What am I Going to do About It?

The world isn’t the way I want it to be.
The world is just as it is.
What am I going to do about it?
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These lines aren’t the way I want them to be.
I want the second line to be first: “The world is just as it is.”
That’s where I need to start.
Not with what I want, but with things as they are.
Trying to understand the world just as it is,
that’s a lifetime’s work and I’m still working on it.
I still don’t get it.
These days, it seems like we all want something different.
Some people want all the thugs off the street.
Others want to be able to live their lives in peace without being harassed and killed by people who see them as thugs.
Some people want all the foreigners to go away somewhere, anywhere. Away.
Other people have nowhere to be.
Their homes are destroyed and they can’t go there anymore.
They want somewhere to be.
Some people want to be safe from insults, bullying and anger.
Other people want to say whatever they think, whenever they want to say it.
The world just as it is?
It’s a mess.

What am I going to do about it?

Donna Dechen Birdwell

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I mentioned that if someone wrote a screenplay about the world as it is, no one would believe it.

Then I started thinking about what the world might be like if it was how people would like it to be. I'd like to eliminate all the meat and candy from Central Market. And also all the wine. Who needs that stuff anyway? People just do the wrong thing when they drink.

But then D came by and he wanted peanuts… just peanuts, so then the world changed and CM had only peanuts. And so on. So that might really be crazy if things were how we’d like them to be.

Actually, in retrospect, our delusions often let us believe that the world is how we’d like it to be… for those incredibly short moments. Even today, I mentioned that I was 1/2 of my world. A crazy delusion!

Yesterday I was talking to T about the way it is, and he mentioned another aspect that I didn't even consider. What it is is not just what we read about in geology and biology textbooks. It is also how we feel about it. So I'm driving on Interstate 35 and there is lots of traffic. That is what is. And I'm feeling frazzled… mad, wishing that I had left a few hours earlier before all these people got out of bed. So "what is" is not just the traffic... it is my mind agonizing over what is. Imagine someone looking down onto Earth. Someone who only observes and doesn't react. She would see you and me and the cars... And we'd all be what is.

And then the tough question. What will I do about it? I can run, I can endure, or I can change. Or I can do nothing. Just sit there like a “bump on a log,” as my sisters would say when one of us wouldn't play.

There is an event coming soon that I would rather didn’t happen. I can avoid it, hoping it will just not be. I can go, but not really go, hoping that I can satisfy both the need to go and not go, or I can really go, fully embracing the situation authentically.

Complaining and disparaging might take place. Bad qi might permeate the space. Is that doing something about it? Or is it just wishing that things were different? And if things were just like we’d want them to be, would we like that? Or would we complain about that too?

My house is too small. No room for a ping pong table. Next day, when vacuuming, the house is too big. No time for anything but cleaning it. And on and on.

So I guess facing the music is all that I can do. I can embrace and embody things as they are. That's all we have to work with. I can observe it, and me within it, reacting, responding, hating or loving. I’m a half of what is... It is real to me, but not for you.

Do we live in the same place? Hardly. But we can meet somewhere, somehow, and dance with the stars.

Kim Mosley

The Troll's Exclamation

”A ferocious troll sat under a bridge with his laptop, and when the villagers concurred, “Let’s give money to this wonderful cause,” the troll yelled, “Get off your ass and go volunteer in your community!” And when the villagers said, “Let’s go volunteer in our community,” the troll yelled “F..k Youuuuuuu!” And when the villagers said, “That’s not a nice thing to say, the troll yelled, “Free speech!” And the villagers tried reasoning, and shaming, and yelling back. But nothing stopped the troll. Until one day, the troll said, “You’re a f..king moron and I hate your children!!!!,” and the villagers said, “Hi there, Mr. Troll. We love you. What a fine use of exclamation points!” and the troll got confused for a while until he realized it felt quite good to be loved, and he moved into a cheery house with yellow curtains and got a nice big dog.“ —Emma Skogstad
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My daughter taught 2nd grade and she'd tell her students that in the 2nd grade we are nice to each other. 

Imagine what a world would look like if people were nice to each other. If people smiled. I used to go to Trader Joes in St. Louis if I had a hard day at work because the check out clerks were always so nice. 

Once I took a seminar in how to deal with difficult people. I remember two things I learned. One was that people are different. For example, some people like surprises and others don't. Expecting that people are like you doesn't work. The second was that even if a person is difficult, you can find a nice side in them, and you can address that.

One teacher called us all Mr and Ms with our last names. He expected us to be professionals. And we tried.

I think we are especially struck today because of people in the news who aren't very nice to others. A friend has an X who isn't very nice to her. I told her to smile. How could one be mean to someone who is smiling?

My daughter asked me to make her a painting with the word smile. I have it almost finished. I started it about 15 years ago. But she reminds me, every time the painting shows up. Today I found it, again.

Smile. Be nice to the troll and find a way of complimenting him, even if it is the number of exclamation marks he uses. I guess this must have been a text message conversation, because how would they know how many explanation marks he used. 

Smile. And he had lots of typos which I corrected. I wrote Emma and told her I corrected them, and she said that trolls make a lot of mistakes. I didn't get that earlier, thinking he was saying rather than typing. But now I get it. 

Smile. I had an aunt who told me that everyone who worked for her was incredible. I knew she had the knack for bringing out the best in people. When I hear a teacher talk about the great class they have this year, I suspect that it is more about what they elicit in the students than the students themselves.

Smile! Smile! Just Smile! Let the trolls know you love them and they won't be trolls anymore. Smile.

And keep smiling!

Kim Mosley

Totally Confused


I kept imagining a timeline, with a moment in the middle, and the past and present on either sides—each as long as the other. I'm in the middle now. I’ll always be in middle.

I asked a physicist once where I was in the universe. “Was I in the center?” “No,” he said, “you are more like a 1/3 of the way in or out....” I don't remember which.

Well, that's space... And, like time, it defines where we are. 

It worried me thinking about dementia the other day. I don’t want to throw away my past or future. I want it all. The richness of a given situation seems to depend on what we can bring to it, and what we can take away.

I took a mindfulness workshop many years ago. I asked a young monk if you could be in the moment and think about the past. He talked on and on. I "got" that you could, but didn't understand what he was saying. 

So what is the difference between daydreaming, and “being here now” thinking of the good old Beach Boys? Is one state more “present” than the other. 

It is costly to be asleep. There was a $20 bill lying in the street that I missed while I was seduced by a pile of trash someone had thrown out. Someone else found the $20 and asked me if it was mine. “No,” I regretfully had to answer.

In a daydream am I in my daydream? What is so bad about sitting on a couch and thinking of some rich moment in the past, or yearning to fulfill some fantasy in the future. I could even use the meat argument... that God wouldn't have made chickens if we weren't suppose to eat them (God wouldn’t give us fantasies if we weren’t meant to fulfill them). 

I told my wife that when you enter the Buddhist stream, you become fully enlightened in no more than seven years. “Who makes up this stuff?” she asked. “I don't know,” I answered. Maybe seven is a code word for someday. 

I marvel at race car drivers, gymnasts, and others who have demanding challenges. They need to concentrate 100% all the time. I heard of a Zen priest (Philip Whalen) who could do the same. He'd count his breaths to ten over and over again for each entire period of meditation. No daydreams there!

Kim Mosley

Your Word is Your Bond

“From a young age, our parents impressed on us the values that you work hard for what you want in life, that your word is your bond and you do what you say and keep your promise, that you treat people with respect. They taught and showed us values and morals in their daily lives. That is a lesson that we continue to pass along. And we need to pass those lessons on to the many generations to follow. Because we want our children in this nation to know that the only limit to your achievements is the strength of your dreams and your willingness to work for them.”
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American Dream
The Cheese Has Moved

To journey without being changed is to be a nomad.
To change without journeying is to be a chameleon.
To be changed by the journey is to be a pilgrim.

To journey without arriving is to be a refugee.

Bumper sticker: I’ll keep my guns, money, and freedom, you can keep
the “change.”

No man with four aces and a Smith & Wesson ever asked for a New Deal.

The cheese has moved.
  My calendar is now in pencil
for a year or more.
  Faint lines show where
a cheese moved.

“. . . we were left feeling
helplessly bypassed, as if
  the processes of the present
did not include us. We felt
  unheard, angry, and frustrated.”


This is a collage of sayings (Mark Nepo), bumper stickers, a mash up of folk wisdom, some original poetry, and lines from a Zen journal. I now understand the artistry of a good collage (even if I don't achieve it). 

—Jeff Taylor

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The American Dream, Betrayed

In American, anyone’s child
  can grow up to be President.
Still, everyone knows they’re talking
  about straight, white boys, but
someone forgot to tell that nobody,
  or maybe she didn’t listen.
Now there's a Black man
  in the White House and . . . 
I mean, that’s not how it’s
  supposed to be.
If a cynic’s an idealist disappointed,
  what's the promoter of
the American Dream to do, when
  the “wrong” person
achieves the Promised Land
  putting the Unspoken’s
business in the street. Whatever
  it is, the mark has won,
the con man's lost and the rigged game
  is broken.
How true is . . . a rags to riches story
  that's only open
to Harvard men?

