Ridiculousness of Being right

Ridiculousness of being right: 

thinking of science, philosophy, religion, spirituality of different sorts, and that as varied as they are, each has stories they insist as being true, some without compromise at all - and never once do they ever see the ridiculousness of being right. Of course science is by far the most flexible, holding to theories only until they're later disproved by new experiments and further information and then moving on from there. Science demands facts, proof of any claim to be made. But still it's all a story, even if some of what they offer is ultimately true, it always remains a version of reality, a story told through the lens of science, a particular branch and system of belief. Not one of these schools holds a complete picture of reality, no scientist, philosopher, religious leader, nor guru sees reality exactly as it is. 

we only have versions.

slices of a single truth seen through infinite varieties. 

yet still there's so often the ridiculousness of being right. 

perhaps the one who hits closest to reality, seeing things in relation and not ultimately a certain way at all, is the Buddhist sage Nagarjuna and his wisdom of the middle way. Nagarjuna makes no real insistence on seeing reality in any particular way, and is quick to dismiss every rigid view, including his own. What Nagarjuna sees is relations, everything dependent upon the emptiness of any set and solid structure, that nothing is real and permanent on it's own, but always shifting, changing, and therefore never completely true nor untrue -  only versions of a story told.

Nagarjuna sees the ridiculous of being right. 

and with this, he's free from any rigid view.

what I write is lyrical prose, and that grants me the freedom to be completely wrong in all I say, nothing is meant to be true here, there's no claim of ever being right, and with little thought of others being wrong. I'm only interested in the expression of this moment, whatever lyrical thoughts that may appear with an urge to now be written. There is no ridiculousness of being right, nor even a desire to be proven so, there's just my version of a story with infinite ways of being told. 

I'm free of my own point of view.

at least in the moments of my writing. 

~

Peace, Eric 

HowIt All Happens

How it all happens: 

every morning I write, sometimes with an idea in mind, but most often from whatever first words are given and then allowing inspiration to lead from there. In the moments just after meditation I feel most spacious, open, and words seem more apt appear and steer me in the right direction. So my morning agenda is clear, a familiar creative process, the patience for words and inspiration to arrive - and everything from there, how it all happens, it's a mystery now. 

I have no idea how writing happens. 

let's talk a little about non-doing, or really the non-doer, and how it ties in with creativity and inspiration. I think this offers the clearest explanation for how writing occurs, that everything needed for writing appears without any effort of my own, there's no real author here, only an aspect of the process, and for me to lay claim to ideas and inspiration provides more credit than deserved. The truth is that every word is honestly received, they're given, and in the clearest moment of inspiration I've lost all identity as an author and there's simply the flow of creativity, consciousness in a stream of activity. That's how it all happens, just like that, writing happens on its own.

of course later on, after the writing is finished, I'll claim the words as my own, that's when the author actually appears, a sense of doership and accomplishment return. It's funny to consider the pride that shows for something that so largely happened without me. This isn't to say that I wasn't involved, I'm not hinting here of channeled writing, but more clearly to show that the entire act of writing is a process, that life itself is a process, and that it all happens through the involvement of the entire universe as a whole, every aspect being a key player for just these few words to appear. 

that's how it all happens. 

to believe that there is a sole author responsible for these words discounts the entirety of this affair, it's laying claim to a process that really began at the dawn of time, before that really, to whatever first idea of energy caused that singularity of existence to expand in inspiration, bringing space and time along in the creation of its reach. That's the true beginning of these very words, it's all a process of that one original creative expression - and that's exactly how it all happens. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Uncertainty

Uncertainty: 

it's those quiet moments before an idea hits, no theme to write of yet, and I truly don't know what the first words will be - that's the allowing of uncertainty, being in the very midst of mystery, and not in anyway forcing myself to comply with the ego's demand for its immediate need for words. Writing should always have a degree of uncertainty, of simply not knowing what the next word might be and being absolutely fine in the silence that prevails. From that point on it's writing free from ego, inspired, and every word seems to arrives direct from mystery, delivered, whispered by the muse.

uncertainty is the gateway to higher inspiration. 

I often think of troubled authors, artists, geniuses who fought uncertainty through the abuse of drugs and alcohol, believing that any substance could keep their fear away, or produce and inspiration of its own design. This is art produced and forced by the ego, the original spirit of their talent subdued by the incessant demand for more and better displays of talent, being stuck always in production mode and unable to rest in the silence that precedes every true inspiration. Fear should never be an enemy of art, it's an ally really, a deep source of magic, leading to explorations of mind and soul, a revelation of ideas - and this is all released through uncertainty, those first quiet moments before a hint of inspiration, and an artist is suddenly confronted by their every worst fear...

that they are not the source of their own great talent.

and of course they're not, or not entirely so - yet neither are they ever removed from source, an artist, and in this sense we're all deeply talented artist, is simply an extension of life's creative flow, we're an expression given to the further cause of a continuous unique expression that's completely our own. That's dharma, our purpose, our true and only path. Simply to create. It's with this realization that we surrender, giving room for the ego to play and yet never taking its demands in any serious way, uncertainty grants us freedom in the exact moment of its appearance, no longer shackled to an ego's demand, free to easily express ourselves in whatever way the next moment may require, intuitive, responsive, and always, always, creative by design. 

uncertainty is the first hint of sudden inspiration, mystery in a whisper of surrender, urging us to relax and allow whatever's meant to follow. 

we are asked to trust exactly what we are. 

~

Peace, Eric  

Certain Books

Certain books: 

I like my books dog-eared with remembered meaning and affection, hard loved from carry and travel with me. Books, certain books, are life long companions, having earned their place through cherished chapters of revelation and the sheer delight of their expressions. My life has been changed and its direction swayed from reading just the right words and at the perfect time for their meaning to meet me. Certain books have been my spiritual guides, a coach for a new endeavor, advisors for a particular skill I wish to learn, and most of all a trusted source of inspiration and deep comfort in times most needed. 

certain books have earned their worn and dog-eared love.

there are some books from my childhood sitting on my current shelves, belonging to my permanent library of affection, the memory of their first reading still fresh within my mind. I have books that belonged to both my father and mother in their childhood, their love transferred through the now yellowed pages, yet every word still fresh the meaning that so stirred them many years ago. My parents were depression age children, my father particularly poor, and both their families struggled for the necessities of life, with even the basis often scarce and always hard earned. Yet at Christmas there was a book carefully and lovingly wrapped found beneath the tree, given at birthdays too, and these were gifts given from the heart, pennies saved through a long year of struggle and denial of many things that were certainly much needed. But the joy brought by just the right book, certain books that offered adventure, knowledge, moments of travel through the thrill of their imagination - every point of struggle was made worthwhile by the joy that was discovered in those pages. 

there are books I've long considered treasures, not to be parted from. 

my own childhood was troubled in some ways, although never poor, and always loved and cared for, there was a deep loneliness from an early age, being shy, often frightened by things that I couldn't explain then or even now. The only places where I felt that I truly belong were in the nearby nature or lost deep within the pages of the latest library find. Almost every week we made trips to the library, stacks of books brought home, and never a holiday or birthday passed without a book given. Many of them I still own. My never questioned my reading choices, never censoring my attempts to learn or read books that were far above my current understanding. On paydays they would shop for the months essentials and a bookstore was always a favored stop. There were books that called to me for still unknown reasons, beyond the adventure novels and paperback westerns that I loved there were books on yoga, Native American culture and mythology, mysticism and magic - and my parents never once said no to my request to buy. They understood something about me even if it was undefined by all of us, supporting my quest to find answers through those certain books that called for me to read them. 

years later, and I realize how blessed and loved I was. 

and even now, with my parents gone, my father just a year ago, their love remains through every book I own, shelves that display this deep abiding love - and with just a moment to browse the titles I am carried back to the heart of childhood, to the adventures offered through their pages, inspiration and information from years ago to right now and the current book I'm reading now. 

indeed, I am bless with love...

and certain books. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Ritual of Coffee

Ritual of coffee: 

it's now that first and only cup of coffee, a ritual of indulgence, and I enjoy the warmth of the cup within my hands, the wisp of steams that seem to carry the deep essence of its flavor, that first bitter sip that begins to wake my mind for early writing. My one cup of coffee is essential to my writing, it belongs central to the desk, equal to keyboard and screen, fuel for my creative fire. That's the power of ritual, it invokes an inner source of creativity and intent, it's spell-work in a sense, magic, and I commit myself to its belief not in any superstitious way, but purely for the sake of its enjoyment, a ritual of coffee, writing, and the silence just before the sunrise. 

it's how I start my day. 

meditation too plays its key role, my first commitment before the ritual of coffee. There's another kind of magic here, a soft repetition of the mantra that leads me to a quiet sense of mind, matching the silence of the morning in a seamless stream of listening. This sets the stage for writing, and really, for the entire day to come, there's a deep interior quiet here, receptive to every subtle note of inspiration, creative at its very core. Meditation is simply the recognition of this source, a ritual of a silent mind, and it's done for it's own sake, not to invoke the creative mind, but only to remind of its constant presence. 

obviously, I love my mornings, the ritual of how I start my day - this is my time of magic, the spell-work words appearing on an empty page, ideas arriving as if from nowhere and how they offering just a hint of the entire morning's writing. It's all magical, and I mean that truly, that I have no sense how any of this comes to be, happening completely through mystery, natural and easy. Magic, is simply what is, reality without the need of explanation, invoked by how we think and live. It's not a force that in any way resides outside of us, it's who we are, what we are, every particle of our existence. For me, writing is always a type of spell-work, involving specific items needed for its charm, bringing each word forth from the mystery of the void and then to fulfillment on a page - that's magic. 

and it all begins,

with a mantra, silence...and the ritual of coffee. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Lazy Writer

Lazy writer: 

I have to admit that I am a dedicated, but somewhat lazy writer, committed to expressing myself and writing daily, yet largely unconcerned with grammatical errors, typos, or even writing for any great length of time. Writing is part of my meditation practice, a continuation of my sitting that's now given to the action of putting words to a page, instead of listening to the mantra it's hearing the subtle inspiration that soon plays after. I do this every morning and have for years, decades, without fail. Yet I make little effort to perfect this as a craft, although I do take my writing very seriously, my only real concern here is a deep expression, a glimpse of soul appearing on the page. 

that's my only purpose.

yes, I think of myself as a lazy writer, committed, but only briefly. I write as long as the listening remains pure, nothing forced, and that it's all inspired, received directly from some greater source. By this I don't mean that it's channeled writing, nor is it always of a quality that reflects something of a higher inspiration. What's meant is that I listen to my own inner calling, a subtle voice that gives words to my heart felt expressions. That's what I write, those words, and it takes a purity of listening that's difficult to sustain, my quiet mornings of deep listening soon dissipate to a noisier world.

it's simply more difficult to hear the voice of soul.

so I write only as long as the early quiet lasts, waking early to lengthen this time, sitting first in meditation and then committed to the listening, with little concern for whatever theme may soon appear - I write what's offered, nothing more, content with even a few words. There's no anguish over silence, and little thought is given to writer's block, or of failure to be inspired. My role is to listen, only listen, and to write when prompted by the soul. With this I can afford to be a lazy writer, I am not responsible for inspiration or for finding just the right word, I write what's given. Or not at all. 

it's not really my decision. 

and either way, I sit, listening to the early quiet of the morning. 

content to be a lazy writer. 

~

Peace, Eric  

Tat Tvam Asi

Tat Tvam Asi: 

there's an emphasis on kindness now, just an easy display of care towards conditions of the world, towards others and myself as well. It all seems rather seamless, being unable to separate this deep love that has appeared, that it's really meant to be shared, given without bias. This is expressed in the Sanskrit term of Tat Tvam Asi, seeing that there truly are no others, we're all an extension of a single godhood appearing in collection as individual selves, yet at no point are we ever removed the whole. 

and seeing this...I can only offer kindness.

this isn't philosophical, it's not an abstract concept that's realized as a theory, it's far too practical for that, as kindness is our very foundation, our basic means of being. We live in a universe of cooperation, planets arranged just so, the sun being the perfect distance to provide our proper warmth, plants basking in its light and giving oxygen in return. Our world is a gift, and more so, our bodies operate in this fashion as well, particles forming atoms, countless molecules bonded as a cell, the infinite world is constantly giving of itself for our form and function. There are no real parts here, it's all a seamless display of cooperation and kindness, an inexpressible wholeness seen in the beauty of creation. 

tat tvam asi...yes, being exactly what we are.

and it's all that really is.

only this.

and it all comes down to kindness.

~

Peace, Eric 

Qualities to a Morning's Silence

Qualities to a morning's silence: 

will the right words come to me? Any words at all? There are some mornings that seem to cause me wonder this, leading me consider if this will be day when writing just doesn't happen, inspiration having failed to make its presence known. There are qualities to a morning's silence, a certain air that hints of what's to come my way as far as words are concerned. Sometimes I wake with a first breath of inspiration, ideas already present and urging me quickly to my desk, words fairly leaping from my fingers and I can barely contain them through slowness of my typing. 

while there are other mornings....

and silence has a deeper hold, ideas are less forthcoming, there is nothing urgent to be told. This is quite common morning for me, perhaps most really. I am asked to wait, the quality of the morning is of patience, contemplative, and words seem to find their way to the page singularly, or several at a time, clusters of small creativity being expressed in their own time and order. 

