn from endless source of air, no effort in release, and its vital function connects me to the world, breathing life into the depth of body, and exhaling an essence shared for the sake of plants and trees and our mutual continuation. Through this I see that I am part of a larger system, not a body alone, but of infinite connection, a true and sure belonging to the world. 

yes, so much is gifted with this ease - and perhaps no greater gift than to find myself aware, knowing myself as life, conscious of the mystery of it all, that none of it absolutely had to be and yet here I am, alive and full of wonder. This is not to make the claim that I am pure awareness, unmarred by all that passes through my attention. Honestly, I have no idea of what I am beyond this momentary presence, aware now, and now, and now, a somehow continuous stream of notice. It's just another gift that's been received, equal to breath, effortless too it seems. 

for this all - I am grateful. 

and this too is such a gift, to know my worth within the world, how rare every gift that's been given, and that I'm fortunate to belong within this complex system of life, that I'm beneficial to its continuation. To be aware is to be thankful for the moment. 

and with this I can truly say, 

that I'm aware.

~

Peace, Eric 

Nagarjuna's Whisper

it seems urgent, to not let this particular moment be wasted - how my father's passing ties to sudden insights of vibrations, consciousness, string theory, emptiness, the reality of Nagarjuna's middle way, and if I could just pluck the very right string my whole world would shake with conclusions, everything given in immediate fashion even if it unfolds through the slow reach of time. 

if I could,

that one string only

perhaps my finger's on it now

my thoughts

and the world vibrates now with my father's presence, still with me, unseen, loving, Nagarjuna whispers of the middle ways, not gone, not even really born, but always, somehow present. Vibrating, a string found against my finger, no, as my finger, and everything else too, all strings, vibrating, and it's a new world now, sudden, yet familiar.

that one string

found.

~

Peace, Eric 

With This

With this:

with this, I start writing - what I have is an empty page and the willingness for words to appear, patience, and no agenda for a message to be told. It's early and I can afford to wait, allowing the morning pace to match the flow of words. My writing is as the dawn, a slow illumination of what's already present, new light on familiar themes of process, emptiness and the allowing nature of the page, and my own capacity  being equivalent to this. It's my dawn as well it seems, unfolding with insight and light, and with this words slowly fill the page. 

 some morning do hold a bit of an agenda, a more urgent rush of words that will hardly wait to meet the page. It's another pace altogether, and yet still similar to dawn in it's own way. Inspiration only seems a sudden light, but really it's part of the longer process too, a slow reach of ideas that come to dawn in this particular moment, bright, exactly what is needed.

but this morning, words aren't rushed at all, each one seems to arrive in tentative fashion, as if today's sunlight hides behind the shade of clouds and the morning wishes to remain a mystery, with just enough light to remind me that it's dawn. I'm in no hurry, words and light will always find me, my own message revealed each day. It's always different and that's the magic of every morning. I never know what words will appear, how a theme will play through time, unfolding so similar to dawn as it lights across the page. Everything has it's own pace, sunlight, words inspiration, and the only thing that truly waits is the empty nature of the page, my own capacity too... 

and with this,

every dawn is seen as full. 

~

Peace, Eric 

As Soul

As Soul:

as soul, and this is what we are through essence and being, native to earth and air by the very root of composition - elements of the same order, molecules shared through ages, and the endless trade of atoms, particles and common space. 

we are the soul of one existence.

it's here that we return, not to, but as the garden itself, as Eden's own fertile soil, nurturing life through new turns of it expression, earth soul. We return as air, allowing space for clouds and our presence found too as rain, nourishing earth through the countless drops that fall. We are the very grace of nature, infinitely inspired to give and receive every version of our self. 

continuously.

as soul, not individual but as the whole - that's our reality, and we are this right now, recycled star and earth dust somehow found aware. We are not transformed, becoming something other than we ever were before, no, we simply shift to original transitory nature, essence, energy. Our reality is one of attraction, of emptiness allowing particles to swirl and come to form, the playfulness of soul in free expression, art without immediate meaning, nor even need of an artist's point of view. Just life continuously recreating itself, abandoning one design for its return as raw material, soul again, and always.

through this we see that no appearance is entirely new, and nothing is ever truly lost to us. Death is the illusion of form, real in its sense of loss, a loved one grieved for being gone in familiar recognition, no longer readily available to be heard. Yet not lost from us, still and always present in the reality of their presence. With my father's passing I look for him beyond the sense of form, his wisdom living within my own considerations, his voice is now the urge to listen to stories told by others, his appearance comes to me through everything he loved, aspects of life that gained his favor. My attention is turned towards him now as soul, not memories alone, but present as my truest, surest company. 

as soul, always.

