Prune my shrub, my self, I am so overgrown. Give the dying and withered to my roots for new nourishment alone.
Keep my treasured blooms, a natural bouquet for you.
Pour water to my soil, my soul. In time, I’ll bud, I know; These cuts will heal or bare new stems where, afresh, a rose may grow.
No sound will peal until you speak the truth.
No sight will appear until you look for light.
No touch will meet until you hold your own.
No taste will feed until your soul is sated.
No smell will scent until your spirit breathes free.
You and yours,
I am an animal.
I learn the tricks and trades,
But quickly revert to habitual instinct,
to my wants I go, astray.
I am a human being.
I learn the tricks and trades,
But I recognize the truth and
I can make a change.
The habits and instincts
I convert to honest ways.
I use my will to guide my beast.
I will. I do. I pray.
Not be sorry for what you know you do.
But that means…
Doing what you know you won’t be sorry for.
And learning to…
Be sorry for what you didn’t know you did.
It’s the only way.
I find myself again at Woody Gap – the overlook at which I have spent many a night alone, and many a night in the company of people whom I love. I am unsure why I chose this place, of all, to come and write, and I am likewise unsure of what I came to write about.
I search for something. I feel a longing in my heart that, no matter how I try, I cannot feed. I desire, but also need, something that I cannot even fathom.
I know that it is intangible by name, but can be felt as real as any material thing. Perhaps it is love.
I do so crave a romance, but not like I yearn for this nameless thing. This conceded idea whose identity escapes me, is ever out of my reach, if only slightly. Perhaps it is my purpose.
I pave the way to my future, laying bricks, cementing stone. I enjoy the work and the free-flowing form with which I engrave this path. I look ahead, enough to keep from tripping, and look behind to admire and learn. Perhaps it is the present.
This moment that I am in, and each moment as it comes, then goes, is ever escaping me. Perhaps what I long for, is a moment that lasts. No, not forever, but I pray, dear moment, just linger… a moment longer than the last.
Horses require what yoga does: control.
There must exist a perfect balance between force and ease, calm and storm.
With horses, the rider shares his energy with his mount. If the rider is angry or anxious, the horse will embody these feelings. It may spook or act out, turning butterflies to pterodactyl dragons and arena exercises into rodeo shows. If the rider is happy and calm, the horse will embody these feelings. It may brave dark pond waters or overcome next level jumps.
On the mat, the yogi must moderate his energy within and outside of himself. If he is angry or anxious, his session will turn out accordingly. He may fall or give up, unable or unwilling to continue to hold a pose or complete a movement. If the yogi is happy and calm, his session will turn out accordingly. His body may tremble, but he may pass through the rhythms and cycles of his sitting.
What you exude going in is what may exude coming out.
To attain and maintain happiness, we must learn to care, just enough, about everything.
Many people see crazy in her blue eyes. I see the heights of the sky and the depths of the ocean: an unimaginable expanse of freedom that no man could ever contain.
There hung a chill in the air; it felt cold, tasted sweet. Nuggets of the earth warmed as the Sun rounded and ignited our side of the valley. They called. Like bells and whistles, the crawlers greeted day. Like feather’ds do, they sang. Ceramic on my lips, and a brown bean on my tongue, and under-toning vanilla.
A deep breath. A full Stretch. A smile.