I've come to learn the qualities of a morning's silence quite well.

it's a rare morning that leaves me wondering if words will come at all - a heavier quality here, weighted by an air of presence, and I am urged to join the silence, to simply sit and allow the day to emerge wordless, full of the same grace and wonder but without the need to write of them right now. The quality of the morning is of experience, to allow myself to breath the air of this silence as it is at this one precious moment, and no word is ever apt to describe this, no reason to even try. 

it's enough to just experience.

there are qualities to a morning's silence - and everyone of one of them is valuable, cherished for exactly and only what it offers in its moment. I am called to listen to the silence, to experience and breath the air of each quality as it comes to me, nothing more than this, and any written word is found to be a bonus, a gift. I know this, deeply so, even as I ask if words will ever find me...

~

Peace, Eric 

Meant to Be

Meant to be: 

it's been well over twelve years since I've changed my diet, a few weeks of easing into the inevitable idea that I was meant to be a vegan. I think the previous decade and a half of having a committed meditation practice probably helped steered me in this direction, perhaps it softened and expanded my heart to the point of near breaking if it felt that I would continue to contribute to the cruelty of animals any longer. I know that since I began meditating many previous habits that no longer served me were simply left behind, no fuss or hand wringing, they just weren't important any more and I easily walked away. This included an equally committed drinking practice of over a decade and a half as well. 

as if I were meant to be sober.

causation is not always readily determined by mere observation, and so for me to say that I was meant to be vegan, sober, or any of the infinite things that I've become is decidedly difficult to prove. Most especially to make the claim that meditation is the catalyst for all the good that's happened. It's a murky idea scientifically. 

and yet....

my life changed through the practice of meditation. 

everything. 

as if I were meant to be more caring, compassionate, concerned for the well-being of others. It doesn't feel so much that I followed some divine plan that led me here, really no plan or direction at all, more spontaneous than that, shifting, as if my life were swayed by an unseen breeze of subtle inspiration, ideas left within its wake that urge me ever on. It seems that I was meant to be exactly who I am right now and the proof is everything that's ever happened through a lifetime of cause and response and it's continuous effect. That's how life happens, it's never static, always, always motion, fluid, seamless - and we are continuously in some process of becoming of becoming...something...if only briefly through the course of time. 

as if we're meant to be...

infinite by design.

meditation is simply part of this, an inevitable idea, spontaneously happening now.

~

Peace, Eric 

Loneliest Hour

Loneliest hour: 

 preferring the silence of the morning, early on, and it seems there's so little movement of the world - there's about an hour here, perhaps a little more, a stretch between waking and my last written word, a holy time for me, cherished. This is the loneliest hour, only mystics are awake, shamans, writers, and it's chosen for just that reason, having a sense of being truly alone and able to listen as the world stirs itself alive. The feeling of loneliness is undervalued, not often explored as we're afraid to spend any length of time without conversation, confronted by our own internal silence that comes to be known. I am alone at this hour, but not in anyway deserted, not forsaken of any company at all, in this loneliest hour there is the deep conviction of there only being a singularity of existence - I am alone with all the world. 

in this loneliest hour...

I am alone with you. 

and that's why this is truly the holiest of time, sacred hours, an aloneness that holds everything together in a certain way. Right now I can listen to a silence that seems near absolute, my thoughts are sparse, few enough to pass with such slight notice and concern. There is a greater conversation going on now, the entire universe speaking through every particle of my existence, calling to me as a forgotten constellation, lost, and my body responds, each cell stirs with ancient memories, that once I truly belonged to the stars, having cosmic origins, and that I am still at home here, even as dust to my original glory. 

yes, this stirs my loneliness, awakening memories so deeply hidden that only my cells remember now, the essence of my body yearning to rejoin its original self amongst the stars. Yet it also reminds me of the depth of this aloneness, that there is one thing only, being alone because there is really nothing other than the completeness of this existence, just this...

and in this loneliest of hours,

I remember. 

~

Peace, Eric 

A True Joy

A true joy: 

for me, and this happened after several years of practice, meditation became a true joy when I no longed used the mantra as a weapon to wield against the presence of every thought that came to me, believing that only a quiet mind was spiritual and holy. Of course I wasn't taught to use the mantra this way, the method I learned, and now teach, offers the notion that thoughts are a completely natural function of the mind, not to be discouraged, and only transcended in the sense that they are recognized in their passing, insubstantial really, existing without the actuality of a thinker. 

thoughts arise, pass, and it's silence that remains. 

or I should that it's silence that's noticed, finally, that it was only by surrendering the mantra to its proper use, not clinging to its presence, but listening to it now, allowing, and it was with this that meditation became a true joy - silence, thoughts, every sound and even disturbance are a seamless flow of listening, all belonging to a single field of being, and at a certain point just a bare distinction made. The mantra isn't a weapon, it's only another thought, more subtle though, finer in vibration. Meditation became a true joy when I dropped the need for silence and simply allowed its presence to be known. This isn't about striving to reach a certain point of conscious understanding, there are no levels here, only the unfolding of the mind to its truest, purest essence. 

quiet by its nature. 

for some reason I had the belief that concentration was the key, that the mantra was exclusive in its presence and no other thoughts were allowed. There was little joy with this practice, I was guarded, poised to react to the appearance of every thought. The opposite, really, to how I was taught. But it developed as a habit and meditation was less a joy and more of a struggle. It was only by revisiting the roots of my practice, reviewing the actual method and original teaching that I began to let loose and find an ease with the mantra, actually listening to it, allowing its vibration to sink me deeper within my own natural silence, always there, available, but missed by the very obviousness of its presence.

the true joy of meditation is within the ease of its practice.

allowing.

listening. 

so there are thoughts, and at first they seem a distraction, noise, and we yearn for peace of mind. The mantra is introduced gently, easily, with innocence, we simply listen and allow it to be repeated when it next comes to mind. There's no rhythm, no cadence, nor need to force its presence. Other thoughts arise, yet we are more at ease now, there's no wish to interfere with their passage, they belong as easily as the mantra, simply an occurrence, nothing more. And we think the mantra, thoughts happen, mantra once more...and somewhere...without notice...silence...thoughts...mantra...silence...somehow deeper...mantra, faint, a bare impression, more subtle...

silence.

thoughts still happen, and we'll get caught up in their appearance, but it's just a process now, the true joy of listening, allowing, and yes, even thinking - it all belongs. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Ritual of Purpose

Ritual of purpose: 

there's a ritual to my mornings, most days, and although I'm not compulsive on it being exact, I do enjoy the regularity of it's purpose, how it prepares me for day and most importantly of all, sets the tone for my early morning writing. Everything belongs just so to my mornings, a long practice of waking hours before dawn when it's still a silent world, meditation is always immediate, being my first priority as it extends me to this silence, my inner world as quiet as the morning. This is my true place of writing, not my office, nor desk, but the silent mental landscape that allows words to flow so easily to me. For me to write - meditation is essential. It's the most important aspect of my ritual of purpose. 

