Phone Home with E.T.

You can't change the world,

but you can change yourself.

This man is brilliant.

Meditate with me:

bushels

via texasbasket

. . . and Jesus said, lest you be dead

don't hide your light under

bushels.

That bushel, friend, is the skin

you're in:

the woven textured artifice

often

mistaken

for who we are meant to be.

The light, dear friend, grows dim each time 

you deny its luminosity.

It guides yourself

to your

Self,

It is the christ within.

As long as you resign your Self to pine

away in the vehicle given

for living and doing on

the earth,

you are destined to

die,

and live and

die,

and live and 

die

again and again.

via artnet

the work of Artist Shoichiro Matsuoka, found at createyourcosmos

Meditate.

Dive in.

Have no fear,

when you let your light shine,

the body, too, 

will follow,

magnificently

Also with gratitude to createyourcosmos - a fabulous blog! and the artists Daniel Franke and Cedric Kiefer 

Rainbows in the Trash

And as the sweet cicadas call,

in this, only early July,

I wonder if the world will

ever be the same again.

The bees have burrowed in the soil,

and herbs have gone to seed;

will August bring an early fall?

Will autumn quickly recede?

Then I found these rainbows in the trash

and captured them for you.

Do not despair, it's only hiding

the earth, we know, will renew--

It's just waiting for you

too,

to renew.

Respect Yourself, by the Staples Singers

Heard this on the radio this morning,

and I can't get it out of my head.

It's worth a listen,

or two:

Or Three.

Some Thoughts on a Morning Walk

Now that I've lived in my body

for hundreds of years,

                                         now

that I know the cycle of my personalities,

                               now

that I know the journey from my spine to foot,

and traverse it regularly,

relieved by regularities,

and pestered by the places of pain and imperfection,

Now that I know

unequivocally that

No

One

Wins,

                            and no one loses,

and

that you, on your morning jog,

and I, walking my head to clarity,

that we, working repetitively

just to be here now,

well,

now

what is there to do but be grateful 

that the earth too works repetitively

to make our nows

Eden, if we let them be.

photos by me.

Some Thoughts on Waking: 13 February 2012

i.

Running Bodies:

( from Assembling Bodies )

On the radio today

in a story of Bahrain

the announcer described a man

trapped in his own doorway.

Sourceless gunshots held him there,

"and outside there was only

running bodies,"

the disembodied voice explained.

Running bodies - as if they were already dead,

running running running,

until the bullets relieved them

of their worry.

In frozen Hungary, old money is being burnt

to warm chilled children

and snow snow snow snow

pales deeper 

the pallor 

of Old Europe.

I have wondered of late

about

the popularity of zombies,

but now I know for sure

that we live in a time

of living death,

and deep in our being,

we know it.

Running bodies -- that's us --

but what are we running from?

We're running from other zombies

who think they can gain power

in the world of zombies

by killing the living dead.

Might I propose that we run to a state of not

running, not dying, but rather, living --

the world will not be a zombie world

if we see that each day it brings to us

new life.

( from brooklinrunclub )

part 2:

dice roll

( from kickstarter )

Each morning's awakening brings

 a toss of the dice

and as it rolls into place

on its face

is an aspect of me --

today, my perceptivity,

yesterday, my insecurities,

tomorrow, my confidences,

and the next day, my deepest talents --

whatever the face, it dominates my play

for the day,

and if I believe the tossing hand is not mine, I am blind

to the consequences I produce for myself.

( from: stopbeatingaroundthebush )

No bother.

This morning as I lay in wait

for my fate,

I recognized the wrist and the fist

of the gambler --

it was not yours, my friend,

nor was it an unseen shape --

indeed

it was me, and the dice

bore no mystery;

each face was

and is 

a known quantity 

to me.

With the proper gesture

it will fall in my favor.

So too with you.

There is no mystery;

chance is in your favor

if you know the roll

is yours.

( poohbearcoloringpages )

Skin Words

( raisingredheads )

Your skin

              is an organ,

the biggest of all;

it just happens to be

in open air.

