The part of our minds
that thinks it knows
what thinking is
doesn’t know anything
except itself.

It lives in a world
of its own creation,
forever struggling to fit
whatever it experiences
into a mold too tiny
to hold anything
except a lonely dream.

sometimes we need to bleed a little
before we can begin to heal

sometimes a scab is a shield
that is no longer needed,
and ripping it off
is the only way forward

being with the pain we hid from
is the path to reclaiming our power,
the strength to walk that lonesome valley,
and the patience to keep walking,
step by step, towards the light

I was dreaming, and in my dream,
I had this thought: I am walking by
an old fashioned phone booth,
and as I pass, the phone rings.

I answer it and say hello,
and a voice on the phone says “yes”.

I ask it meaningless questions,
and each time, the voice says “yes”.

And then I asked:
“Is it important what questions I ask?”,
and the voice said “yes”.

And I asked:
“Is this me I’m talking to?”,
and again the voice said “yes”.

And so I asked:
“What should I say to life?”,
and the voice said “yes”.

And
“What should I say to each day?”,
and once more the voice said “yes”.

“What should I say to each moment?”;
again the voice said “yes”.

“What word should I carry always
in my heart and mind?”,
and, as I walked on,
the voice in my head said softly:

“yes”.

This unsettled feeling
has been with me all my life,
and will probably be with me
as long as I think and breathe.

I have tried my best to quell it,
soothe it, run away from it,
and it does fade away,
in time, until it returns,
in its own cycle
of coming and going.

I am not in control of it,
and never will be.

It has a life of its own,
which I have been ignoring.

I have made it my enemy,
and spent countless hours
and endless energy
trying to banish it.

But it is a part of me,
and it is only my mind,
trying to control itself,
that would have it be otherwise.

There is no enemy,
there is only a myth
of what should not be.

How much simpler
to embrace the truth,
and be unsettled
when I’m unsettled,
at peace when I’m at peace,
not always struggling
to be different
from how I am.

There are rooms and windows in my mind,
cavernous spaces, little compartments,
flowing winds, flowing water,
still places, darkness, light,
rooms as big as the universe,
rooms as tiny as a single thought.

I walk, or swim, or fly
through these infinite spaces,
sometimes in my body,
sometimes transparent,
porous, empty,
like a soft breath of air.

Sometimes there is nothing
but endless emptiness,
open in every direction,
and I am the formless observer,
as endless and open
as what is all around me.

This body of mine
is like a trusted old car.

There are some parts
that don’t work as well
as they used to,
but it gets me
where I need to go.

Every day that it takes me
a bit further down my path
is a gift I will receive gratefully,
never taking for granted
each moment
that I’m still here.

Floating,
floating down,
always down,
weightless,
like a feather on a stream,
always flowing down.

Sometimes slowly, softly,
sometimes hard and swift,
always flowing down.

A part of the stream,
a part of a wave,
always flowing down.

There may be a bottom,
an end somewhere,
but this flow,
right here, right now,
is all there is;
this is life.