of course I have cats to feed, and my teeth to brush, morning chores that are essential too - these are handled in the moments that follow meditation and are usually performed with a certain quiet joy. Through years of meditation it feels as if I've reached a point of service, not that I'm mindful of my every action, it's more devotional than that, I am doing what's necessary for upcoming day, performing these small jobs with great care, with deep appreciation for all that needs to be done - indeed it's all an act of love and service. 

all part of my ritual of purpose.

and here's my favorite part, my single cup of coffee for the day, cherished from water boiled to its pour in a yellow mug I've held forever. Other cups will do, again this is about rituals, and the key to this is flexibility of the moment, to make do with what's available and at hand. But this is my preferred cup, stained from decades of fueling the purpose of my writing, holding memories as well as coffee (never tea, as there's a separate cup for that nightly ritual too) and with this my agenda is set, I'm ready to write, or perhaps more apt to say - I've made myself available for words to come, having performed the ritual of purpose, I'm here, open, listening...

and this morning, 

it's these very words that have arrived.

~

Peace, Eric 

Books

Books: 

every morning I see her, or just about I believe, she's an older woman and I would be hesitant to guess her exact age, but well past retirement it would seem. I see her while I'm out on my morning run or walk, down by the pond, and she almost always has a book in her hand, reading at bench, or carry it on her walk home. I always try and imagine what type of book it might be, loving the thought that it must be so engaging that she carries it with her wherever she goes, catching odd moments of reading time as she's able. My own mother, long past the point where Alzheimer's stole her reading mind, still carried a book from habit, as if her hands still knew the feel for reading, remembering a lifelong love of reading and teaching and the mere touch of a familiar book would help ease her fractured mind. 

we've never talked, the older woman and I, although I do sometimes offer her a smile which she sometimes shyly returns.  It's not that my running takes priority of friendliness and conversation, I often stop to talk to neighbors, a brief hello, or a moment to say hi and pet their dog. My priorities always include a friendly dog. But it's different with this woman, there's a bridge of conversation that won't be crossed and I have gently tried on some occasions. She's never been mean, no real rebuff, just remote and uninterested in any interaction aside from our occasional smile. 

and that's enough for both of us it seems. 

I like to think that we have books in common, maybe not certain ones, or a similar genre, but a deep love for the ones that strike us, our imagination captured by their magic flow of language, stories, and curios information. Perhaps a shared love of nature as well, ducks in particular, as I sometimes see her watching them intently, no, more mindfully really, a wordless conversation with friends whom she clearly cherishes. Of course much of this could be my imagination, she could be far away in thought and the ducks barely register in her mind, maybe, but not surprisingly I prefer my version, it deepens the quality of our own wordless conversation. 

we share of love of books and nature, ducks in particular. 

and sometimes we exchange a rare smile. 

some morning, someday, and there's no telling when exactly, she won't be there, and it might not even register for a time, my mind lost in it's own activity of running or walking and not noticing something so familiar is now gone. It happens that way, sometimes, hitting after several days of the subconscious mind finding something missing, a long established routine slightly altered, just enough that at first it escapes our notice. I don't know why it happens this way, a trick of the mind maybe, or a means of dealing with the loss of something long established as routine. It's always sad to remember that it's been a length of days since you've last seen a certain person, even one that's not part of an inner circle of friends or daily conversation. My relationship with her, in our own way, is just as deep as it with family members and close friends, we've exchanged certain ideas about each other, sharing thoughts behind our brief and slight smiles as we're passing. In someway's it might be even deeper, that it's not based upon anything but our brief daily exchange, a small acknowledgement of care and curiosity about the other's existence, an appreciation that we're both familiar to each other, a long established routine in the briefness of a smile. 

and even as I vow to be more mindful of her presence, to note the exact day that she's no longer here, a fixture of my morning run, of my life really, it might not happen that way. Sadly, day's might slip by before it's noticed that she's gone. I hope not, my vow should be strong, but the pull of daily life is so often stronger, attention goes to the details of my own concerns, my mind wandering as I run, appreciating my surroundings, nature, ducks, and maybe thinking of a certain book I'm reading. It might be then that I suddenly remember, that it's been quiet some days since I last saw my long time friend. It happens that way, sometimes, but I hope it will be different. Today, I'm pretty sure I'll see her, and my smile will be soul deep in appreciation of her presence. I will think of every book she's ever carried to read here, sitting by the pond, glancing up to wordless greet the ducks that paddle by. My smile will say that I love you, even if I don't know you're story, or anything about you really - but we have a love of books in common, and ducks too, and years if exchanging a small, brief smile between us. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Just Writing

Just writing: 

not waiting for a theme's arrival, this morning I write simply for the flow of words alone, unconcerned with having a greater meaning, or any meaning at all really. I'm just writing, it's a practice similar to meditation and it follows soon after my earliest sitting, still well before the sun's appearance, fresh coffee at hand, and it's a ritual that fulfills a promise that I made to myself at least two decades ago, to write everyday no matter mood or inspiration. 

just writing.

this is important to me, it's the action itself that has value and not so much any meaning to the words. Honestly, what's written always feels completely out of my control, a mystery from arrival to completion, every word a gift from inspiration and my only role is to be open and receptive. The more I write the easy this is, again being similar to meditation and the two are a seamless practice to my mornings. Meditation readies me for a deeper listening to the so often subtle voice of inspiration, tunes me in to just the right vibration for this listening to occur. 

it's that easy, waking in the hours before dawn, still dark, quiet, sitting for an unmeasured length of time, and my mantra plays soft until completely gone, far too subtle now to be heard...only silence, my own, and it matches the soft stillness of the early hours. That's my preparation for writing, a foundation laid for words to gently land upon, lingering only long enough to be heard and written down. And it simply doesn't matter if a theme arrives, or if I'm inspired to write anything at all. 

words appears, 

always.

and I find myself just writing. 