~

Peace, Eric 

Perfect Breath

 

the perfect breath is one taken now,

and now,

and...

~

Peace, Eric 

Too Seamless

Too Seamless: 

too seamless for description, yet even now the page demonstrates a willingness to hold words without bias nor concern, and if spoken aloud the air would allow each syllable to be known. Reality is a display of this harmonious interaction, of capacity and its endless embrace of every detail of the world. No words ever truly capture this, but they belong through their attempt. 

seamless to page and air.

this is the middle path, to speak of capacity as the fullness of its hold, emptiness as the very essence of form - not one aspect of reality denied. It's all one thing really, distinctions given, and yet nothing stands apart in their comparison. This is seen throughout nature, as a season blends into another, trees give roots through ground and branches to the sky - there is no true point of separation, only capacity serving its own point of creation, emptiness displaying its fulfillment. 

seamless, all. 

last night I watched the moon at play, a dance of light tipped clouds, shadows cast, motion. It was a spontaneous choreograph of illusions through the ever presence of reality. The moon holds no light of its own, it's never less full than any other moment, never touched by single cloud. 

and yet...

there was some magic here, appearance showing me a reality of soft light and moon play, an easy peek of clouds touched throughout. Another reality all together. For this, I was capacity, a witness to my own display, emptiness in service to this awe. More seamless still in the reality of the moment, no capacity, no witness found, just this, just this, always, appearing, not appearing,

just this.

too seamless for description.

~

Peace, Eric 

Without Translation

Without translation:

for right now, it's all without translation, the morning comes to me in hushed tones of life waking just before the sunrise - listening, without need to name what's heard, nor label each sensation on its arrival, simply sitting, allowing it all to find me...

exactly as it is.

later, perhaps only moments so, my mind will offer descriptions to what unfolds - I will hear birds of different songs, animals in retreat to nearby woods, and early rise of neighbors. But briefly, just  before my mind is ready to process the arrival of the day, it's all without translation,

just the listening.

alone.

it always feels like the morning meditates completely on its own, a private affair, ancient, and that I'm privileged to finally recognize its call to join. My only requirement is to be without agenda, not to give myself cause for anything to happen, no pressure to belong. Everything is set up with perfect ease, the morning already with a wish for my participation. I only have to listen, and even this is natural to my waking. So I don't offer anything, just presence, not seen as exclusively mine, but presence of the world, life, and it's found right here, now, always. 

a natural meditation.

~

Peace,

Eric 

https://gofund.me/3b355801

Easy Grace

An easy grace:

each moment has its own allowing, an easy grace of light and sound arriving in slight amount at first, a gradual pace of the day's unfolding. My own rhythm is matched to this, a quiet mood of self and world, and everything's allowed to reach me here, simply sitting, receiving every sound and length of light - an easy grace too it seems.

there's some magic here, to my sitting, this mediation of a days arrival, how the night gently parts its shaded hold to a brighter, more active world. Absolutely nothing is held for long here, no grasp of dark in delay of light's reach, just a perfect measure of each instant holding only what it needs before the inevitable surrender to what another moment's meant to hold.

in this early light I can feel my own darkness parting, slight at first, a gradual pace of light approaching grief, gently waking me to another day's promise. The magic is that this happens everyday without fail, at least some reach of light is always offered.

and something deep within me is so grateful to receive.

yes, each moment has its own allowing, an easy grace of grief and being thankful for the opportunity to hold any aspect of the world in its brief pass. That I served through this capacity, knowing a depth of love that endures far longer than a memory, an imprint all the way to the level of cells and farther still to soul - this is what the magic tells me, what the morning shows in its gain of light. 

it's all an easy grace of letting go...

and nothing true is ever absent. 

