now: finding no fault

I can see to the tip of my nose, if I am ever committed to the present. I can count the freckles and frown lines on my skin if I willingly and selectively forgo unnecessary trips to the past or future and stay put in the now. To toast the tea I taste is best in light of the experience at hand, not a memory of it yesterday. No one is as beautiful then as they are now because are we not introduced to the revolutionary moment of their new birth, right now, right here? We often create identity in the inept idols of insufficiency. I am my pain because I need an identity. I need to feel secure. Proving myself right has become a favored flavor in my life. It is unsatisfactory in the sense that I base my foundations and beliefs on poor proceedings of the past. Smug I become because I knew it all along but saddened yet again because I have arrived no further in the path of overcoming tumults. It may be that I only have one pair of looking glasses. Perhaps the past becomes the future's present because I automatically look that direction when interpreting the facts at hand (or beyond the hand).

So then, of course, I will suffer just like I suffer. And no one will ever understand me enough because it functions outside the commonality of shared experience. Who told me it was okay? Who didn't tell me is was a sham, a shameful smattering of smut? But since I can now recognize that no one told me the truth, I have arrived at a place where the space has been made to make that distinction. Who holds me back then? Only me, only my addiction to abstraction of God. Blame is a menacing falsity. If we have arrived at a place where blame can sprout, we also are present to a situation where we choose our reaction to it. We oft forget how often we are accomplices to the very adversaries we point fault.

Rightly unraveled

To answer, I am labile and the litany of labels is only security when scrutiny is second best. This examining eye is happy to report a purport of expansion unseen at the seams, forsaken of the mistaken, and indwelling of the indigent of my own. The celebration of desperation is simple release when the direction is within. Yet its counterpart bought nothing but a broken line of communication and an asphyxiation that pushed two into none. The labyrinth of late is a version of the vision not undone by the downward, inside we create a secrete of disbelief and indiscreet imaginations but I love it so, for only to me of me is the desperation a destination of fortitude. Beside you, I seem perfectly unraveled and together we watch and match the which of what that comes together, just You and I. And this I love ever so true. For nothing would the sacrifice be appropriate to give approbation above your unexplainable alliance to me. So this allegiance is not an allegory of unthinking merit but rather a unending pursuit to persuade the sky to fall to the rising ground. When they meet, we meet and my body is embodied as my mind sees it. In a way of a world that works so hard to hold us down, derelict and doomed, I am emblazoned to resist it all.

fingerprint

Deep in the dermis of the outstretching hands, called upon for simultaneous protection and protraction from and to the ultimate dowry of life, there are these retes. To each end, these structures admit to a softening of such a plastic world, an asinine acrylic audoban. Undulating and underestimated, the impermanence of our existence is tracked and tricked into submitting to regularity of rogue. Under no accepted pretenses, though, do we lay out our outstretched hands and not leave a slight slough of singularity. Only one hand can be on one point at any given moment and nothing can prevent nor permit the passage of preformed, unspoken energy. Yet what if the point was nothing of a horizontal issue but rose and chose to expand and expunge the riot against inculpability to find two hands at one intersection? What if two read twelve and the skin upon skin fleshed nothing but radical community? I see the multiplicity of hands which you gave to my life as a guidepost forward and postscript backward. It is of no good use for me to deny how incurable I would be against the ills of self-disregard had I not been imbibed with sturdy and stately figures of peace, protest and patient penance for me and because of me. Although my retes are determined by design of a genetic disembodiment from macrocosm understanding, my print is evolving as to involve hands of greater need and hearts of grander know. This, I must admit, is the only reason to persist in breath. Without recourse to the vapors of the past, I see the print of others consistently considering the coalescing of them with them not, an act that is infinitely beautiful. How can that influence be the strongest pronouncement? What must I denude to allow those revolutionary retes to be real?

fear feeding

Who does decide the divide between being the fear and fearing the being? Who mistook the easy for the difficult, the delicate for the savage, the infinite for the finished? Although I prescribe the proscribing of seeing the sights as I am fooled to do, I wonder how deep I will discover the discourse of me versus anything but me. The regular and ordinary fears are fighting the mighty mass but I bore through the predicted and now I bow down to the unregulated benign nevus. Because I am outside in and in all the right wrong places for me to resist the oppression. What I admonish to my intellectual shadow is the separating of what presses and what is pressed upon. It's as if I am the forme fruste of my own perpetrator and the incomplete signature of that organized existence you have since breathed into beating. I am eating the dirt for this irony leaves me yearning. Is it irony or paradox or just utter confusion?

I am proving myself right on the history of proving myself right. It saddens me, though, to know that I just desperately want to be wrong. Wrung out and wincing at the sight of my site in this unsated stream of fools fueled by feuds of cover girl and glamor boy. Together they make not even a whole but a hole in the trap to my emptiness. As I look at my fears and note they are not the knot that normally twists in the stomach at night, I know inverted I be. But see, I am unheard and unspoken for, as if my fears were really not that special. Yet I am now closer to not being closed. So I know my fears are feeding right.

never even

There it is. My shadow and the territory it demonstrates, all I see is that unfortunate agonists of everything but me. Although it exists only as an afterthought of my choices, I can't help wonder why I am drawn to the drowning of the hapless hoppers. But what is that which is ready to be no longer a second glance? My first thought and their last word are these interrelated interrogations. Who pleads on the behalf of the beholden Beatrice of no one? Who finds the flattery in a fawning pariah? In my gut, their eyes have already demonstrated the great Division and I, with grand demonstrative denial, push nothing aside that will bring about my subtle settling in this moment of the sacred. Who isn't scared that hasn't shone brighter than burnt out misleadings? I may lead an invisible concubine with untraceable Danes and in such ruffians find the oft-disappointed offering of a wonderful place won to the wrong team. Or the right teeming of those truths we all seek and I am meek to have them. Because I cannot. Or, fear not an attempt but a failure. So I am lured back here again, desperate in those populous polls of palls and palindromes, where stars sees rats and I am never even.