~

Peace, Eric 

How Things Are

How things are: 

everything I write has a basis in non-duality, no exception really, but this isn't from any philosophical stance, nor based on any heart felt conviction of a belief - it's simply how things are, my writing being a seamless expression of infinite points and proportions all meeting on the page. Nothing has to be done to express this, it's not a means of mindfulness, no meditation needed to reach a certain state of mind. For me writing is a non-dual activity of ideas arriving, an urge to sit and give voice to inspiration, the preparation of warm coffee and my desk arranged just so, important rituals performed, and all of this being quite spontaneous even though it happens every morning. It's always a surprise to see words upon a page, how those infinite forces worked to come to this particular theme for me to write of. 

it's a mystery.

and it's simply how things are. 

but what I know is how integral each point is to this mystery, not one thing can be removed and have my writing be the same. More truly, nothing here exists entirely on its on, being as Indra's Net and its infinite reflection, each word written is connected to the larger theme of an endless inspiration. Non-duality isn't so much a topic for me to write of, it's expressed through every aspect of my morning, from making coffee to sitting at my desk and the first touch of keyboards beneath my fingers - the universe has arranged me here, perfectly so, urging me to surrender to the writing process and be surprised by the mystery of how words seamlessly appear. 

it's simply how things are. 

and none of this is of my own doing, I am not the ultimate arranger of the forces that brought me the desk this morning. I am an integral point within this process, much needed for this theme to be complete, and my gift is that I get to claim to be a writer, author of these particular words. Non-duality, for me, is really just creativity itself, the only vital force that drives the entirety of the universe, and I am a function of its expression, an apparent participant of this endless inspiration - a reflection of a jewel from Indra's Net given brief appearance. It's all creativity, reflections of reflections and all from original source of that one and precious jewel. My writing is part of this and I have no idea why, my making coffee is also part of this too, as is my early meditation, the sounds of distance traffic, and every every commuter on their way to work this morning, all reflections. 

everything. 

it's simply how things are. 

~

Peace, Eric 

A Single Truth

A single truth: 

at some point science and spirituality merge to a single truth, or perhaps simply become irrelevant in their perspective meaning and labels, with both telling a similar story through the use of different language. Of course each camp might argue otherwise, as they seem to do quite frequently, but that's only on the surface level, clinging to sacred beliefs from both sides, and refusing to let go of long held views that hold them to their popular opinion. By this I don't mean to imply that science refuses to expand in how it sees the world, that would indeed be ridiculous, as science has always been the leading edge of new ways of seeing life and the structure of the universe, much more so than spirituality, which remains stuck in limited views repeated so often and with conviction. 

at some point, science and spirituality merge to a single truth of awe.

and that's the single truth of mystery, of life happening in the immediacy of our presence, stories and labels no longer applied to the pureness of the moment. We're simply alive, aware, and grateful that it's so. We're in awe of who and what we are, and the lens through which we previously viewed the world doesn't seem to tell a proper story now, not any story at all really, everything just is, pure, innocent, immediate. Science and spirituality remain in the previous world of stories, there's something new to explore, and we are somehow participants here as well as observers, mystics and shamans, scientist of our own inner journey - explorers of a single truth.

 ~

Peace, Eric 

Of Magic

Of Magic: 

sometimes I write of magic, subtle forces beyond my understanding, and this is often taken as a belief in otherworldly affairs, fantasy, or a delusional way of thinking. I don't argue my point, there is no sense for me to debate my writing, it's inspired by my own early morning listening, secrets that the hours well before dawn holds and whispers to me if I'm patient, quiet...willing to suspend belief and simply listen to the morning. 

there's magic to these hours.

often, writing of magic, there comes a demand of proof, and yet there's nothing for me to provide - this is my own enchantment, for myself alone and only meant to share by words and inspiration. It's the mystery of receiving words from absolutely nowhere, sudden, ideas arriving already formed and ready for expression. My proof is my writing itself, joyful hours of silence intermixed with words, the very last hours of dark parting to the light of dawn and that it all arrives with such ease, nature in its own magical course. 

holy hours indeed. 

yes, I believe in angels, devas, elementals, nature spirits, things that exist beyond our common understanding. Perhaps they belong only to my imagination and I'm quite alright with that, as these are my hours, magical, and only meant to be shared by occasional writing. Everyone should find their own magic, to allow themselves to be enchanted by these holy hours, captivated by nature as it exists between the two worlds of night and day, a seamless moment just before dawn that lingers in a magical way. 

sometimes I write of magic, and always in the hours of its occurrence, early, no one else awake yet, no doubt to the experience of its presence. It's not meant to be shared with others, or at least it seems that way to me, and even my words are only given for their expression, not offered in proof, nor with any explanation. I have no interest in defending my view, debating issues that I fully admit might be of my own imagination. I write only for the sake of inspiration, little choice but to share what greatly moves me, inviting any reader to awaken early and explore their own magic found between two worlds. 

there is magic to these hours...

~

Peace, Eric 

My Proper Seat

My proper seat: 

the first step is to find my proper seat, this is essential to writing, and it's not so much about comfort as it is of my availability - how I sit each morning marks my readiness to receive words, to listen, and how attentive I am to the subtle hints of early inspiration. It is easier after meditation, I am settled in mind and spirit, eager to commitment myself to writing, and more intuitive to my sense of body, knowing how it all ties together and that my proper seat is integral to how the words will flow. 

more truly, it's an asana, a yoga posture completely of my own making, filled with intent, yet comfortable, loose, leaving me ready for the morning's writing session. It's not formal, and it's different everyday, almost as if I'm tuning in to the proper angle and position for the words to find me. That's the secret, trusting my body's natural intelligence, allowing it the freedom to settle on it's own without interference from any thoughts of comfort or placement, trusting that it's all cared for by the deeper wisdom of the body. Where I sit is always, immediately the proper seat for writing. 

my body knows exactly where to sit for words to find me.

of course this may sound trivial, or a writer's superstition, and perhaps it is - but again, there is an intent here, an alignment of forces that are beyond the normal means of writing. I am marking myself as worthy to receive the grace of inspiration, it's a signal to the subtle voices of the morning that I am ready and will listen to its most quiet whisper, to hear certain notes that are only played through silent tones. 

my proper seat tunes to the right vibrations, and that's why meditation is essential to it's finding. I am called to just the right position, a matched frequency, and this place is completely my own, exactly where I need to be - it's my home for the duration of my writing. This is where words will find me, and not a single doubt betrays me here, it's holy, perfect even in my occasional shift of restless motion. In spirit, nothing will move me from this location, intent has me locked in to this asana, established, attuned to just this location. Finding my proper seat is a ritual of writing, taking no more than a moment for my body to settle into an easy, natural sitting, filled with intent and mindfulness, receptive...

exactly where I need to be. 