~

Peace, Eric 

East Light

East light:

east light, softly breaking through last remains of darkness, quiet, and even the few sounds present seem to have a feel for this softness, somehow less harsh than what's similarly heard through the day. I love the dawn, and more so, the moments leading to its break of light. This is my favorite time to sit, listening to so much silence, a soft meditation of my own first stirrings of the coming day. 

as if I'm witness to my own arrival.

and yet I wonder of true dawn, those hours before the beginning hint of light and darkness feels the urge of dawn's first shine, ceding just a moment of its hold. When does this occur? This agreement of light to coexist through darkness, gradual in its gain of brighter shade.

At what point is my own true dawn?

it seems, at least right now, that there are no moments of just before something else, only what's presently happening, a moment complete in its own possibilities, without agenda to dawn, nor holding to what's past. With this I see that everything's fluid, flowing not exclusively as time, but to its own mystery of involvement as the whole. Every moment is my true dawn, the east light of possibilities, existing too as a twilight of some closure, an ease of one occurrence to what only seems another. 

it's all happening now.

everything. 

as this east light guides me to my dawn. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Brokenness

Brokenness: 

with healing on my mind - and my inquiry is to look not for what seems broken, not for wounds, nor trauma left behind, but for the need that calls for my repair, the urgent voice that says my current state is simply not enough, and that the world demands my being better than I am right now. My question is why is my brokenness not enough? 

this isn't about answers though, it's an inquiry into grief, of deep sadness that doesn't ever seem to fully surrender its hold, of all our common aches and shared sorrows. Of course no one wants to suffer and the wish to heal is one to honor. Yet what if there is no better? Would what we are, right now, be enough to be accepted by the world? 

could we accept ourselves? 

so much of my life has been based on believing that I needed to be better than I was at any given time, denying my own deep sadness, my sense of never being whole, complete and belonging in the world. I offered a front of humor, the illusion of control, and spent a lifetime wishing to be healed. Yet at some point there seemed to be a surrender, a letting go of beliefs that held me to standards other than my own. I was healed of my wish of needing to be healed. 

it's not simply accepting things as they are, never striving for relief of pain, nor giving in to the struggle caused by any condition that brings harm. It's just knowing that all of this belongs right now, that our brokenness is complete within the whole, and in no way are we separate from this completeness. This is the point that we surrender to - that we are allowed our pain even as we seek escape, our sorrow belongs without excuse nor need of being altered, that our brokenness is present within the vast expanse of who we really are...

with this, 

there is no healing.

just being. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Without Direction

Without direction: 

this grief isn't separate from me, it's not so much a visitor as it is my own company, an aspect of myself shared with my father through a lifetime of care and last days spent in a ritual of tenderness, a showing of how fragile life can be. This grief is deeper than a mood, not a passing phase given to what's lost, it's who I am now without my father, an edge point of familiar territory and the vast expanse of uncertainty that lies before me. 

this grief is simply love without direction.

and this is what I most welcome, of being lost and not in need of being shown a way through, not concerned with reaching the other side of sorrow. This is where I find myself, life expressed through grief in all its varied moments, capable of sudden joy as well as subtle shades loss. What I'm shown now is the true way of love, that it's always been without direction, receiving itself in whatever present form that happens to appear. 

it's here, this directionless love, where I find my father, and more so a realization of what's always been present. Nothing is truly lost, and yet grief is deep in memory of previous forms, it doesn't urge a letting go of what once was, but to surrender to the fresh appearance that life now shows. I am only asked to love what's present and this is all inclusive, from memories of past to the uncertainty of future. Everything belongs. 

this grief isn't separate from me, it's no a guest that demands my welcome - it's my own expression of the moment, love, directionless, and free to roam through vast expanse of all I truly am. Yes, I'm lost now, uncertain, and there is no other possible place for me to be. 