—Jeff Taylor

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Awesome Poem

I told my wife 
“I’m going to write 
a poem tonight.”

And then 
Caroline brings this prompt, 
and it didn't seem like a prompt,

at all.

At least, not one
to inspire 
a poem, 

at all. 

I've started to notice,
more and more,
how some things tick me off. 

As we read the prompt,
together in unison, 
I  found myself 

somewhere between 

being ticked off, 
(very) supremely ticked off,
and wondering if 

these words were part 
of Michelle Obama's 
wonderful speech 

the other night (at the DNC).

Today 
I read 
she had no political intentions 

in her speech—
unlike the others 
she followed.

And yet, 
after the speech, 
many said, 

”she ought to be president.”

The prompt seemed dated, 
perhaps it was from 
the Cleavers 

in the 50s. 

My wife said at dinner 
something about how,
if we had better schools, 

things would be different. 

We ended up realizing
it would take about 
three generations 

to really make a change... 

A profound 
change,
that is.

I think this tirade started 
with her 
wondering 

how so many people 
could vote for 
a bully. 

I told her 
that the odds were…
he'd win.

Oh…. 
My friend just texted me, 
“write something awesome.”

If I didn't know better,
I'd….

So there, 
I tried to write 
an awesome poem. 

And then I wanted to say
“I'd pick my nose”
and you can't say that 

in a poem. 

In high school, 
did you ever read a poem 
about nose picking? No!

Or even about bullies, 
or the Cleavers? 

I heard the other night,
on NPR, 
a poet was told 

he had a terminal illness.

He became very depressed 
and wrote 
the best poems of his life. 

I thought, God, 
grant me 
a terminal illness. 

Oh, just kidding, God.

Let me try again:

The lime I stole from
the Zen center was so
delicious, it made my 
smoothie so great that
my friends drank it 
with such gusto—
so much gusto, 
in fact
that I didn't have 
any left today.

That's a dumb poem. 
Glad there are only 
two minutes left.

I can blame 
the advancing clock 
on my not writing 
anything close to awesome. 

Or I can blame it
on my lack of
having a terminal illness, 

Or maybe 
I wasn't raised right, 
like my neighbors, 

who had their mouths, 
washed with soap,
when they swore.

Kim Mosley

Your Sailboat


The idea of this piece is to reach the root of your sail boat; your journey. The soul and the mind. I wanted you to connect more with your right brain. Your intuitive creativeness. The faces reflect your own path and where you wish to see yourself. The open areas are for you to fill in for yourself and the flowers are ideas blooming. The lines represent strength and boldness. I didn't incorporate color because I like the person seeing this to create color with their eyes. I think it tests the brain of what you see and what you don't and some see things differently. The sail boat can represent something meaningful in your life. I hope this helps you in some way leaving our Zen Writing group today. Maybe this image will be stuck in your head on the ride home and slowly ideas or color will gravitate to the image in your head. Its the big idea for you to sleep on. It's your sail boat.... 


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Sailing On A Breath

Exhaling we help feed the trees.
Through the magic in their leaves, they
give us substance for our life’s breath.

Breathing, the veil that separates
life from death, manifests Oneness
in this moment, and as always.

So our breath is not truly ours.
Since it can’t exist on it’s own.
And neither can we, nor can they.

The breath that we exhale vibrates
air around us, somewhere pushing
the sails that move boats forward.

Thoughts, memories, experiences,
feelings, emotions, desires,
sail through my mind when I sit.

Who has breathed these, causing them
to sail on my horizon,
urging me to follow along?

Did I breathe them or did I just
intercept them on their way to
elsewhere, not intended for me?

As I try blowing them away
from me, instead I scatter
fragments of chapters of my life.

I did not know that a breath could
scatter fragments of lives to be
rewritten in other lives.

My breathing fans the flames that are
dancing uphill toward me, pushing
me to a higher consciousness.

So breathing consciously I can
set my universe in motion,
toppling the confusion away.

Until the moment of my last
Breath, when I will sail freely,
no need for form, boundary, or me.

—Elena Rivera



The Other Side

Original photo by with addition of Dash by Kim Mosley
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I search and search... The perfect this and that. One day it is searching for the perfect diet, then the perfect exercise, then the perfect shampoo, then the perfect friend. The dissatisfaction is looking for the perfect me... How would I really like to be, what would I like to know?