~

Peace, Eric 

A Deeper Silence

A deeper silence still: 

if only for the silence, -and that's reason alone for me to wake so early, with meditation seeming to happen almost on its own, slipping easily into a keen awareness of even my most subtle thoughts, relaxed, listening...a deeper silence still. This is where sounds reach me with a bare notice as to what they are, or where they might originate from, everything arising completely free from my previous label of identification, simply existing, if only for a moment, as a morning note never once heard before. 

a deeper silence still.

this is just sitting, even before my formal practice begins, the morning's own magic drawing me in, urging to me to listen to the quiet hours that it offers. The mantra then comes softly to me, almost unbidden, as if belonging to theses hours too, simply part of this listening, a subtle note within this deeper silence. It's all so perfect, the easiness of morning, how everything awakens on it's own, from first touch of light to earliest birdsong, it's a seamless flow of dawn. 

yes, there's magic here, ancient, found only in the place where things exist between worlds, not quite settled into a realm entirely of its own. It's a magic only for those who listen, rising early to its embrace, comfortable in these places of between. This is where dreams exist, reality never being as expected, hidden worlds being fluid to our awareness. Yet more so, it all seems so complete ordinary as well, having always existed this way and we've simply slept through its notice. 

it's a deeper silence still, found in the earliest of hours, well before first hint of dawn, and it urges me awake each morning, a soft, quiet call to wake and listen, just to listen, nothing more...

and I do. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Our Only Role

Our only role: 

to offer care, that's it really, simple, our only role here is to offer care - and this is how are values are shown, expressed, through every little thing we give our attention, a meaningful act of infinite tenderness and love. Nothing else truly matters here, all else is just distraction, avoidance, trivial in the course of our existence. We are here to offer care to each other, to ourselves and the things we value, it's our only role and the reason our lives have meaning. 

truly.

and by this care I mean attentiveness, that we do things in such a way as to show that our actions express the treasure of our commitment, every act is full of tenderness and grace, perhaps not consciously so, but deeply expressed, naturally, a reflection of why we hold the world in value. By no means is this an inconvenience or contrived in any way. It's an easiness of being, unforced, and it's simply who we are and how we're meant to navigate through life, to appreciate every gift that's offered, the miracle of our attention and that we have the ability to cherish each other, recognizing things of beauty, and devote ourselves to the actions that enhance the world by their performance. 

it can by anything at all, a small act of complete care to it's performance, done in such a way that it escapes the world's notice, almost, but not quite so, for these acts accumulate in great beauty, adding to the tenderness of world in ways beyond our current understanding. It's as if our attentiveness is returned to us through the very actions we perform, that the things we value give us meaning, fulfillment, and this is the true purpose of capacity, to fill the inherent emptiness of our original nature with things of beauty, actions of great care and tenderness, that everything matters through the gift and grace of our attention. 

truly, our only role here...

is to offer this care. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Ultimate Reality

Ultimate reality: 

we are in every sense ultimate reality, nothing is really beyond us, or at least so in our appearance, that we demonstrate a complete transaction of emptiness to form, selflessness to recognition of personality and self - and all the while remaining just the same. The question is always who are we to talk about ultimate reality, to make claims of truly knowing anything for certain, assuming that this mystery is always beyond our understanding. Perhaps that's so, but only by way of articulation and description. Words fail us, even thoughts are inadequate in their grasp for certainty.  

we know...because we are.

again, we are a demonstration of reality, everything about us is mystery displayed as form, and the same is true to every aspect and appearance of the world. We are deep thick in mystery, immersed to the point of nothing more existing, and just because it eludes description doesn't mean it's beyond our understanding. It isn't, not at all, and this so because because there is nothing but reality, ultimate or otherwise, mundane as well as extraordinary and spiritual. 

it's all ultimate reality...

displayed.

so nothing is left out of this, it's all reality, and it's deeply known, experienced, and more so, it's continuously expressed through our every point of being. It's inescapable, constant, and it only seems that portions are newly discovered. What happens is that we gain a greater sense of self-discovery, an ability to describe ourselves broadens in details - we are revealed just a little bit more. Meditation and inquiry are scientific tools of this discovery, as much as any laboratory or telescope. It's all simply part of our expression, science as well as spiritual explorations. 

there is nothing but this...

and it's exactly who we are. 

~

Peace, Eric  

 

Who We Truly Are

Who we truly are: 

perhaps they're more natural, innate, that our values stem from a deep sense of who we truly are, basic and without compromise, and are then so readily expressed to the world. If we were never at all exposed to the opinions or the belief of others through school, religion, or media, our values would still surface to the fore, guide us, and provide a sure foundation. Our beliefs are temporary, changeable, and often easily manipulated by ourselves and others for benefit and profit - and yet it's our values that are betrayed, hurt by our refusal to be guided, and our lives becomes incongruent, almost unacceptable, we no longer recognize who we truly are. 

that's the power of values.

yes, values are more natural, they are inherent through the very fabric of our existence, lasting, and aren't so much taught as they are allowed to surface and be expressed, recognized and nurtured. Again, we express values, principles that exist deep within us, and they are easily shown through unguarded moments, displayed through every act of love and compassion, wisdom, and simple kindness. Values tell others who we truly are. 

they show the entire world who we truly are. 

and that's the difference with beliefs, those are a projection of who we wish to be, often a false show of confidence and power, afraid of any sense of vulnerability. Beliefs tell a story, mostly fiction, and become a thing of their own that we must constantly live up to, always in need of our assurance. But it's our values that have power, being deeply true and without need of constant attention. Values are independent of opinions, remaining always unswayed, and only wait for our return to guidance. Beliefs can be a valuable tool, but they are never really who we truly are. 

values are our natural expression. 

they show the world...

~

Peace, Eric 

Greater Whole

Greater whole: 

I'm not so sure it's really a hard problem, or maybe it is for philosopher and scientist asking the question in such a way that demands a specific answer in their language of understanding. Why is any physical state conscious at all? And is it unique to certain lifeforms alone? That's the hard problem, and of course philosophers and neuroscience hold many explanations, none definite, each holding a piece of an infinite puzzle of our existence. Perhaps like all puzzles when arranged properly, the pieces fit seamlessly within a greater whole, an entire picture emerges from their order. 

so why is some matter conscious? 

my own answer is only intuitive, arriving from deep meditation and self-exploration, as well as reading many varied sources. My own answer is - I really don't know. My thoughts are speculative and wouldn't be appreciated within the communities of science, philosophy, and most religions. I align intuitively with panpsychism, that consciousness is an inherent quality of the universe, a built in feature of existence. It seems clear that with just a few ingredients, only a handful of elements in specific order, consciousness emerges from the stuff of the universe. So it's physical, in a certain way at least. Yet why and how this comes to be possible is indeed perhaps a very hard problem. 

but only for scientist and philosophers. 

for me, I find myself mostly a mystic, content in mystery, sensing first the greater whole and only then finding pieces ready to assemble. It's not really a problem because however it came to be arranged, whatever circumstances brought awareness to this order - it works. I'm aware, conscious that's it so, and the universe itself somehow arranged these pieces to seamlessly for the greater whole. My intuition steers me to creativity, a cosmology of some infinite design, curious of its own wonder. 

awe.

the universe is in awe of itself, expanding through a continuous evolution of surprise, and we are a specific outcome that satisfies its curiosity. Science too often asks questions as if it's outside the scope of the answer itself, removed from the universe, and able to study it as an objective source. It doesn't always seem to work, or at least not in questions of their own creative design. In a greater whole there are no objects to be studied, everything can be broken down just a little further, pieces found to be intimately connected to the space of their surroundings, not a puzzle, but an endless mystery without a single answer.  There is just and only the universe, seamless, creative, and it's here that we belong. Not a piece of this puzzle at all, but the mystery itself...

the greater whole. 