I am most truly found...

without direction. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Let's Talk A Bit

Let's talk a bit:

let's talk a bit about God - and here I'll be honest in that I'm offering just another concept, a description of my own view right now. God is a term I'm using and it will different than the one you may believe is true, it may fail to meet the expectations of someone's disbelief as well. Nothing that follows should be taken in any literal sense, just my thoughts this early morning, a topic for my day. 

any word can be replaced, even God, and the use of other terms may satisfy others, carrying less baggage for their ease of mind. Yet for this let's talk of essence, God as reality, and not separate as any source outside of our own self, of our bodies in their holiness, sacred through creation. There is no God outside of any of this, not separate from earth and the course of stream to oceans, mountains and sweep of sky atop their view. This is God of forest, land, life through every detail. Perhaps it's best to say that God is - and allow all that follows to hold as true. 

yet I don't believe in a God of intent, not one of purpose, nor design. God is evolution and spontaneity, particles in their attraction, the big bang and whatever came before. There is not a God of cause but only of continuous effect, happening, life in process. It's when I try and look outside of any of this that problems seem to hold my mind - asking questions of why anything that feels wrong should happen, why misfortune falls on the good and just, or a loved ones die before their time feels due. It's the belief that God is apart from life in any aspect that causes great suffering, a God arbitrary in decision, giving free will only to punish for choices thought wrong, a God of judgement and harm. 

so let's talk a bit about God - 

there's life, and death that follows, a transition of cells to basic level, atoms reshaped to other form. Nothing real is ever lost here, life in essence remains true, sure in its continuation. There is soul and this is our return, earth again, dust, ground and trail for others to follow. We are reborn to other parts of a seamless world, perhaps coming as a spring leaf and left again to another autumns breeze. It's all just details, God, life through all that happens. If there is a purpose it is self fulfilled, already done by the simplicity of simply being. 

of course these are just my thoughts this morning, early, looking through my window as the world is touched by the softness of first light. Later in the day it might all seem different, a sharper light may change my view, but for now, this what I offer...

just my thoughts on God.

~

Peace, Eric 

Another Side

grief is often likened to a process, something to get through to find another side that offers us a promised peace. We're told that things get better, pain numbs to a dull edge that cuts less deep with every memory recalled. My own previous experience has shown this to be so, time eased the ache of loss, life continued much as it always had before. Through this I was able to smile at memories that once hurt to much to hold for long - I had completed the process.

reached the other side. 

yet life seems to show me otherwise now, grief ever present, keen, and it urges me to forget any promise of another side, that peace is an illusion of time and sorrow never lessens in its hold. And I know that this is true, not just believed but known deep to soul. There is no healing from loss, no process that guides me in a true and sure direction of feeling whole again. 

there's only right now,

and the grief of present moment, sharp, without promise of anything other. This is what I sit with, whatever happens now, accepting waves of sorrow, denying others even as they edge against me. But still sitting here, aware, allowing. What I find is that the present moment is all inclusive, that my struggle belongs in the same instant as acceptance, sorrow can coincide with joy. What I see is that there's no need to heal, that no process will ever make more whole than I am right now. Grief belong to this equation somehow, essential by virtue of appearing, keeping company to my sorrow. I have no wish to chase its presence away, not now, perhaps not ever. 

grief has shown me the way to this moment, again and so often again, sharp in its reminder. It urges me to forget the illusion of another side to this, that what's present is all that matters. It's here that I accept true loss, throwing away anything that hints of cherished beliefs of heavenly reunion reincarnation, promises of any kind. Grief holds me to reality, of what I know truly in this moment, keeping me honest - with this I carry on, continuing, present. 

through wholeness, there's not another side,

only this. 

it's a paradox of loss, and nothing ever being truly gone.