I totally confused a man at the free sample sushi table at Central Market today. I've never seen it without someone handing out samples before. There is a little story here. A few weeks ago I was handed a piece of sushi by an Asian looking guy. He said, have a kamikaze roll. I wondered if he knew what it meant and finally found out that it also referred to a drink that was a mixture of various ingredients.

So I figured that kamikaze must have more meanings than the one who gets in an airplane and rams it into an enemy plane, killing all. 

Today the chef/pilot was nowhere to be seen. I was a little worried about him. 

An old man was there, also waiting for a sample. I put a sample in a cup and handed it to him. He declined the gift, and so I ate it myself. Then he said, “Oh, that was very nice of you." So I said, “Yes." I think I more surprised him than anything... but probably should have responded better.

How would the I who I'd like to be respond? If I'm already me, who was it that was responding? Would/should we be the person who'd we like to be? Since our friends like us as we are (I don't think they'd wait around), would we have to find new friends?

Suzuki Roshi said, “You are perfect just the way you are... and you could stand a little improvement? Could both parts of the statement be true? I

If I am perfect just as I am, why do I have to do anything? And also, why do I have to change.

A high school classmate recently wrote, “You don't marry the perfect spouse. You marry to become the perfect spouse.” But where do you start? I’m full of loose pages and frayed edges and need a lot of tender conservation.

I certainly often think it is better on the other side of the stream. I waited breathlessly until I could get a drivers license... but by the time I did get it, at 23, it wasn't such a big deal. And I waited breathlessly to get through with high school, to get through with college, to have a real job, to retire from the job, to this and that. I waited breathlessly for what would make me happy. All things on the other side of the river. Where is the boat to take me across?

Wait, the wise man says that I'm already there. Can't he see I want to be on his side, where the grass is greener? How can I be satisfied with this stuff that isn't the perfect this or that... or is it?

Kim Mosley

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Zen without Kanzeon

From Zen Flesh, Zen Bones by Paul Reps, story 78 of 101 Zen Stories.
Real Prosperity
A rich man asked Sengai to write something for the continued prosperity of his family so that it might be treasured from generation to generation. Sengai obtained a large sheet of paper and wrote: “Father dies, son dies, grandson dies.”
   
The rich man became angry.  “I asked you to write something for the happiness of my family!  Why do you make such a joke of this?”
   
“No joke is intended,” explained Sengai.  “If before you yourself die your son should die, this would grieve you greatly.  If your grandson should pass away before your son, both of you would be broken-hearted.  If your family, generation after generation, passes away in the order I have named, it will be the natural course of life.  I call this real prosperity.”
When I first read this, I was in my twenties and a smart-mouthed young man. I found Sengai’s answer to be a smart-aleck answer to a trick question. Somehow I did not hear the last paragraph, heard another version, or a re-telling by a smart-aleck.

Many years later, I helped my wife by working the sound system to do the funeral of a young man who died of AIDS.  Six months later, his family was back.  His younger brother could not go on without him.  He committed suicide. The parents and the remaining son grieved and I grieved with them.  The knobs on the sound system, thankfully, were large enough to be seen through tears. This was not the first funeral for a young person I attended.  At this time, I thought to myself, “Our children are dying too early.”  At this point I understood Sengai’s compassion for the rich man.

I’ve attended funerals for friends and children of friends where the parents and even a grandparent was there.  This is not prosperity.

My problem with tonight’s prompt is that I hear it in my own voice, maybe the voice of the smart-mouthed young man part of me.  I wonder if I had heard it direct from a compassionate teacher, would I have understood it differently? On my first reading, I just heard a smart mouthed, trick answer.  It sounds like so many I met in academia, just waiting to zing you and show off in response to an honest request for help or information.  On considering it again, maybe the master is pointing out the self-centric nature of the question, the answer depends on where you stand.  Or maybe telling the initiate to look inside himself for the answer that he already possesses.

I wonder if encountering some other tragedy will reveal the wisdom in this story.
Lady Wisdom always speaks.  She sets her own pace.
Zen writings without a teacher too often fail to carry the compassion.  My home shrine has no image of Kanzeon, the Bodhisattva of Compassion.  Maybe I need to keep her image before me while reading Zen stories and ask for her wisdom.