But it's not like a fabric,

not a curtain,

not a veil; it's 

organic and it tells

you the tale of your innards.

( scienceroll )

These skin words so often

go so utterly unheard,

despite the clear warnings

of demise,

or simply the signs

that our skin

is changing,

aging,

or adapting to the changes

around us.

(biology-nature)

So why must we

why do we

do things like this:

( plasticsurgery )

rather than listen to this organ's song --

it's a swan song

about life

about love

about care

about food

about earth

about air 

( healblog )

about heart

about soul 

about generation

and re-generation.

( huffingtonpost )

There is no sin

in the skin

you're in.

Imagine what it would be like

if we did some of the same damage to

our heart

our colon 

our liver

our gall bladder

our stomach

that we do to our skin?

Just imagine.

( concreteloop )

Play all your organs with care

                             and love

                             my love,

and you will live peaceably

until eternity

and you

come to meet.

(instrumentsforkids)

Peaceful Christmas Wishes To The World, from Makropoulos

Whether you believe the story or not,

the sentiment of it is important:

Peace on Earth,

Good Will To All --

on this Christmas,

during this tumultuous time,

may we all find the Jesus within us all.

As I've said so many times before,

if only we could all do that,

Jesus would come

again, 

or truly,

for the first time.

On Purity & Perversity

"'t'will out! 't'will out!" (Othello  V:ii)

*

There is a point where the pure

meets the perverse,

and that is the place

                   of secrecy --

The place of hushed whispers

and slapped hands,

the place of shame

                                      and private penance.

The insiduous shadow of sin

creeps in

when childhood curiosity

meets adult greed, revenge

and guilt.

Come here,

little boy or gilr,

come here.

I know you just discovered

the feelings in that part of you

that no one ever talks

about.

You can talk about it --

             you can show it

                                        to me.

and I'll show you

            what I have, too --

just as someone

once had me do,

              I'll do

                   unto you.

But keep it quiet.

No one will know.

We live in a world,

                                          after all

where we all are led to believe

that only what we see

is true.

There is a point

where the pure

meets the perverse,

and that is the place

                         of secrecy.

* *

( pennstatecentral )

I woke up this morning to this story on the radio:

(click on radio for story - thanks to
NPR Morning Edition)

The recent revelations that a university football coach could abuse a child have yielded more admissions of childhood abuse then the pedophile priests ever did.  More and more men (and women) are coming forward with stories of how they, too, were abused -- by coaches, troop leaders, neighbors, uncles, friends.  Why does this incident spur this wave of admissions when pedophilic priests did not?

NPR claims that having this vice discovered in a college football locker room brings it into a more familiar realm and treads into the domain of what I would call secular manhood -- a sacred domain all its own.  In the USA in particular, the altar of the Sunday Football Game is visited far more regularly than the corner parish, and the communion of beer and chips shared with more reverence and passion than a thin tasteless wafer claiming to be the body of One Who Died For Our Sins.  Instead, the average American male opts to view the carnage of their favorite sport, again and again, sanctified and revitalized by those who live through it, week to week.

The Penn State story tears a hole into the ritual of manhood and carnage we call American Football, and this NPR story seems to suggest that, thanks to this, during those commercial breaks, more men, women, boys and girls are finding words for secrets they've hidden far too long.  In some cases, these secrets may have festered and produced self doubt and castigation, and ultimately created more victimizers, and more victims.  Seeing not only the perpetrator but also other coaches and a university president pay the price for this indiscretion helps the victim see that they were indeed a victim, and that society will sympathize with them.  There is something terrifically refreshing about this, because once a victim can identify his own victimhood, and realize that those who victimized them were indeed wrong, then that individual can take positive steps down the path of healing.

Meanwhile, as the NPR story says, there was little to no retribution in the church.  Pedophile priests were "outed" and for a day or two, they were the talk of the town, but then they were shuffled back behind the sacred veil of secrecy and silence.  Some returned to active congregations.  Some may have been defrocked, but no charges were filed.  Most recently, the Vatican initiated liturgical reforms that some argue reinstate language that takes steps back towards obscuring what is happening in the mass.  Language itself can be a barrier to hide behind: cryptic language makes true understanding and personal interpretation less possible for the average church goer, and restores the power of translation and interpretation to the priests, thus diverting attention away from those nasty little stories about priests and altar boys and replacing it with a reverence for the priest's specialized access to sacred knowledge.

~ ~

( christmasideas )

Meanwhile, a wounding contradiction festers.

At the core of Christianity is the fetishization of innocence
and purity :  the return of the child who can save
the world.  The story
that is so adored
and repeated because it is adored
looks to the Innocent - to a Child - for redemption.

Honestly,
the Christmas story is a beautiful vision,
for only in our children can we find
our better selves.

So why must we maintain this secret place where, even as the innocent is adored,
it can be defiled?  If the great men of football can man up enough to punish those who hurt our children
then why can't the Church?
So much healing could begin, if the cycle of abuse
in that oldest of abusive institutions in the world could be broken.  Both abusers and abused (many of whom may be one in the same person) would benefit from a public confession and atonement.


Notably,
with every new story of abuse that we learn of,
the finger points back to the abuses that have yet to be punished.
The truth will out, for
the secret is tired of being kept --
Every secret ultimately longs
to be told, and

purity is demanding its time again

the love that exceeds, reprise

Sometimes

I think about something I wrote 

a month,

a year

a hundred years

ago, 

and I think:

somethings just don't change;

that's still what I think

and feel 

today.

The following is an entry I wrote

16 October 2010 --

and it is an important one for me.

I wanted to revisit it today.

Thanks for revisiting it with me.

(Sounio, south of Athens, Greece

photo by Makropoulos)

When we love

      with a love

                 that exceeds

our expectations of love,

we ignite a fire

in our being

that unites with

the infinite, 

and

the penetrating

incapacitating

                     power of the All

is engendered there.

(also at Sounio,

photo by Makropoulos)

Incapacitating

                it is

because it erases

our

mortal individuality

and implicates us

in a nameless

immortality.

(The human

and all that it imagines 

and comprehends,

even of love,

has boundaries -----

the temporal frame

of earth 

and life and death

and the portrait of

                  our living

that that frame embraces---

is our lives

is our lives.

(pebbles through water 

off a beach

in Kythnos, Greece

photo by Makropoulos)

That frame,

the only portal

at our disposal

that gives us acccess

to the beyond

is the subtle,             

delicate

heart

                             so inextricably wedded

to mind

and the melody

                           plucked on the strings

      that bind

them

is the song of our love

seducing us to love

beyond our limits.

When we love

      with a love

                 that exceeds

our expectations of love,

we ignite a fire

in our being

that unites with

the infinite,

the penetrating

incapacitating

                     power of the All

is engendered there.

The Gniggling Gnat

1. 

There is a gnat in my brain.

It's a gniggling gnat

                         that

plays on the borders of language --

it lays its eggs

there on the threshold between the

                        good and bad, between

                             woman and man, between

                            black and white, between

friend and enemy.

( clemson.edu )

2.

Sometimes, in the gniggling gnat's gnaggling gnoogling

they produce eggs

there,

                                                                 on the wrong side of the right, and

the offspring tries to convince me that

what is wrong is actually right,

what is bad is actually good,

what is white, is actually black,

what is love, is actually hate,

what is female, is actually male . . . 

It tries to turn me against

Me and destroy

all the positive accomplishments

I've gained.

And then I would like to squash it.

~~

But the irony is:

if I squash

my gniggling gnat,

I'll destroy myself

3.

My gniggling gnat

keeps me on task; 

keeps me alert; and it

and I love and hate

all the same, because

it lives there

on the borders of language,

at the place where

love and hate meet, and it

reminds me that both

are one

and capable of living in harmony.

~ ~ 

The gniggling gnat is like the rod in the piston,

like the water in the wheel, like

the combustion in the engine,

like the wind in my hair.

. . . . and I'll go to my 

grave

defending

the spirit I have inside me,

this gniggling spirt,

that gnaggling spirit,

that spirit so capable

of love.

( Lovebugs - Wikipedia )

Fairy Dust

 ( wallpaperhere )

To see

the shining glitter

of dust on light

         and light on dust

as it dances

         in early sunlight,

To hear

the scolding caw

of morning crows,

and taste

the fresh mid-August

         air.

To be 

unaware

of worldly things,

and absolutely

aware

of earthly life.

Childlike,

silent, am I,

so content with being.

I have no other answers.

( apod.nasa.gov )

The Object and The Form

( jetsetta.com )

Old friends come bearing  mem'ries of me

                        in overnight bags,

old friends who one time managed to see

                                     the riches through the rags

                                       and visa versa.

And I, too, saw the wealth in them,

and together we found

             a way to bend--

              a way to friend.

( overstock.com )

Some saw what they sought to see,

and some saw true.

I pray, friend, when I looked at you,

I just saw you.

Now I too, look,

and you, too, look

for the person left behind:

the one etched in memory

of the friendship of 

much earlier times ---

we seek

the one unspoiled,

unscathed by hurt

and others' selfish whims;

we seek to see our better selves

when we meet each other

somewhere down the road.

( funzug )

~ ~ ~

At this, my very advanced age,

I do not want to be

so lost in examination; I

do not want to need

to say 

I

out of uncertainty.

But I do,

and I say it with you.

I thank you, friends, for restoring me,

                a broken entity,

scattered over time and space:

                                             

some bits are beautiful,

some are not;

some are hesitant

some are hot;

some are gentle,

and some burn--

but all is I

and me,

and you.

We live and love together;

we make humanity

together.

( trentonhistory )

Travel gently, friend,

on your journey home.

More Chain Letter Hopefulness

( artlies )

It appears that

the second most popular post on this blog

is called 

"The Hopefulness of the Chain Letter."

I wrote it about a particular chain letter,

well, really it was a chain e-mail,

that I received about a year ago.

That chain e-mail was called

"My Room of Eight."

(I note that a couple female bloggers have written about that same message now.

For instance, Boston Margy 

and

struckbylightening

Well, wouldn't you know it?

I got the same chain e-mail again. 

What goes around comes around, eh?

Anyway, it has been abbreviated.  I like this new version.  It goes like this:

My Table of 8 
> I am supposed to pick 8 women who have touched my life
> and whom I think might participate. Please send this back to me.
> Remember to just read the quotation. That's all you have to do. There
> is nothing attached. Just send this to eight women and let me know what
> happens on the fourth day. Sorry you have to forward the message, but
> try not to break this, please.
> 
> 
> Quote: 
> "May today there be peace within. May you trust that
> you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the
> infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.
> May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that
> has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way
> you are. Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul
> the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and
> every one of us."
> 
> 
> Now, send this to 8 women or more within the next 5

> minutes. And remember to send this back. I count as 1. You'll see why.

~ ~ ~

If you read my earlier post,

you'll see why I think it's really cool

that this little message is still

in circulation.

( constable )

So I again chose my room of eight.

I chose them from the women I know closely,

and the women who I would like to have know

that I write this blog.

You see, not many people know

who writes this blog.

And that's just fine.

And I included a link to my earlier entry,

and asked them to read it,

and send it on.

This is the message I sent to them:

"This is kind of goofy.  About a year ago, I got a chain letter just like the
 one below.  And now I'm getting it again.  After receiving the first, I wrote
 something about it.  I'm attaching a link to what I wrote.  Yes, I wrote it
 under another name.

http://makropulos.blogspot.com/2010/06/hopefulness-of-chain-letter.html


Yes, you can ignore this message, and quite frankly, I don't care if you do.
 Or you can read it and send it on.  Include my link, if you want to.  And
 know, please, that you are in my room of eight."









Pass it on.
Pass it on.