~

Peace, Eric 

Find Ourselves

Find ourselves:

to find ourselves the universe - and this is the genuine surprise of seeing, simply looking in the right direction in a search for what we are. The universe, vast with stars and infinite space, is here, exactly where we find ourselves now. 

the search is over. 

and with this we become explorers, deep within our own nature, everything of the world simply being our own extension brought to our attention, noticed in true intimacy for the very first time. There is no seeking here, it's all an answer, every detail explains our nature. We are an aspect of the whole, a smaller galaxy of particles swirling our existence, infinite too in the space we offer. 

we find ourselves the universe.

this isn't a metaphor, nor lyrical description to inspire - we are actually made of universal matter, material left from exploding stars, a chemical evolution brought to form. More so we are seamless, without true border, continuous. To see this we only have to turn our gaze around, to give priority the experience of seeing for just a moment. From the world and back to source which holds the view - now explore what's found. If we trace any object in a direct line to the source of seeing, literally pointing to the presumed location of a seer, and only the universe appears, our own empty nature revealed as the very same capacity which holds the infinite count of stars and further worlds. 

it's all right here.

to find ourselves the universe is seeing the truth of what we are, reality in present nature - and genuinely be at home exactly where we are. Heaven is not a distance promise, already we are amidst the stars, intermingled as a galaxy through endless succession. 

seamless. 

~

Peace, Eric  

Soul Deep Participants

Soul deep participants: 

it's all without description, really, life itself is beyond any measure to be told and to give it terms and clever phrases, philosophies, is always bound to fail. We are meant to live, to express, and life unfolds completely on it's own. We are soul deep participants of this process, not removed from any point through all existence, simply part of one reality. 

soul deep is my own clever phrase, a failed description too - but really it's used in a sense of our connection, soul not as individual entity, for we are much too inclusive for that to be so. What I'm saying is that there's only soul, varied in appearance, life in every expression. 

nothing is excluded. 

there's little sense arguing about reality, and life is far too mysterious and complex for us to claim any certainty as to how it may unfold. It's impossible for us to stand aside and make claims with a sense of objectivity, we are far too deep in this belonging, with every apparent description missing our own inclusion, not a failure to be exact, but not complete in what it shows. 

reality is. 

and every expression is allowed, always part of the whole, soul deep in its participation. This is my description of reality, it's how I see the world. A flower's bloom is a unique expression of not just a particular flower but of the earth itself, from stem and spread of roots, the nourishment of minerals found through dirt, rain in just the right amount, and whatever gives cause for a clouds existence. It's all a flower's bloom and I belong fully to the ecosystem of its blossom. The reality of a flower includes every aspect of earth and sky. 

one thing. 

soul. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Most Truly

Most truly:

to be most truly what I am - and this isn't an achievement to aspire towards, nor to dismiss anything not deemed worthy to my life. There is no effort to this being, nothing other than what I am right now and every moments that's to follow. With this there are no rules, no proper way to show grief, no length for sorrow to remain. Everything belongs, and often this shows as multiple expression at once, that sadness allows a glimpse of joy even through the fall of tears. 

there is room for everything to appear. 

through capacity there is no separation, this is all more intimate than a simple hold, but really an embrace of emptiness lent to the form of its appearance. one thing in service of its own involvement, life in every aspect of its flow. What I most truly am is capacity and all the unfolds, with no point divided, and everything given as an expression of the whole. 

with this I am already free, awakened, and allow myself the honor of being human, all that it entails through every expression. Nothing is unworthy in its appearance, sorrow equal to a moments joy, anger belonging with compassion, everything belonging with a merit of its own. There is no spiritual realm separate from here, no other place to find true home. This is where my life is lived, here, this one moment in all it's shifting appearance of loss and sorrow, beauty and overwhelming awe. What I most truly am is capacity for this life to be, unconditional, without bias to my love. 

and yes, it is love that most truly exists as this capacity, without sentiment, allowing, open. I see this in the death of my father, in his surrender to his final moment, and the quality of spaciousness that remained. Something held my father through the very act of letting go, and instantly too embraced my anguish as its own. Everything belonged there, death, life, relief of suffering, the grief of carrying on. It was all allowed, and at once, without conflict of any expression. My father was free in his surrender, no longer there to suffer, yet capacity for his unique and much loved appearance still existed, gave room for my own life to continue through this loss.

only love was present. 

only love remains. 