—Jeffery Taylor

Writer's Block by Christopher Hynes

Christopher Hynes

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In the Beginning

In the beginning, the work was without form,
 and Wisdom was with God and
Wisdom inspired God and the Void
 grew and separated into letters & blocks.
The Word was still without form.
 The letters mutated and shape-shifted.
They debated their form, and still they
 shape-shifted, refusing to be bound
to one understanding, remaining as fluid
 as Creation, evolving from Primordial
Bang, forming and reforming. Letters
 grew too massive and fell
into black holes, swirling about into
 galaxies, spiral & elliptical, structured &
diffused. Writers, poets, work makers & word
 users tried to bind them into books, &
manuscripts and found the words would not
 be still, they morphed and changed—order
size, shape. They looked upon the blank page,
 terrified for it was void and without form.
The Face of the Deep beckoned, pulling
 some under, some to dive deep and resurface
with raw ore they hammered into
 prose & poetry which switched places when
they set down their pen, covered the typewriter,
 silenced the computer. Words will not be bound
into a block, frozen into works, and Lady Wisdom
 or a false, golden mirage will beckon to them,
promising truth and fantasy, who again
 morph & blend and transform each other
wearing the harlequin mask that
 deceives, truth pretending to be nonsense
and Truth revealed to tumble again
 into tumbled blocks of sounds without
sense, falling apart the harder
 the effort to edit sense out of raw
delirium, unprovoked
 by causative agent.

—Jeffery Taylor

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The Unfolding

Like cars piling up in a traffic jam,
my thoughts are all there,
trying to express all at once.

It’s not like I don’t have any stories,
it’s that they come all at once
jamming into each other.

Like mixing all the colors together,
like a dam holding back water,
the words build up pressure,

Pushing to get out,
they climb over each other,
fall down, and get stomped on.

Sadly some never make it out alive,
some get overwhelmed,
others just get confused.

While some unite,
old ideas forgotten into new ones,
others just seem to fade away,

Thinking they’re forgotten without
being heard, not realizing the power
inherent in their silence.

When the frequencies separate,
When the light turns green again,
When the dam opens,

We get rainbows of words
expressing feelings, telling stories,
witnessing our many paths,

Unfolding us into One.


Afterthoughts

What I believe this is telling me is not to resist it, not to name it, not to give it power because it is powerful already by its nature.

Instead I allow, I take a different path for now remembering that there is usually more than one way to get there from here.

Perhaps the way that is made clear is not the way I had anticipated. Yet, perhaps it will lead me to even greater gifts to give.

—Elena Rivera

...outside the box

Drawing by Ken Brown

I is subject
Me is object
Object of trying
To think outside the box
Very hard
I did not have to
Go to Berlin
To be the object
Of the verb trying
Trying comes naturally here
To think - not so natural
Inside the box
Outside the box
Me trying

—Janelle Curlin-Taylor

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Disappearing Boundaries

Getting outside of the box.

        Trying very hard.

Where is my body in this box?

                Trying very hard to think.

All I see, all I feel, is my head.

                       Trying very hard to think a thought.

The thoughts           bounce        all around        “in the box.”

Where is my body?

There is no body "in the box"

                      Trying hard no more.

                               The box is no more
             
                                        Than a shape in my body.

—Les

You Are Too Impressionable

"Be still and know that I am God"—Psalm 46:10 
(Illustration for book)

Bruce asked me to go to church with him. Both of my neighbors that I played with went to church every Sunday. They never asked me to join them. Why? Bruce did. I asked my mom. She was taking clothes out of the dryer, and I stood by the door of the utility room. I was framed by the doorway. We were about the same size since she was hunched over getting out the clothes and putting them into a wood clothes basket with wire handles.

“Mom,” I asked, “can I go to church with Bruce on Sunday.” “No,” she said. “Why,” I asked. “Because you are too impressionable.”

My mom was the expert on me, yet I was an Island.  I picked “Island” because I wanted my initials to be “K.I.M.” She named me after the character in Rudyard Kipling’s book, Kim, where the character by the same name was independent and resourceful at an early age. She wished me to be independent, yet insisted she knew me (and others) better than I knew myself. Could we expect less from a psychiatric social worker, raised on Freud?

I couldn’t argue with her because words were not my forte. I felt disconnected from her. As I look back, I see that I had come from a different time and place. I was her son in this life. I was tied to her, but yet what I’m seeing now is the opposite. I was not her son. I had something in me that yearned to understand the mystery of life.

I believed that Hell was behind the fence at the Catholic Church a block away. I couldn’t see beyond the solid brick fence, and I imagined a deep pit inside that went on forever. I later went to that church and marveled at the Latin that the priest recited. I felt that I had time traveled to a place that felt very familiar.

Behind me, in that kitchen, was a man. My mom could not see him and I did not know he was there. He was the witness to my life. I called him up today and asked him how my mom’s “you’re too impressionable” affected me for my soon to be 70 years.