Never am I.

body mala

The new year began with grand yogic interludes. My studio hosted a yoga mala, a two-hour offering of our bodies to intentions higher than the extension of our arms, wider than the stance of our legs. Like a japa mala that has 108 beads in succession, as a community we moved engaged in 108 successive sun salutation. As the mood ripened for a physically challenging feat, we sat together as a family and put to written motion our sankalpa, a spiritual vow made in relation to days of old, present and of the future as to recognize and register a regularity in reflection and resolution. I had been saturating my brainwaves for sometime on my natural, and saddened, inclination to fear people. A molten inside because of a transfixed belief that I had great reason to fear the individuals around me, this was the spiritual confusion I splattered about my sankalpa.

We took to our mats. The 108 sun salutations were divided into four sections, 27 a piece. Each round of the surya namaskar was dedicated to a different facet of our existence, an opportunity to focus physical movements and mental sways on a single purpose. This was my second mala and although I relished in my inaugural one, I felt such a deep connection to this new year mala. I cannot imagine a better way to ignite another series of days, weeks and months.

Round one was an exploration inward, concentrating on the words and essence of our sankalpa. I sensed a bit discomfort rising from me in these early sun salutations. If it was the dust being swept off my morning joints or the apparent probing into an area of personal incommodiousness, I am not entirely sure of it's origin. There was the typical trail of justification in my mind of why I am the way I am, with the similar stagnation of ideas to move on. I know I want to be able to incorporate my shortcomings for the betterment of usable spiritual real estate, yet I lack the ingenuity to make space. So I was thankful for the encouraging words spoken throughout the mala, along with the unspoken vibes of the other bodies in motion around me. It made round one a good opener, as I felt my muscles given way to the fluidity of the moment.

Round two was a dedication to the positive people in our lives. My spirit sprang from my body as I settled into a vibrant groove. With each sun salutation, I lifted up a beautiful person in my life. The movements of my arms and legs were tools of gratitude. I had little trouble releasing into the air about me the innumerable admirable characteristics of my family and friends. One after another, a new face would rush in and I felt flushed with giddiness. These individuals were in my life? How did I get so lucky? I closed each surya namaskara by touching my lips to my hands and repeating, "for the one who changes me". I felt absolutely alive at the end of round two.

Round three was an offering to all beings in the world, with close attention to those figures in your life you struggle sending out good vibes to. For me, this round tasted bittersweet. I found enormous solace relinquishing some situations that bound me to my own downfall. Yet at the same time, I was confronted with a counterproductive force in my contemplation. I wanted desperately to transfer the deep caulking of negative energy into something positively opportunistic. My mind toggled back and forth between global issues of severity and unfortunate scenarios I specifically underwent in 2007. As I would come into urdhva hastasana each time, I would symbolically release the situation and welcome something new. The round ended in a different sense and I felt both cleansed and conflicted, a dichotomy I am not afraid to embrace.

The final 27 sun salutations were intended for our personal interpretation of the Divine, a perfect way to conclude a radical spiritual endeavor. Similar to the round dedicated to the positive beings in our existence, I found my bones piercing with ebullience from skin. Each offering of surya namaskara was a set aflame by the many attributes of God in my life and the world. Beginning in tadasana, I singled out one attribute of God. In the initial Urdhva Hastasana I opened up with a resounding force of gratitude. This was followed with uttanasana, as I envisioned myself diving into the truth of the specific attribute. Figuratively pulling back for a brief moment of reflection, I came into a position where I flattened my back. This proceeded Adho Mukha Svanasana, downward facing dog. As I transitioned into downward dog, I placed my hands firmly on the ground, rooting deeply into the characteristic of God I was honoring. I stretched out lengthwise doubly as I pulled my body into chaturanga, growing in the attribute. Cobra pose allowed my heart to recognize the attribute as I passed it onto my intellect, placing my forward lightly on the ground before pulling back into plank. In the second offering of downward dog, I breathed in deeply the characteristic , waiting for it to fill my completely. I rose to my feet and began the final ascent into Urdhva Hastasana, releasing the trait to the souls around me with a concluding stance back in tadasana, sealing in the ultimate impression of my Ultimate Expression of the Divine.

I was surrounded by the divine that morning. I am surrounding by the divine everyday. There was nothing but insufficient gratitude in my heart and I am excited to have start a new year with such a countenance. Namaste.

subterfuge is unspoken

Another nonsensical loss to the sophistry of my malignant romance. There is this indignant inlay of impressions into ideas, or ideas into ideals. Either way, I cannot seem to sip the shoreline of this undercurrent of (mis)understanding. I keep missing it and masking it as that turn that followed that take, that tocktact of some countdown I can't quite quip for user-friendly functions. Instead, I work against gravity and present to the court my case on this confusion of corporeal and reason. When there are no boundaries how can the light break in and inset your way? If reason pares away the imperial ways of empirical ennui, why sense the senses sending me into the contemplative quandary of how I fall short yet again? These As and Bs are vultures to my face value and I think faster than feel to notice no one knows the nows of proper opportunity.

So if you were to ask, I would confess that you don't exist in my exit because the boxes are filled with my own imagination of some things I wish I could have as their face value. For the mistake was met at that onset when I said romance. My vernacular is not approachable to those ways you find such normalcy in, rather I reinvent those rituals of which I was nothing but a pawn. The noun, you ask, is nothing to fear because it is less singular than the lone eye. But it's lonely here, missing again that chance to change such chicanery.