~

Peace, Eric   

To Tenderness

To tenderness: 

for me, it's an awakening to tenderness, that each moment is so fragile in it's in stay, already shifting from very first appearance, and with nothing promised to remain. Just this, what's here, and even now changing. 

it's such cause for both joy and sorrow, life in each unique experience, so brief, and the intimacy of our own belonging here, that we are just as quick in passing, never meant beyond this moment. This is the tender ache of a caress, feeling only motion,  with nothing ever lasting through its sweep, no matter how slow it seems to linger. 

yet in truth, it's all simply this caress, nothing existing but its touch - expressed in duality of world and our aware participation. We are this moment, alone to ourselves, shifting, ending, becoming. We' are the tenderness of this caress, and we are everything that knows the briefness of our passing, one thing in heartbreak and joy, giving and receiving, motion and all that slows for the pleasure of our sweep. This is our awakening, not in denial of loss, nor to dismiss our sorrow - but as motion, awake to every temporary display and seeming moment that we linger. It's an awakening to tenderness, knowing how fragile this very instant is, and yet we love our way through it, uncertain of what, if anything, comes after. We awake to a constant letting go...

and the tenderness that holds this passing. 

~

Peace, Eric 

A Place Of Worship

A place of worship:

this could also be called a place of worship, a true religious sense of transformation, of how a page fully accepts every word, and through this becomes something more, it's emptiness serving now with greater meaning. So too is the ritual, reverence, that a writer comes to the page in awe of its capacity to hold the content of mind and heart, thoughts that pour from inspiration. 

indeed, a holy place.

what makes this a place of worship isn't the awe directed to an object, not words, nor keyboard, and even the author plays a minimal role. What happens here is a demonstration of emptiness transformed and yet still retaining every characteristic of its nature, how it's still eager to receive no matter how many words are given, unbiased in it's hold, open. The page itself stays the same regardless of what's written, unmarred to its very essence. 

here, it's a worship of entirety - how emptiness allows itself as page, giving room to words and writer's quest to add some meaning. It's a religion of process, a ritual to draw inspiration from the unknown to make a brief appearance. Every aspect belongs, essential to the whole affair. With this it matters less as to what's written than it does a finish, a sense of completion to this service. A place of worship only demands transformation, words to a page, capacity served, and the writers own effort noted. Something magical happened here, a miracle however small...

from somewhere, or perhaps nowhere at all - thoughts appeared, words, and then the page received them, everything transformed. 

~

Peace, Eric  

This Is A Place Of Surrender

this is a place of surrender and it's always been so - what I find is that even the things I cling to have already been let go, lost to me in any meaningful way of holding on. Grieving is the art of recognizing what's gone and allowing the deep sadness that arrives to takes it place without rush for it to leave. It's a private sorrow and yet so obvious as well. With this, here, I recognize my surrender, the loss of my father and the roles we've played together. Everything's now let go...

and becoming something other.

even while alive, his last few months, years really, this was a place of surrender, each moment we let go a little more of what was cherished and no longer now an option. My father took this all with grace, his gradual decline of strength, from cane to wheelchair, ease of breath to need of oxygen, everything immediately accepted even with the wish of altering the outcome. There was no denial of his condition, he faced it all as fact and only sought to strengthen himself for what was sure to follow, to be ready for a further letting go.

today is my dad's funeral, tomorrow is surgery for removal of skin cancer - this is always a place of surrender, each moment some aspect of life is altered in subtle, and sometimes sudden ways. Yet surrender isn't a true loss, not total, for even now the particles my dad surrendered are in the midst of becoming something other, perhaps a molecule of breath is shared between us, and there will always be a part of him alive within me, what I carry through DNA and soul. 

so what's lost is only recognizable form, and if I look, clearly, I will find him just as present to the world, alive in ways not imagined before. Yes, there is a constant letting go, loss, and the grief of change - life is meant to be altered to its course, one thing decomposed to feed a new beginning, atoms shifting to another form, death in order to rebirth as whatever is to follow. I don't imagine heaven, nirvana, nor the reincarnation of a self. But life remains, continuous, even in a place of surrender. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Place of Honesty

A place of honesty:

a page is always honest in its capacity to hold whatever words are given - my own aim has been to match this openness with my own willingness to give exactly what the moment holds for me, to write without concern of what I share as long as it comes from a place of honesty as well. There is a trust between us, whoever now reads these words - we meet here and share a moment of our own. 