~

Peace, Eric 

With Infinite Things

With infinite things: 

with infinite things to write of - and yet at this moment feeling as if no words will arrive in inspiration, my mind is quiet, settled in silence after meditation, content. So I let words appear as they do, their own pace, whatever meaning they provide, no rush to write things down. This seems also a part of meditation, a silence that continues on, lingering past my sitting, urging me to take my time and simply enjoy these last few moments before dawn, being still so early and well before the world awakes. 

with infinite things to write of...

and just these few words that speak of silence.

what I do is honor my commitment to my time of writing, my only wish being to keep authentic in my approach to words, not striving to reach for any experience that isn't exactly of the moment, inspired, but only in the sense of being completely mine. This morning I spend as much time in silence as I do writing, more so really, as these words come sparingly, only a few arriving and then a pause, returning to a silent mind, abiding here until another word appears, I find it easy to settle into this process, remaining unhurried, and without concern for how this will proceed. 

it's a mystery,

unfolding by single words, arriving as they will.

with infinite things to write of, and this morning it's simple of silence, not really choosing a theme of subject, but allowing words to find me without an agenda of my own. It's a pure inspiration, slow, a drip of words that reach a quiet mind. Right now I feel as if its over, my writing time is through, and these last few words...

returning me to silence. 

~

Peace, Eric 

No Slow Approach

No slow approach: 

it seems that autumn started suddenly this year without summer lingering at all, temperatures dropping sharply, cold and damp for several days in a row, no slow approach to a season's change. Almost immediately it was autumn, yet without the joy of changing leaves, no sense that we've arrived here through the natural order of a season's progress. For me, the early fall is often my last time of carefree ease before a seasonal darkness sinks in, winter is long in my bones and harsh on my emotions, lasting longer than a calendar marks, the season for me is based on the length of day and warmth of sun. Winter is very long indeed. 

yesterday the season broke with true early autumn, warm and bright sun, leaves with just a bare hint of change. My every cell absorbed the sun's presence, soaking in warmth and light as if I could store it through the entire length of fall and winter. A beautiful day, one much needed and never to be taken for granted. I was deeply appreciative for the sun's presence, for the warmth it offered, and the light framing a brilliant blue sky with just a few clouds passing in its vast expanse. This was a day for me to treasure, simply being a moment completely of its own presence, timeless, offering itself without any sure definition of a season and I took it for exactly what it was - a gift. 

there really is no slow approach to a season, everything is always immediate, changing even as we bask in the appreciation of its time and presence. What we have is just this moment, whatever it offers, and there's always the possibility of a winter's touch or a sunlit instant of warmth. It's all a gift, every point within these changing seasons, and to feel anything at all is to be alive, recognizing the immediacy of the present moment without resistance to it's offer. That's the gift, simply being present, aware, alive. 

with no slow approach to reach this moment...

I embrace only what's offered. 

thankful for its gift. 

that I am...present, aware, alive. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Headless Ecology

Headless ecology: 

it's the most subtle view of ecology, dealing with life in relation to specific surroundings, systems, and yet really it's a seamless transition, the diversity of one thing seen in full display. This is the interdependence of all things, seeing that the study of one ecological system is no less than having to view the world in its connection, wetlands being dependent on the conditions of oceans, deserts a fragile system affected by distant mountains, and in a sense everything being a shoreline to an ocean's concern. Nothing is found separate, never truly apart from an any other aspect of the world. Really, it's a headless ecology, meaning that it's all viewed as a single system, seamless, no section of the world having an inherent value of its own - one thing, diverse, yet remaining always, one thing alone,

a headless ecology, truly. 

this brings us to the view of Douglas Harding and his original claim of being headless, a position he explored through the experiment of self-inquiry, pointing from any object, noting its specific qualities, and then retracing the line of sight directly back to the source which holds the view. It's there for us all to see, an experiment to be performed and not simply believed, or worse, dismissed as a silly trick without merit to its claim. And what's seen is no less than our emptiness, having never glimpsed the qualities that we've long believed defined us - the only evidence of our appearance is relied on by mirror, photos, or the description told by others. In our own view - we're headless, an ecology of infinite systems, the capacity to hold an entire universe within the seamlessness of our true nature.

and that's the great secret of emptiness, it's reality, that everything stems from this point of origin, not being a void at all, but an endless capacity for life to continuously emerge. The universe is the fulfillment of emptiness, taking the potentiality of existence and giving it full display. It's what we are, emptiness in the vibration of form, an expression of its fulfillment. Through this view, indeed it's a headless ecology, everything being truly the continuation of a great intimacy, one thing...

seamless in display. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Most subtle point of listening: 

to the most subtle point of listening, with the mantra grown faint, softly repeated though an almost infinite field of silence - and it's just the listening now, my only true presence found, perhaps being the most subtlest point of all. 

until even this is gone. 

meditation is my disappearance, it's where I drop off as any sort of personal entity, seamless, and I simply exist as the presence I've been all along, capacity, openness, where life occurs through what seems an allowing space of clear awareness. But I don't find this impersonal at all, I'm not in anyway removed from the activity of the world, there's an intimacy here of pure participation, that at this most subtle point of listening I belong to every sound that's heard, necessary even, as vibrations become the actuality of a birdsong, insects in last note before dawn, mantra playing through my mind...

at the most subtlest point of listening,

I am.

until even this is gone. 

of course this is just description. my own words given in a lyrical sense, not meant to be taken in any sort of literal way - although it's exactly how things are, at least it is for me at that most subtle point of listening, with the mantra so faint now, all but disappeared, breath softer too, barely a trace of presence...

and then even this is gone.

~

Peace, Eric 

Belonging To The Earth

Belonging to the earth: 

belonging to the earth, and at no point are we ever removed from this, our bodies made of elements of this deep participation, only differing in arrangement of ingredients, we are the same stuff and structure as every other aspect of the world. 

we belong to the earth. 

here, this is more than our home, it's actually what we are, and we feel this intuitively, knowing ourselves as grassland and forest, mountains and stream beds, seawater coursing through our veins. We bring something more too, unique to us alone, and yet granted by these materials as well - somehow, we are the earth in self-reflection, conscious, and able to know that this is so. This knowing doesn't remove us from our belonging to the earth, but only deepens our connection, having a responsibility of care in how we carry out our lives, we are earth, consciousness of an entire planet. 

and at point removed from this. 

in quiet moments we know this, feel it through the bones of our connection, that we are kin to trees and plants, intimately so, sharing in the role of breath and air, an exchange of vital elements of need. We are family to every creature, from single celled to the largest animals that roam this world, they are part of this collected consciousness, adding a quality to the earth's reflection. This is how we come to know ourselves, through this diversity, not seeing ourselves as other, but essential to the whole, one consciousness knowing itself through the view of multiplicity, all belonging to the earth.

