Cooking
is like writing,
or painting,
like making music,
or making love.

When “what should I do?”
falls away,
that is when
there is no one there,
and that is when
the magic happens.

How to do something:

empty your mind,
and see what needs
to be done;

then empty your mind,
and do it;

and then empty your mind,
and keep doing it,
until you see
that it is done.

This uncomfortable feeling
wouldn’t seem so bad,
if not for the thought
that I shouldn’t be having it.

When I let go of that thought,
and simply sit with the feeling,
it softens,
and soon fades.

It was just a tinge of energy,
with some ideas floating around it,
and it all dissipates,
like smoke,
when I simply let it be.

Bodies moving
with animal joy,
one flow.

Waves
in a sea of rhythm,
an ocean of love.

We are Life,
loving itself.

Nature enlivens us,
and soothes us,
because it is a part of us
we have forgotten.

No matter how
we separate ourselves,
ensconced in our edifices,
we are always part
of the world of Nature,
its unruly and dangerous
children.

In our precociousness,
and in our greed,
we have tried too hard
to tame it.

Perhaps it is time
to let it tame us.

There is so much to drink in,
to taste and savor,
when our sight isn’t deadened
by the drugs we choose.

How rich the world is
when our senses listen,
and we throw off
our blanket of numbness,
and we abandon ourselves
to the rawness and thrill
of being alive.

It stings,
to be without the bandaid
of the drug we choose,
the liquid, the chemical,
the digital distraction
that lulls us.

It is like coming out
of a dark room,
and being assailed
by the blinding light,
until we adjust to its brightness,
and, trusting in our own resilience,
relax into the freedom
of the open sky.

Take care of yourself
because you love yourself.

And when you aren’t
loving yourself,
take care of yourself
so you can love yourself
for doing it.

We run around this Earth,
thinking we are creators
of our own lives,
influencing
the life around us,
when, in fact,
we are simply a conduit
for life
to express itself.

Only when we humble ourselves
to this simple truth
can we claim our greatness.

The past is not a place -
it is a dream,
of moments long gone,
a stream of memories
shifting and fading,
drifting like smoke
through our thoughts.

And likewise,
neither is there a future,
outside of our dreams and fears,
which flow, mirror-like,
away from the stream
of remembrance.

There is only one place
that is not a dream,
and that is where
we are now,
living and breathing,
poised in time,
and beyond it.

It is easy to forget
we are a village
until we come together
to celebrate
what we love,
and what we are.

Through this ritual of drumming,
we become family again,
rediscovering what binds us
and defines us
as a community,
as we find ourselves,
once again,
in this Heaven
on earth.