what I've offered lately has been my grief, a life felt fragile in all I care so dearly about, loss. I have shared my fear in all of its stages, of how death approached my father in such tentative steps at first, giving me notice of early presence, easing ever closer, subtle, yet still all too sudden. I've given words that describe my life as a caregiver, of my often failure in this care, and now my loss. 

through it all the page has been here, never wavering in capacity, holding every word. This has indeed been a place of honesty, a continuous share of openness, words, and the tenderness of readers in the time that they have given here. I have no clear idea where life will take me next, as frightened now without my father, the anchor he provided, and all that seems a further loss in coming days. I'm frightened in a way that was impossible before, directionless, spiraling. 

and yet,

there's still this capacity, not just on page but life as well, an openness to hold me through my fall, groundless in its receiving, welcoming no matter what I come to offer. This capacity allows my every fear, holds my grief through an emptiness that expands without bias to the length of sorrow, always willing to accept more, endless in its hold. I have no idea what will come next, what life will bring, and if I even have the courage left to face it. I just don't know. But I will continue to show up here, finding the welcome of the page, giving myself to its capacity. 

it's all I know to do. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Through Grief

Through grief: 

through grief is our connection, and with this we touch more truly, deeply healed of any sense of separation. I have no wish to lose this present pain, its sharp ache, tears that seem ever on the edge of falling. Yes, in time it will fade, memories viewed in fondness rather than the anguish of a fresh loss. But not now, not yet - this grief is our connection. 

the urge is to push this pain away, happier thoughts that bear little of this hurt, hoping for relinquish through momentary distraction. Or to be stoic, to hold my sadness well, strong, and carry onward. There are many paths through pain, some not even options but the only way we know to grieve. 

for me, right now, I think of Rumi's guest house, my grief a new arrival and I place no limit on its stay. This honored guest is free of any expectations, allowed to express itself as any moment calls for it to do. I cry without restraint, welcoming their release and silent fall. Through this grief I feel my father's nearness, his presence growing in my heart even as we prepare for the burial of his body. His true place is found now, not in memories, but this moment, now, every bit alive within me, the very life that I've been blessed with. The ache of his loss serves as a reminder of this, showing me that our real relationship was of the heart, untouched by distance, always present and alive. 

so I sit with this, unwilling to change a single moment of my grief. Everything belongs, both ache and denial, tears as well as a smile to the fond memories that appear. There is no wrong way to grieve, no plan to follow. Every moment is different, hurt arriving fresh, ever sharp, and can only be accepted. My father shows me the way even now, still guiding, providing me his love. Through this grief...

we come to our connection. 

~

Peace, Eric    

Without My Father

Without my father:

honestly, I don't know what to do without my father, in so many ways right now - my day is suddenly full of time, bereft of ritual and concern, no voice to listen for, empty. Caregiver is a role, and after many years it's one that's been removed from my life. I'm without this story and with need for another to be written. I am filled with doubt of my ability to be its author. 

this is a scary place to be, and the most frightening part is how familiar it is, an underlying intimacy to a story-less under space that holds us all. Life allows our stories to be told, roles to be played, but we're always on a thin pedestal if importance, quick for any title to be removed, position to be taken, role to be erased. 

to find ourselves without story. 

recent years have steadily eroded my most cherished stories - divorce, family relationships, and with the current pandemic my loss of business. Caring for my father provided me a vital role, no, more honestly still, it was deeper than that - it was fulfillment, purpose, a devoted cause to simply care for the well-being of a loved one. My father provided me a fine example to follow, a life given to this very cause as well and he showed this in the tenderness of his role as caregiver to my mother as she succumbed to Alzheimer's. To be a caregiver is a role, yes, but only in its basic title, more truthfully it's a display of what we most essentially are - love in most pure expression. 

with this in mind, and without my recent story, I have to hope that I'm able to continue this expression, to stay true as caregiver in this larger role, offering love for its own sake now, for myself and others. In coming days I'll have to begin to rewrite my life story, right now, without my father, it feels an impossible thing to do. It feels late in life for such a total rewrite, starting from the underlying emptiness of all true beginnings, uncertain of my strength and skills. My commitment has been to be completely open in each moment that I sit to write, and with this I confess to always being somewhat of a drifter, finding myself  in jobs with little meaning, with only a wish to write, to share, to offer myself in honest confession. Right now I feel unprepared to do anything but continue this. Keeping in the theme of honesty, I just don't know what to do. Without story, no role to play...

life still happens. 