In Zen, we talk about needing to step off a 100-foot pole. We need to give ourselves to something beyond reason. It is the important orgasm that we are all afraid of reaching. Somehow my mom was right. I was too impressionable. But now I realize it wasn’t to new experiences, but rather to finding out who I was. I feel like the adopted kid who wasn’t allowed to meet his real parents. It touched me deeply in one of the Carlos Castaneda books that Don Juan decided to trash his last name. That's where we came from, but not who we are. In the same way, The Prophet, by Gibran talked about how
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.”
The man behind me touched my shoulder. I was walking down State Street in Chicago and he pinched my arm. I thought at the time he had shot heroin into me, and that I’d somehow know where to get my next fix. But no, he was telling me something different. Remember who you are. Remember who you are. Remember who you are. I say that three times because we didn’t do that last night reading something Buddha wrote that it was suppose to be written three times, perhaps as a mnemonic device to help us remember it.

I used art all my life as a means to tell people who I was and what I was feeling. Yet, it wasn’t enough, because I had kind of figured that out and it (or me) seemed like a closed system.

What I was looking for was something very very very big. Something that encompassed everything. The next week I went to six churches.

And years later, my mom would tell us of her extensive conversations she’d have with the black birds that would come to her kitchen window.

Kim Mosley

The News Traveled Fast and Engulfed Him Slowly

Graham Franciose
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Speed of Pain

The news traveled swiftly, at light speed,
 arriving by phone from far away,
from there, it traveled at the speed of sound
 to my ear, making its way at nerve speed,
a third of that, until it registers as pain,
 traveling even slower.

Pain travels slow, so slow the hand is away
 from the flame before the brain even knows
the pain of it.

Heart pain travels slow, though
 the shock is fast.

Heart pain travels slow, walking speed,
 so we poor people
can keep up.

Loss of a child, loss of a loved one,
 takes years for the pain
to go on without us.


speed of light: 30 million meters/second (m/s)
speed of sound: 340 m/s
speed of muscle positioning: 119 m/s
speed of touch (hearing): 76 m/s

speed of pain: 0.61 m/s

—Jeff Taylor

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The news travels fast,
as it does, as it always has,
for life is real and death is real—
and both are an innocent yellow bird.
They mean us no harm.

The news engulfs him slowly,
as it must, as it always has,
the cool sorrow rising
up from his toes
through his calves and knees,
into his thighs. His belly cries,
empty, remembering
the warmth of her skin,
as she lay her head on him,
resting, making plans—

He feels the sorrow approach
his chest. He knows it will come.
The gasping, the weeping,
they are creeping toward him.
He is not ready.
He will never be ready.
So he stands and stares at
where she is not.
And he longs for something other
than this large and lonely
and inconsolable loss.

—Emma Skogstad

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I've been thinking about big stories.

Putting on the market an 1895 house that my wife's family has lived in for 68 years is a big story, yet, as we went through every piece of paper that had come to the house in those years, we kept getting caught in the little stories.

Just as the old man with the gray beard listens to a bird, I try to listen too. My car won't start. What are my options? How do I go from the exasperation of the moment to seeing how fortunate I am to have a car at all. And so I have to walk. At first I complain because I paid someone to fix my car, but then I realize that birds are singing as I walk.

Why is it so hard to step back? How much wisdom that man must have had to listen to the bird. He could be complaining about his fading memory or his aching body. But no, it is the bird that catches his attention.

There is a dark cloud above him. Is this telling us that something bad is going to happen to the man? And his hearing might be going, which is why the horn is placed on his ear like a hearing aid.

My sister-in-law asked me what my big story was in five words. I said something about wanting to connect different belief systems. She said I used too many words.

These simple joys, like listening to a bird's song, take us away from our miseries. The big story... It is not the story with consequences. It goes beyond time, place and circumstance. There is so much petty stuff that the man could be obsessing about. How will he divide up her property when he dies? Did he pay his bills? Does he have food for dinner?

Yet he chooses a little joy. The bird's song takes him to another place. Like the bird, he is just focusing on a song. He is liberated from his car not starting, his life ending, his kids fighting over his property. The bird sings a big story. If only I could hear it.

Kim Mosley

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The Bird

When the bird comes to sing to me
the bird as bright as sunshine
with its gold wings
its cocked head from which the notes pour forth,
will I believe?
Or will I say no, this dark water that I stand in,
this dark rain that pours upon my head
only these are real.
Will I play the sentimental fool,
believe what cannot be?
say the one I love loves me,
while others snicker?
Will I cling to my sorrow
or will I hear the bird?