and through this view...nothing is excluded. 

and that's the point, if we belong, if we are truly part of this deep participation, than everything must belong as well, not a single aspect of earth being denied this inclusion. We are not really stewards of the world, our responsibility goes much further than that, deeper, we are the earth, and our concern is of self-care, knowing that there is no degree of separation from our skin to earth's soil, from blood to tidal flow of oceans, and that we share just one soul alone...

belonging to the earth. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Some Mornings

Some mornings: 

there are some mornings when ideas aren't readily available, the desire to write is still strong, but words seem to elude me, inspiration's not so easily found. It's not often, usually themes abound, my mind is eager with ideas  and it's just a matter of allowing the words to flow. But there are a few morning's when this  isn't quite so, writing is more of a concern, and right now I find myself amidst this struggle.

until the moment I let go of this concern, surrendering thoughts of any struggle.

here's my standard practice, writing about writing, about whatever struggle is happening now, and to just put words on a page, filling the screen or pad of paper with whatever words that come to mind, and greeting the emptiness for its potential and not as a challenge to be fulfilled. Some mornings I write with a more subtle inspiration, no grand theme or original ideas, but I find myself writing more for the practice, for the sake of more deeply listening to the undercurrents of my mind, to feel the keyboards still dance beneath my fingers even if their motion is slowed in a more thoughtful manner. 

writing is my practice, an art pursued regardless of an outcome, it's a prayer really, a sacred form of communication without need of any answers in reply. I'm happy writing even nonsense, something completely without meaning to anyone but me, and I will still share it as an artful expression of what that particular moment held when it was written. Some mornings are like this, I write without purpose, content in the experience itself, happy to wait in the silence before a single word is given, listening to the world unfold in the earliness of the day, coffee warming my hands, relaxed and at ease with whatever happens now. There might not be words, some morning this may happen, and I will sit with their absence, drinking my coffee, listening....

~

Peace, Eric 

Small Devastation's

we are all marked by some form of loss, each of us - and from the moment we come into the world, perhaps even well before, it's continuous, small devastation's that life offers through its course, and it seems we become somewhat immune to their notice, scarred and hardened from such an early age. It's the largeness of a loss that brings this back to focus, how fragile life is and temporariness of all we cherish and hold dear. Yet nothing prepares for a loved ones absence, always being taken too soon when our moments together are counted through the measure of love. 

I miss my father.

but also, I think of those small devastation's, losses accumulated through life, and my father had a long one, 94 years old, and so close to making it to 95, so close, yet it was his time to let go, and as always he did so with grace and final lessons to teach me. Every moment of life is a letting go of some sort, some of those small devastation's, others with a more immediate and lasting effect on our lives. Through his last few months my father lost his ability to walk unaided, his sense of independence, and so many little things that are easily taken for granted, just simple joys of motion and activities once performed with ease. His last days were filled with continuous loss, small devastation's and he never once complained, not did he suffer in absolute silence of his loss. We talked about it all, made plans for what might next happen, and worked with what was still available and present. 

he lived until his very last moment. 

of course we all do in a way, yet with my father's death every small loss was noticed, there was a length to our mourning with everything in such sharp contrast to just the previous day. There is great beauty in this mourning, of knowing loss as well as the immediacy of what we still have now. No, it's not easy, no small devastation ever is - yet we gain so much from their notice, a deep appreciation of how life still offers itself so fully even at the time of loss. This was shown to me by my mother as well, her years of slow decline through Alzheimer's, a continuous loss of her memories of a lifetime, and at once too their was an open wonder to what was available to her now, a trust in her immediate world and that she would be cared for, loved, each loss balanced by what life still offered. 

sometimes that doesn't seem enough, we want more of what we've always had, to suffer just a little less and regain a sense of ease and comfort. I make no claim that letting go is easy, not always, all I can really say is that they happen and are built through the very fabric of life. There's no escape from these small devastation's and no avoidance of the larger ones, their presence make a complete life, whole, and we are blessed with innate ability to mourn what's lost, to grieve with deep sorrow, and yet at once too we have the capacity to love and carry on, embracing life even as we suffer from the hard steps if its journey. I've had a long year of mourning, and it continues, other issues have come to surface, more small devastation's make themselves known. 

it's just what life offers.

and through it all...there's the immediacy of it's beauty, my ability to grieve what's gone, and the capacity to love all that's present now. 

I thank my parents for this lesson. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Just A Few Words

Just a few words:  

tomorrow marks a year since my dad passed away, and I'm not sure that I have the right words to note this occasion, or any words really, perhaps the gloom of weather suits my thoughts and mood best and I should simply pass the day in silence. But of course I'll try and write something, even just a few words, it's what I do after all, an attempt to share what deeply moves me. 

it's been a profound loss, of course, at no age are we ever immune from the hurt of losing a parent, and these past two years have been a time of grief for so many, loved ones taken by a pandemic that swept through the elderly and those weakened from previous conditions. I think we all share a deep grief right now, expressed through different ways, some more outgoing in their re-embrace of life, and other still at a loss as to how to now proceed as if these are normal times. 

I think that's why it's important for me to write even just a few words, or at least attempting to, marking the occasion in the same manner as did for my father's care, writing of my struggle, how unprepared I was then to let go as both caregiver and a son - how unprepared I am now to proceed as if these are normal times. Yes, I've adjusted, life continues on and in many ways I've managed to used this time to be of service to others, offering my words, as well as devoting myself to teaching meditation, a tool that was vital to me during this time of grief and sadness.

and really, that's it, I've been sad.

 depression has always been an edge to my daily experience, often felt sharply, but mostly just a looming presence, a shadow that waits to greet me in certain, unguarded and unexpected moments of my life. Through the years I've learned to recognize its presence, befriend it...almost...or at least not to automatically and mindlessly push it aside whenever it approaches. This years been hard though, harder, as every moment is now unguarded, I'm broke open, vulnerable...lost. 

a long year...

so even just a few words, and here they are, written, shared, and I'm not sure of their worth, if anything really needed to be said. But it's what I do, an attempt to express and share what deeply moves me. Grief, sadness, dealing with the shadow of depression, it's all a momentary approach, I am mindful to what's present, no attempt to manipulate myself to feel anything other than what the moment holds. One year out from the death of my father, as fresh as yesterday, and right now, this moment holds his loss. But also...his presence as well, and that's what makes the difference, that I'm never quite alone as I so often feel. My grief is our connection, and when it passes, there is the joy of all he's given me. It's all present now, grief and joy, sadness, and a deep love that holds me through it. Everything is here, everything belongs, and I make no attempt for things to be other than they are. 

life continues...

and these are just a few words that deeply move me.

shared. 

~

Peace, Eric