Such Was His Way

Such was his way:

yesterday, my father returned home from the hospital to enter hospice care. Everything was set up for him to be comfortable and at peace, a visit from his nurse, questions concerning his illness in which my father participated veered in the course of his customary storytelling, along with voicing his concern for my own well being. 

such was his way. 

minutes before the day was to turn to morning I woke from a light sleep to sounds of my father distressed, agitated and came down to check his needs. He was unable to sleep and asked for another sleep aid, telling me his usual trick of counting numbers in a particular order wasn't working. Only a few minutes later my father passed away. 

he didn't quite make it to the new day.

honestly I have no idea what to write, if this is about my father, death, my own grief and struggle. All of it perhaps, a bit of everything. What I do is write, sharing my experience of moments that have a certain meaning to me, airing my thoughts to whoever happens to find my words. It's similar to my father's storytelling, just my way. 

little of what I write is planned, and there's as much time waiting for words to appear as there is actual writing. There's always a pause, free of expectations, and then a flow of words. I've learned to sit with stillness, a long silence that is its own reward.

so I sat with my father for a while in the early morning, hours before dawn, facing the day he didn't quite make. I held his hand and sat through the longest silence of my life, devastated by his stillness and yet sensing his peace, no longer a struggle for breath, but still somehow able to share his presence with me through these moments. From the depth of this stillness, no longer a place for words, he brought me peace, offered me a bit of grace in a moment most needed.

such was his way. 

~

Peace, Eric  

Unprepared

Unprepared:

even now I find myself unprepared - after several years of a slow decline, multiple stays in the hospital for pneumonia, surviving stroke, cancer and many other ails; my father returns home today from his last hospital stay to hospice care. He'll be made as comfortable as possible, his family present, and pass away when his time arrives. As his caregiver Iv'e dealt with this through all practical purposes, tending through the progression of illness, adjusting, carrying on. I know exactly what's to come, a final breath won't catch me by surprise. Yet still, somehow, I'm unprepared for this.   

there is no easy way of letting go.

not that I thought there would be; I'm well versed in loss, from sitting at my mom's bedside in her final days with Alzheimer's (a disease of constant loss) to my own divorce that broke me to my core. Covid has wiped out my business and caused distance between myself and much that I love. With life loss continues and there's grace in this acceptance. 

and I do accept what's coming, as I have with every previous loss. 

but still I'm unprepared - this is a complete surrender of role, of my story as caregiver, son, and last of family that truly cares for my well being. From this point on it's all unknown. It's such mixed grief, as much for myself too, losing that last vistage of purpose, my sole role of offering care, and now moving further to uncertainty. I'm unprepared to lose this story. 

during this past hospital day my mind would often wander to routines established with my dad, the set times for medicine, our walks, each one growing a bit more difficult by the day, but still we persisted to maintain as much well being as the day would provide. Even yesterday, his breath and speech both with struggle, he talked more of what he would like to do than he did of loss. It's not that he's afraid of letting go, he's always been pragmatic and has faced his every condition with courage - he simply wishes to participate with life through every moment with as much ease, joy, and grace as will be allowed. He's willing to work for it, to make the effort of living well.

even as he's dying. 

so, this is where we are, it's where I am - lost and unprepared, afraid, uncertain. With my father's example ever present I stay honest with this, participating with the moment at hand, allowing life to handle the details of surrender. Letting go isn't an action taken, it's the natural sweep of life, from the known to unknown, a gateway into mystery. My role is to be present, available for grief to find me, to not hide from my fear and uncertainty, not project false pretense to what the moment holds. Allowing and letting go are common bonds, kin in their connection. Yes, I'm unprepared, even now, and will be for every moment on. There is no real preparation for something final, but life is still in motion, becoming something other through the very moment of this letting go. With this - I am already surrendered, allowing whatever's present to simply be.

there's nothing more to do.

~

Peace, Eric