Sarah Webb

Circles

”... You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round.” —Black Elk, http://stuff.samassaveneessa.info/docs/BlackElkSpeaks.pdf

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Spring Comes Round

The Kid spun.
Her arms stretched wide to the warming air.
The tips of her tennis shoes ground in the grit.
Rock liked the feel of them,
the circles they made in him
and the circle she made, staggering now,
Coyote bounding alongside.
Coyote's tongue lolled.
Perhaps he was as dizzy as the Kid
or it might be his dry equivalent of a laugh.
I heard you having fun! Jackrabbit called,
leaping from behind a prickly pear.
Another spin and another
and they fell into a tangle of tails
and ears and hair and fur and dusty laughter.
Rock, who never stopped spinning
as he moved through day and night,
hadn't needed to join in.  There was no reason to feel wistful.
Still, as his friends wriggled and thrashed against him,
trying to stand and falling back on top of Rock and each other,
laughing and trying to stand again,
he looked out at the day, and he was glad.

Sarah Webb

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(Photo by J.K. Nakata, United States Geological Survey)

1)
Cones & circles do not need bracing.
 They do not collapse when shaken.
Squares tempt those in a hurry
 to remove the diagonal bracing that
keeps the garage beneath
 from disappearing when
the ground moves when
 rocks relax their grip on
their kindred moving
 in the opposite direction.
Still those rocks are riven,
 one from another by swirls in
the sphere of our home planet.

Even circles have currents that
 wind smoke through the roof,
tear ships, bow from stern,
 and that greatest of winds, either
regional or intensely local,
 flattens houses both square
and round, destroying
 their symmetries.


(Photo by Otto Greule Jr /Getty Images)

2)
The heyoka are the holy fools
 of the Lakota, doing things backward
to show how forward is
 equally arbitrary, questioning
the status quo by
 satire, acting
as the counter weight.

Counter weight
 to an entire nation requires
extreme contrariness, so awkward,
 such a great weight to carry
the Shadow of
 an entire nation.

Who plays heyoka
 for our nation?


3)
The loud, the vulgar shout from
 the podium exaggerating the voice
of those who are not heard, do not count.

No wonder he is so loud, so vulgar,
 speaking for the millions whose
voice is not heard, whose jobs, identity, life
 has been given to machines,
ground to nothing in productivity gains,
 til the machines themselves complain,
the very rocks cry out, telling what
 few humans are left to say.

—Jeff Taylor

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Circles with an Opening by Kim Mosley

Boo circles! Yea mists!

Here’s what I don’t like about circles. I’m either in or out. If I’m in, I can’t get out. And if I’m out, I can’t get in. Either way, I am restricted. Even when we set chairs in a circle we need to leave an opening.

I like circles better than other geometric shapes. They all have their problems. I like cars that look like square boxes. The boxier the better.

The other problem with circles is that they roll down hills. They don’t sit anywhere.  They just lay down. Our world, as angular as it is, isn’t very friendly towards circles.

Did you know that the lenses on a camera sees circles? But since art is rectangles for the most part, what you get when you take a picture is either a landscape or a portrait, all cut by your helpful camera from a circle.

There is talk of a new camera that would give you only circles. And then, if you need to cow down to rectangle loving people, you can give them portraits or landscapes to their heart’s content.

So what is it that I like? Mists. Mists neither include nor exclude. They are both here and there. There is no beginning and no end. No one can take my mist because they can’t grab hold of her. We are all mists. Nothing more and nothing less. Our edges are soft. Some molecules bouncing off of me might be on the other side of the world, and some on this side. If someone says, where do you live, I can just say here or over there, and I’d be right. No need for GPS... Because I am always in the mist, wherever I am. Want to join households? It already happened. All mists are one.

I do owe a lot to circles. Zero is supposed to be a great mathematical advancement. How else would I indicate how many children I have living at home when they both grow up and leave home?

In school, I used to dread “0s.” 50% was bad enough, but if I knew nothing and wasn’t wise enough to know that was cool, I’d be devastated with a “0.”

Back to mists... They are much closer to what I know about something. There is nothing solid, nothing unchanging, nothing resolute about a mist. They are like feelings. They have some focus, but they don’t give up there as does a circle. Sometimes they are very contained and sometimes they explode. But they always respond to atmospheric conditions and changing life situations.

Circles on the other hand are like pies... And my problem with a pie is that once I eat it, it is gone. Gone with the wind, except not really... Gone into my stomach. Mists might be “gone with the wind,” but there is always a piece left behind... A memory... A glimpse at what once was.

Boo circles! Yea mists!

