Life is a mystery. So is chemistry. We want what we can't have, what's often diametrically opposed to us. Tension is good but we want peace, we have it all within but figuring it out isn't the point. Walk the razor's edge, the tight rope and see...
If you have everything minus one, you really have nothing.
It only takes one
To make everything truly whole.
But we're still seeking that everything -1
One glance,
One step,
One clap, clap, clap
One wish
One love
Is all it takes
It only takes one
To make everything truly whole.
But we're still seeking that everything -1
One glance,
One step,
One clap, clap, clap
One wish
One love
Is all it takes
Someone to have complete faith in
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....
This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...
We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.
When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need.
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....
This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...
We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.
When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need.
It was a long week with a long, intense Sunday capping off the action. No rest for the... thinking, doing, loving. I want to turn my brain off but it's still making lists in different places (like my dad and his collection of post it notes strewn about his desk) of projects to be tackled, visions to be colored in and sketched out, dreams to be shaken, not stirred.
I have two unfinished posts, one about Paris which I was working on before the attacks. Now it seems uncouth and... well, deflated. I feel deflated. But I refuse to give in. Yet.
Tonight, though, I honed in on a little notion. The power of allowing. Allowing things to be as they are. Approaching work with this in heart and hand, remembering the magic of doing without claiming, of allowing without directing, controlling, commenting.
And exhale ::::::::::
Wishing you a peaceful week of productivity through loving allowance. No judgement needed, no wrestling with reality. Just being.
Love,
A
I have two unfinished posts, one about Paris which I was working on before the attacks. Now it seems uncouth and... well, deflated. I feel deflated. But I refuse to give in. Yet.
Tonight, though, I honed in on a little notion. The power of allowing. Allowing things to be as they are. Approaching work with this in heart and hand, remembering the magic of doing without claiming, of allowing without directing, controlling, commenting.
And exhale ::::::::::
Wishing you a peaceful week of productivity through loving allowance. No judgement needed, no wrestling with reality. Just being.
Love,
A
An unfinished life stared us in the face
Back of a glittering cafe
Record player crackled over the plates
I'm in the booth awaiting my fate
Where I sat so many years ago
Waiting on a ghost to show
That I wasn't in it all alone
Dig me out of my soul
The sadness, missing life at home
Those friends let go
A new life I wasn't quite ready for
Two jumps up and out
End of week I'm laying flat on my back and the tears
Running faster than I can
Put the keep up down
Let the rest crowd around
Meteors, dates with fame and family in danger
I'm hiding from the worst in my dreams
Chased out of my comfort zone I can barely breathe
Don't you know those tidal waves won't quit me
Back of a glittering cafe
Record player crackled over the plates
I'm in the booth awaiting my fate
Where I sat so many years ago
Waiting on a ghost to show
That I wasn't in it all alone
Dig me out of my soul
The sadness, missing life at home
Those friends let go
A new life I wasn't quite ready for
Two jumps up and out
End of week I'm laying flat on my back and the tears
Running faster than I can
Put the keep up down
Let the rest crowd around
Meteors, dates with fame and family in danger
I'm hiding from the worst in my dreams
Chased out of my comfort zone I can barely breathe
Don't you know those tidal waves won't quit me
My dear,
Please don't let me forget about you in the midst of all these material negotiations. Day in and day out, they pull at me; in all directions my mind is called to attend, to engage, to show strength and courage.
Did you know that you are my courage, you are my strength, my inspiration? You didn't ask for it, as far as I know, but then again, I know so little...
My mind is a tricky piece of work, always seeking to maintain a wondrous image at the front lines of shifting truths, setting stars, changing leaves. It is a wonder, isn't it?
My dear, without your presence, my life becomes rather mundane. The thoughts again become enamoured with the shiny flashes, the subtle jockeying for some unreal position and, I'm embarasssd to say, that Love which once electrified my every intention seems to disappear. How easily we forget, when we forget each being is... Can be... My dear.
I must admit I've wondered if you're indeed even necessary, I've wondered: why don't I just find it on my own, remember the spark and work from there? But then I try and... something's missing. I come back time and again, to the ashes of what once was, and my heart begins to flutter from beneath the rubble, remembering that it's all about relationship. Of course it is.
But oh, how I've been conditioned! out of relationship and into selfishness. Always adjusting for my own wellbeing... It's quite a bore after a while, isn't it? Changing outfits like a rabid animal changes character.
So that is why I humbly beg, don't let me forget about you as I wander like a madwoman through this material world. Be the eyes in the back of my head, looking out for you, for me, for the love of God.
So I write this with the hopes of reconciliation, in as many ways as there are days. With the hopes of rememberance.
For the good of all that is good.
Yours truly,
Alexandra
|
When you hear something special
A play on words that tumbles off the tongue
When you find the group and place
That leaves FOMO in the dust
Quick!
Hold it, hug em, not hard to
Feed it
You'll stay
And it will stay with you
|
did you know
the capacity for love
in your heart, a hollow drum,
can stretch on and on
one ocean into another
filling endless beats
the guacamole of love
is always free
this video, these people, this culture, these names, this sound
"The chorus alludes to the famous prayer of historic saint, Queen Kunti, who prayed that her attraction be ever drawn to the Lord, as a river forever flows to the sea."
"The chorus alludes to the famous prayer of historic saint, Queen Kunti, who prayed that her attraction be ever drawn to the Lord, as a river forever flows to the sea."
"Like a River is the title track from the debut album of Jahnavi Harrison, 'Like a River to the Sea', released on July 24th 2015.
The track features a refrain from the Govinda Damodara Stotram by medieval saint-poet, Srila Bilvamangala Thakur and is a meditation on protecting sacred environments internally and externally.
