Almost a fairy tale

“What took you so long?” She asked.
He looked at her with the eyes saying that he had no clue what she was talking about.
She stared back at him without blinking. Then, she lowered her gaze and said.
“I know. You always take time.”
When she looked up him again, he was already the past. She mumbled to herself. See? What happens when you take too much time. 

When I stop thinking about choosing the better, there is no worse choice in life…

one door closes, other doors open

letting go practice this week… as I look back, the whole thing happened to me in this life is uncanny… I don’t know how I get here, this specific place in my life.

As I’ve started to swim on my side of the ocean since this March, I feel some power lifting me up from the bottom. There is a force behind me, like the wave when I surf… a little fear rises up… but don’t give up riding… just let it happen, happen for me in the way it is meant to happen… splash my feet in water… waiting…

A River

River looked at me, asked
What is your sorrow?
I looked at river, asked back
What is yours?

Breeze tousled my hair, said
Never mind, darling, never mind.
Blue birds jumped up to the sky, yelled
Don’t ask tears why it is sad.

River whispered my ears,
Do not stay here, woman, go far, far away.
Water mumbled a few more words
Sounds washed away indistinctive gurgles.

I looked at river, asked again.
What is your story of never-ending tears?
River swayed its head and gestured me to come closer,
Hawk shrieked dashing up to the midday sun.

When I leaned my body towards to listen,
Tall willow on the river bank shook its long head, exclaimed
Don’t go close to sorrow, woman, go far, far away.
But I already dipped my heart in the stream.

Wind blew hard, swept my feet up from the ground.
I landed on somewhere far, far away.
Everything was quiet and still, nothing flowing, nothing moving,
Only water in my mind flew with sorrow, and I became a river, there.

 

<April 24th, 2018>

 

Don’t go back to sleep

“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.”

– Rumi –

When the words ring with a heavy weight in your heart and tears rise up, you know what you have to do… the door is open, don’t go back to sleep.

April, April

“April is your month.”

She just saw a crow flying backwards. The wind is strong. The sky is clear, she dropped the mails and the pieces rolled ten yards away instantly. She had to run to retrieve them.

Opening her right palm to catch the spring rays while she is driving. Her left hand on the wheel, her right fingers greedily wide to hold more sunshine in her grasp. She knows. No avail. She can’t catch them. But this feels good. A ball of brightness rolling inside of her hand.

Wind is anxious today. Because nobody notices it unless it frantically moves around to shake things. “I’m here! I’m here!” shouting only through the things it shakes. The miserable being, the sad destiny. If it doesn’t move, it loses its existence in our sight. Somewhat like us in our modern time.

A small stream around her dog walking path gurgles again. It swallowed all melted snow and must be very happy. She feels its exhileration. Flowing and singing. It just needs some audience for its song and dance.

April had been the worst month for her, since her older brother unknown to her died in that month. She expected the dread even before the month started. Pain and sorrow under the shadow of the full life rejuvenation. However, this year is different. Her mind shifted over the years and she decided to claim this April under her own terms. She won’t accept the skeletons that her society, her culture, and her past have built for her. She won’t howl like the wind demanding the recognition of its pain and sorrow, the validation of existence. She will be gentle, or sometimes fierce, in creating the art, the art of living, now and here. She will be the creator and the creation of her only life, the harvester of sunshine of the moments. Her gathered hands over her heart… cherishing… cherishing the presence, the present, the light, and the warmth.

Convalescence

Convalescence… it’s sweet time when life comes back. The things around me exude a vibrancy that I’ve never recognized before. Senses become alive. As an infant finds the smell of the world, my nose seeks the new wonder of scents, eyes for sights, and the fingers stretch out to touch.
The citrus fruit water my mouth with their tangy freshness, the texture of bread hugs my tongue with its soft warmth, the air surges into my skull when I step out of the door. Wonder whispers at every moment. Anything with a beating heart comes with new meaning to me just by their existence.
Another chance of discovering life. I say my gratitude to the unknown, the unknown force beyond my ability and understanding, the force behind the sprouting vigor after a violent sickness or a long illness.

The cyclamen flower on my desk blooms throughout the year. The pink petals take turns in the blooming process. None of the petals is the same. The presence of the one now includes the withered, the one which once existed. One after another, they made the blooming of my room for the whole winter… for the year… opening the delicate wings purposefully, contributing the wholeness of blooming, even after they are long gone, their lives exist in blossom, now and ever.
This thought consoles me when my brain reaches the time when convalescence would not be possible for me. “Would you look for my presence in the place I’ve been when I’m gone?”

Stars

I don’t know the names… but I love them. Every one of them.
When I look up, I become the center of all. Everything expands from me to the world.

Darkness, which makes light be seen.
Darkness, which makes light be worthy.

Stars are there always. But it is night that makes them lit.
And when they lit, I’m lost in the universe, lost in crystalline beauty…. for a moment, in eternity.