Kim Mosley

How vast it was

From Prompt:
Sometimes, when one is moving silently through such an utterly desolate landscape, an overwhelming hallucination can make one feel that oneself, as an individual human being, is slowly coming unraveled. The surrounding space is so vast that it becomes increasingly difficult to keep a balanced grip on one's own being. I wonder if I am making myself clear. The mind swells out to fill the entire landscape, becoming so diffuse in the process that one loses the ability to keep it fastened to the physical self. That is what I experienced in the midst of the Mongolian steppe. How vast it was! It felt more like an ocean than a desert landscape. The sun would rise from the eastern horizon, cut its way across the empty sky, change in our surroundings. And in the movement of the sun, I felt something I hardly know how to name: some huge, cosmic love. —from The Wind up Bird Chronicle  by Haruki Murakami.
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I did not know what it was at first. I had not experienced a feeling like it before. It was not love. It was not affection. It was not even tender – but it was warm. A warm feeling, a warmth I could not locate, I only knew that it was there, somewhere within me and that it had all of my attention. I am somebody who likes to label things, labeling helps to keep me sane, to organize my life by storing information in boxes to put away into the back of my mind so that the path in front of me is clear.

However, this did not work with that warm feeling. “Warm” was only a guess anyway, and it was not a complete description, there was more to it, so I could not just put it into one of my boxes and move on—I had to give it more attention, I needed to sit in it, accept that it was there in that moment and that it was there for a reason. It was like a hungry dog that won’t go away unless you feed him or kick him in the butt. I did not want to kick that warm feeling in the butt, however, so I fed it with my curiosity and attention.

What was it trying to tell me? What was its role in my life? Did it ask me to take action? Did it announce change within me?

I opened the blinds of my window, allowing the moonlight to light my room, hoping that a literal illumination would transform into a figurative one.

A lunar ray touched Sarah’s face, revealing that sleep was giving her the peace that I was lacking.

My mind continued with its quest to try to unravel the mystery of my new state of being. The questions did not stop. Why was I feeling this way? Had she caused it? Had we caused it?

Then finally, I remembered that good old trick, that trick that one should use in such a situation but that we tend to forget because it just is too good to be true. I wondered: “What would my grandma say about all of this?”

The answers came with ease. She would say: “The moment you are not able to give your feelings names anymore is the moment you heart has started to open.”

All of a sudden, the path in front of me was clear and I fell asleep.

—Jesco Puluj (Jesco, a filmmaker in Germany, was in Austin for SXSW. He'll be traveling around the USA for a month before returning.)

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My favorite landscapes, as a kid, were polar opposites. On the one hand, there was the frantic and busy State Street in Chicago. I was a little midget to the grown people and screeching cars. And I loved it. It pumped my adrenaline. It was a collage catering to every sense, from garish colors to cheap perfume. Women wore so much makeup that it almost fell off. And I admired how they could walk with their high heels. Everyone was in a hurry. I was lost in the chaos, and yet I felt completely at home.

Somewhere I had heard about dope, and how if you ever messed with the stuff you'd be addicted for life. One day, walking around on State Street, a man pinched my arm. I was convinced he had given me a shot of heroin, and that I was now a doomed addict. I knew that the shot would wear off, but I also knew that with the shot came the knowledge of where to get my next fix, so far.

In the summers we went to a little beach town in Oregon. There was a vast ocean there, that went on all the way to the horizon. The beach was deep and long, and the sand sung as you walked in it, due to a special crystalline structure. The little town was as different from State Street as a place could be, and yet I loved it just the same. I could hide in each of these spaces, and I didn't have to say anything. I could get lost in the immensity of either space, feeling both a complete stranger, and back to being in the womb.

How lucky to be able to experience man and nature, if there is to be a distinction. In the end, I am a small invisible dot on an infinite landscape—part of the whole—a whole as immense as I am minuscule.

Kim Mosley

How do you let things take the time they actually need?

Prompt:  “How do....mmmm..... how do you let things take the time they actually need?”
—Ann Hamilton,  Distinguished Professor of Art at Ohio State University,  and maker of large installations that explore voice and skin, textiles and movement.
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One Morning, We Awake

One early morning while driving hurriedly to a meeting some miles away, I discovered that special place in twilight where time seems to stand still.  That place between complete darkness and sunrise where the world still sleeps and dreams sometimes come true.

Dreams like tiny lights upon the horizon blink and twinkle and shine, and for the briefest moment, we can reach out and touch them before they wink and disappear.  I don't know whose dreams they are, but from a distance they are appealing.  Like a beacon, they are a point of hope, a promise of a brighter day to come.

You can't rush into this special place, although we all try.  You can only reach it by slowing down and by letting go of perceptions.  We have to experience the moment; just this one special moment... that moment of awareness when we truly know that we are alive... and that this is real.

—Paul Causey