i mourn what feels like way too little time, and for what?

which is because

i'm missing something.

time is limited, so too any attachment; strive not to over-invest in that which is futile, and passing.

Unless, unless one dedicates time to helping drop suffering that is experienced in these worlds of ours.

i nod in cray humility to the sadness of not being able to help everyone who is sad.


i feel so much all the time. At dancing Saturday it was too much for body, eyes darting to not see anyone b/c i feel too much, in multi-form, like pain and despair, vaporous infestations of energy and spirit that burrow into flesh and mind, psychic moment that must play out—often disastrous—sometimes destructive, heat and movement, molecules tumbling, vibrations of energy, matter hurling itself through time and raw space; bad stuff gets in and weighs me down, and we are fierce.

not so far apart.

History of Land Transportation (dustjacket) - First Edition 1963, Hawthorn Books, Vol 7, The New Illustrated Library of Science and Invention - Erik Nitsche

Light and lightness are odes to the highest knowing, access to All Love while inhabiting here on Earth; yet even these exotic, embodied ramblings of ours are not enough (or way too much) unless we go beyond, which means allowing ourselves to experience everything, and to clear away to our Creator all suffering—to see, Love, and to help all Creation find its way back Home.

i persist

here i am to be of use, to help maligned souls, the ill-loved, those who hurt and vibrate in ways inimical to flesh and soul.

the pain is not yet so great that i refuse to bear, grim at times but salvageable—a key part of the contract: i can check out anytime; it would cause great sadness but it's there, a way out; alas and sigh. i pretend i preferred the days when such solutions where unthought. carry forth young man.

each day i journey again, arduous perhaps, moments of bodymind that i explicitly subscribed to, dichotomoy and all, plus grace & true healing when i see connection and the space between. Bless.

insisting upon

there is much between, space mostly which i often fill w/o bliss or joy, or sometimes disorder b/c i don't know. there is darkness this day, cold. i endure b/c checking out would be rude, and i am often confused that i am so sad. yes, and.

History of Ships and Seafaring (dustjacket) - First Edition 1963, Hawthorn Books, Vol 2, The New Illustrated Library of Science and Invention - Erik Nitsche

i understand... i preach to myself how precious each of us is—each moment—how delicate and awe-filled, yet i mourn. is that instead of living, or part of?

perhaps i remember life too quickly, the huge beatings of years gone by or old terrors stirred and new loss, and i've aged more than i ever thought possible, yet though i mourn i feel more more alive than ever before, and i experience a personal version of reality that suits—a huge moment to moment dance with what is. thank you.

other people, mostly often in real-time, plunge deeply into my present now and i become them for a instant; for a solitary slow breath i feel what they feel, sadness and triumph, and the spaces between.

it comes as waves of knowing and if i inquire, gently and with kindness much truth arrives, sadness lived through and fears come to life, and Joy, always Joy—like standing on the shore and waves sneak up and drench, and we are almost glad. and then we are.

on the bus

a dignified older lady sits down a row in front—slowly bc no choice, alacrity used up. three colored braclets hug her outer wrist, one stronger which steadies her weary aching bod, beads chosen that morning hunched over a small, well-used vanity so i and she could feel good.

she made herself nice that morn to ride the 15 so i could behold her gift of kindness, her opting for Beauty over bland b/c Dignity—Bless—that one small prayer of gratefulness which separates each of us from oblivion...

and see Erik Nitsche


Share on: TwitterFacebookGoogle+Email