The film features the landscape and people that live alongside the holy Yamuna River. After years of constant protest and petitioning, as of March 2015, the Indian Government has promised to make drastic changes to divert industrial waste and sewage, and restore the purity of the water."
wanting all things
all lives
to experience the happiness you experience for your self (especially when you're a cookie-jarrin selfish scrub),
what a selfless sweetness
embracing each soul you pass with eyes of ears of listening of receiving
all parts witnessed by the third high eye, third eye high
how you gonna recover from your original sin
one nation of bodies rising from
the double edged swords of our words
when not aligned with love
a double-edged cup of pouring to receive
which side's best?
oh give they say but how can I give what I don't get
get?
get?
it's not for getting,
why do you always want to get?
yes YOU?
and you and you and you and every karmically bound fool
and
yes
me, too, oh me too
IT,
it's for having
awakening
to the reality
that you are loved
no holes to fill
and the ones that are left lost
empty in the dross
well those my friend,
you don't have to want
all lives
to experience the happiness you experience for your self (especially when you're a cookie-jarrin selfish scrub),
what a selfless sweetness
embracing each soul you pass with eyes of ears of listening of receiving
all parts witnessed by the third high eye, third eye high
how you gonna recover from your original sin
one nation of bodies rising from
the double edged swords of our words
when not aligned with love
a double-edged cup of pouring to receive
which side's best?
oh give they say but how can I give what I don't get
get?
get?
it's not for getting,
why do you always want to get?
yes YOU?
and you and you and you and every karmically bound fool
and
yes
me, too, oh me too
IT,
it's for having
awakening
to the reality
that you are loved
no holes to fill
and the ones that are left lost
empty in the dross
well those my friend,
you don't have to want
|
After some time, time between reflection and expression, back to reflection, your realizations may seem sophomoric. A little sheepish, you shrink into the shadows to quietly contemplate in private.
Or if, by the grace of deep seeking, you've been put in touch with sources that satisfy, you come into periods of consumption, contemplation, testing... Less apt to extend out and share, spell out, pledge allegiance, you simmer in the practice of what was initially simply declaration.
I've always sought to share in the spirit of timelessness, or if not, at least in jest; which is a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card.
And the brevity of poetry (and dang twitter brain) satisfies the desire for expression with a lightness of open-ended meaning. You don't have to invest...
But what does that do,
to push progress?
Eh.
I'm stirring the pot, hoping to pull out some things worth sharing again.
It's been a bit too long...
Or if, by the grace of deep seeking, you've been put in touch with sources that satisfy, you come into periods of consumption, contemplation, testing... Less apt to extend out and share, spell out, pledge allegiance, you simmer in the practice of what was initially simply declaration.
I've always sought to share in the spirit of timelessness, or if not, at least in jest; which is a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card.
And the brevity of poetry (and dang twitter brain) satisfies the desire for expression with a lightness of open-ended meaning. You don't have to invest...
But what does that do,
to push progress?
Eh.
I'm stirring the pot, hoping to pull out some things worth sharing again.
It's been a bit too long...
Can't wait for him to blow up and make more cool shi::::::
New old soul, where You be,
can You bring me up the mountain, flow Me down a river
release my whole being from this body, deliver?
while still on Earth, still turned on by breath
O but will You imagine with Me the possibilities
beyond our telescopic lens?
Birth the words of time immemorial by Your speech;
That it's not just all about you and me
Tell me the real real good stories;
Subconscious shared memories
Can You take it to the place before this mask
Open as I found my Self at the lowest?
But unalone
and rising
The substance behind the noise, playing to the melody in perfect timing
Can you dig it?
Can you take Her hand?
and dance, dance, dance
run, let Her heart lead the way
Lead you back home to You
at the end of these days
can You bring me up the mountain, flow Me down a river
release my whole being from this body, deliver?
while still on Earth, still turned on by breath
O but will You imagine with Me the possibilities
beyond our telescopic lens?
Birth the words of time immemorial by Your speech;
That it's not just all about you and me
Tell me the real real good stories;
Subconscious shared memories
Can You take it to the place before this mask
Open as I found my Self at the lowest?
But unalone
and rising
The substance behind the noise, playing to the melody in perfect timing
Can you dig it?
Can you take Her hand?
and dance, dance, dance
run, let Her heart lead the way
Lead you back home to You
at the end of these days
ALove Supreme
|
HAMLET: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak profanely), that neither having th' accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.
This doesn't just exist within the corporate realm, although that environment creates the perfect hermetic seal needed to divorce consciousness from truth, the heart from essential nature, from love, from the present. This can happen to anyone: artists, mothers, models, athletes, politicians, doctors. It can and does happen when we as humans, with all the best of intentions, are driven by the fruit of our labor, by the appearance and eventual (momentary) possession of ideals; ideals painted by the mind instead of heard by the heart. This can happen when we place material at the center of our lives, and place ourselves at the center of the world, seeking to serve the rabid and undying hunger of the scared dog, the defensive dog, the dog all about survival. There is another choice. Feed the dog within that gives, feed the dog that loves, the one that seeks to understand instead of control, the one that seeks to serve instead of being served.
The central tenant of wisdom traditions is the antidote. It is this: do your work, but, give the fruits to Me. Work not with the intent for self-satisfaction, but with the understanding that when we work to give and love, our minds can live in ease and truly taste the joy at the heart of life.
Wake up from this nightmare:
The central tenant of wisdom traditions is the antidote. It is this: do your work, but, give the fruits to Me. Work not with the intent for self-satisfaction, but with the understanding that when we work to give and love, our minds can live in ease and truly taste the joy at the heart of life.
Wake up from this nightmare:
First of all, I want to say something I didn't precisely voice this video: God is Love. That is all. Enjoy!
*also, some of my examples are really...basic. anyway, you get the jist!
This is the album that will deliver it:
