Either (1) No one knows our origin, or (2)
no one knows who knows our origin, or (3)
people know people who know our origin and I'm not one of them.
Even so, perhaps the mystery of our origin has a solution that
is in plain view.
Where Are We Going?
We are like electrons laughing and dancing in a wire. We never
go far along the wire, but the magic we conjure up in the process,
in the here and the now, may also closely resemble our destination.
Electricity abounds in laughing and loving. Are we going, then,
to where we are?
What Is Doubt?
Doubt is the snake
squirming inside us
when we feel superior
to teachings we little
understand that are
merely poorly taught.
(or tries to)
a chronic indolence
within those who scorn
the sacred as being decay
and who shun advancement
as being delay.
What Is Faith?
Faith is an enthusiastic arrow shot toward the open sky in hopes
of hitting some target. Faith climbs and yearns. Faith is strong
enough, some say, to move mountains. But when faith and ego intermix,
there can be a mighty hollowness, a thundering emptiness. Purest
faith quietly and simply serves the community.
Education is the process of insisting upon your essence ever more
gently. A seed's essence shoots a stalk up through dirt and manure--and
matures. You are the seed and stalk. The school system is the
dirt. The curriculum is the manure, because of which and in spite
of which you blossom.
The eyes are the windows of the soul, and the mouth's expression
is the window of the heart. Children know a fake smile because
it fails to match the eyes. They use the voice as a reliable stethoscope.
Gestures, too, are a wind-vane revealing the direction of the
soul's breath. Eyes, mouth, voice, gestures: these instruments
of discovery, plus time, reveal all hiding.
Order unperceived is called a mess. A mountain range is then a
mess of piled rock, trees, and snow. A rain forest is a mess of
flora and fauna. An artist's home may be a mess of paint, canvases,
and brushes. Who sees messes? The one who judges. And who judges?
The one who is blind to order under disorder.
Seek, and you shall find another thing to seek, until you find
a grave. Can you drop your seeking? If you can, your seeking may
in turn release you. You may then find yourself to be anchored
rather than self-yanked by a leash along some self-serving path.
You may safely drop all, for nothing truly needful can fall away.
A light load, no seeking, no path--will roses then fail to bloom?
Isms organize great thinking into neat mausoleums, each ism occupying
its cataloged row and column, sealed off from change and living.
Visit a mausoleum, and you may discover that any original ideas
you hear are coming from your own soul, which is not dead, nor
will it ever be. Never box me up or seal me up with an ism. Being
always alive, I may need to whoop or sing. Let me breathe the
breeze until I am the breeze.
Everywhere we go, we are in the exact middle of all thought, all
doing. Others whom we think of as far away are also in that middle.
We are billions of middles, all apparently separate yet somehow
all concentric--all sharing one middle. Eccentricities continually
appear and prevent stagnation, but they, too, share the middle.
Seen from a dynamic middle, all may be well.
A religious costume is more likely to cloak impurity than to reveal
purity. Purity is more a dancing than an achievement, and it dances
through every heart in unique rhythm. Purity washes the soul with
tears whenever there is a breakthrough. We have seen purity manifest
in strong men, in hard women, in awful children. We have known
purity by the generous act, the comforting smile, the glistening
To listen deeply is to give deeply. Words decorate the rise and
fall of more than our voice. Words are the throbs of our heart
of hearts. Take bread and wine as you wish, but honor the communion
of the moment--at school, at work, and in the family circle. Hear
the hearing of others as well as their speaking. Meet in receptivity.
If we observe and honor the unfamiliar feelings that haunt and
hurt us, these feelings will be found the growing ground into
which we have already been planted. Following the unfamiliar through
the tangled thickets of the familiar may lead to a blooming. Yes,
there may be awful aching, fear, and upheavals--but one day comes
the sweet grace of the blooming.
At the end of a day, is there one less day in your life or one
more day in your life? Is your life a stack of days, like a deck
of cards? Or is it a stream in which waking and dreaming ripple
on a surface above unfathomed depths? "Are we digital or
analog?" we might ask. "Particles or waves?" The
particle folks bottle the water and sell it, while the wave folks
flow in it toward the sea. Lungs and longings whisper "waves"
to my own ears.
When All Goes Well
When all is going well, going badly is not far away. When all
seems lost, well-being hovers nearby like the breath of an angel.
Exulting will be humbled; despairing will be consoled. Lucky is
the one who has no waves like these to ride--or is he?
Spirit and World
While the Spirit fills our souls with endless hints and nuances,
the World carries the World home to the World in little shopping
bags. Spirit or World--which is ruling? They may appear to alternate
in supremacy, but if you have ever felt the intensity of being
worldly, you may agree that Spirit has no rival at all except
for lesser Spirit.
I ask Above for guidance, and I remain who I am. Was there guidance?
I ask who I am, and I remain who I am. I ask why I am here, and
here I am, asking. I ask where my ancestors have gone, and silence
reveals only their memories and legends. Answers fail. But now
a neighborhood child rings the doorbell and asks to talk. We two
answer for each other.