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Constancy

“The problem with the word patience is that it implies we are waiting for something to get better, we are waiting for something good that will come. A more accurate word for this quality is constancy, a capacity to be with what is true moment after moment.“ Zen master Suzuki Roshi
Recent posts

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. -Wendell Berry 

Ocean Home

“We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected on the deep.” William James

Do Trees Exist?

  A tree. Is there such a thing? In Genesis, God got busy naming things, well not directly, but the big G got the ball rolling with that famous opening line, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” And shit started happening. The whole Heaven/Earth thing linked by that mischievous word, “ and ”, simultaneously joined and separated the whole shebang in a single breath. Things got complicated after that. God passed the buck to man, giving “him” authority to name things with the caveat that, “Whatever [he] called every living creature, that was its name” (Genesis 2:19). Arguably things have been going downhill ever since. The naming of a thing prioritizes our conceptual rhetoric over an experiential encounter. It’s not conscious, it's just how our conditioned brains work. For there to be an up there has to be a down . For there to be a right there must be a wrong . A tree naturally presupposes a “ not tree ”. The naming itself provides a cognitive framework for sepa

True Love

THE TRUELOVE by David Whyte There is a faith in loving fiercely the one who is rightfully yours, especially if you have waited years and especially if part of you never believed you could deserve this loved and beckoning hand held out to you this way. I am thinking of faith now and the testaments of loneliness and what we feel we are worthy of in this world. Years ago in the Hebrides, I remember an old man who walked every morning on the grey stones to the shore of baying seals, who would press his hat to his chest in the blustering salt wind and say his prayer to the turbulent Jesus hidden in the water, and I think of the story of the storm and everyone waking and seeing the distant yet familiar figure far across the water calling to them and how we are all preparing for that abrupt waking, and that calling, and that moment we have to say yes, except it will not come so grandly so Biblically but more subtly and intimately in the face of the one you know you have to love so that when w

Lonely

I've been feeling the weight of loneliness a lot lately and doing my best to befriend it rather than resist or harden or numb. How? Good question. I've tried many things but the thing that is working best is to focus my gaze on this moment and this one and this, knowing I have all I need to meet this ever changing instant. Here's what I mean: Today was hot. I went to the gym and after my workout I stepped out of the air-conditioned rooms and into an eighty degree day. It took my breath away. I stood still, transfixed by an overwhelming sensation of warm air caressing cool skin. I closed my eyes to inhale the last days of summer like an embrace so sweet and complete it left no room for lonely. Of course the feeling didn't last forever. Feelings never do. But it did last long enough for me to feel held. And that was enough. I know many of you are also feeling the shadow of loneliness after a pandemic year, a social shut down, a continual influx of fractious ne

Cinnamon Peelers Wife By Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler  I would ride your bed  And leave the yellow bark dust  On your pillow.  Your breasts and shoulders would reek  You could never walk through markets  without the profession of my fingers  floating over you. The blind would  stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe  under rain gutters, monsoon.  Here on the upper thigh  at this smooth pasture  neighbour to you hair  or the crease  that cuts your back. This ankle.  You will be known among strangers  as the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at you  before marriage  never touch you  --your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.  I buried my hands  in saffron, disguised them  over smoking tar,  helped the honey gatherers...  When we swam once  I touched you in the water  and our bodies remained free,  you could hold me and be blind of smell.  you climbed the bank and said  this is how you touch other women  the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.  And yo