• Category Archives essay
  • Happy Now Years… The History of Now.

    O’, such romance, this fickle affair with time.

    But imagine if every day were New Years Eve; were we to dutifully absorb a moment of wistful reflection at morning awoken or before closing our eyes at night. Think about it. If we thought back over the past 24 hours and counted the memories of special importance, reconciled bitter regrets, and then toasted cheerfully to the next 24 hours.

    Or to recount that kiss at the door; and that delicious free cup of coffee the barista gave you, and when that man opened a door for you this afternoon because your arms were full of groceries. Remember that argument you had with your son as he left for school or the unexpected bill you received in the mail. Or the intersection this morning when that guy with the “homeless, cold, and hungry” sign sadly looked away — while you locked your car doors as he walked by.

    Reflect and hope to never forget or take for granted these snippets of the recollected day. Apportion the relevance of your losses and squander not the gains. It was a day to look fondly upon new friends that came and went in the instant of a smile and to wish well of passerby’s with remembered frowns but forgotten faces.

    Remember the closing of this past day is not to honor the loss of celebrities or shake a white-knuckled fist at the notoriety of national politicians, or fear river floods and forest fires, and writhe in humanity’s ignorance of shelled villages and refugees and Nobel prizes and downed jetliners. The world of the hour has not happened to you, rather you happened to it. Send the day off with a gift of your own – never see it off empty handed, while yours are full.

    Why do we recall, love and loathe so distantly? Consider the nearby little feats and failures in the life of the spectator that become prey to the grand affairs of the illusion of measured time. We quickly turn past pages of truth to fancy ourselves in the foreground of this artificial accounting of merely tabloid worthy and otherwise untenable acts and scenes in someone else’s play.

    Honor the nourishment of the long year in sipped spoonful’s of precious seconds. Make note of what is within the reach of your hands and lips. Turn your eyes to whomever nearby can hear your sighs. Tune your senses to the utterances of close company that caresses your ears.

    The brilliance of the sun and its blushing moon do not know time. Let them be timelessly beautiful. Why amass the individuality of four seasons into one? Why blend the distinction of morning and night? Let each hour’s basket of immeasurable moments be your one celestial sized revolution. Be the historian of NOW.

    Each slice of movement no matter how still is worthy of celebration. Happy “chronoversary.” Happy Timelessness.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • -ness

    supermoon1c

    Sometimes we are only organisms among organisms – we respond through both willful and involuntary action to primal instincts and desires, triggered by external causes. We covet and protect and hunt and gather. Other times, we are more complex than this, we are – more esoteric.

    Sometimes, we listen to music and recite memorized lines and dance with our extremities flailing about ecstatically. Other times, we look out from our waiting morning window to investigate a noise and are struck by a sky filled with streaks of pink carnation and rose on gradations of blue – and we are compelled to be still and hypnotized. And upon stepping outside or doors, we catch the attar of sweet winter flowers in the shrubbery; and this reminds us of long ago seasons as children. Back then, I didn’t bother myself with these ponderings.

    There is something that is greater than a thought, a word, an object.  Something that makes it deeply and characteristically what it is – or seems to be.  That which “makes it so” is a “that” which makes all the universe deeply and characteristically (and uncharacteristically) what it is.  I call this this essence of being its “ness.”

    The –ness of all things is the single “a priori” to all cosmic existence. The -ness is an equally shared essence among all we know or could be known by man or not by man. In fact, because it is a single “essence” there can be no “sharing” per se for this would imply multiplicities of truth in which to share and there is only One. Hatred, fear, and love are attributes of human attention that depend not on object or recipient for their existence, but rather are both causal and caused by the shared essence; an Essence that “knows only/only knows” that it is not fear but “fear-ness;” not love, but “love-ness.”

    The wind simply is an invisible, quiet current, only detectable through instruments of limited capacity; these instruments deserve our attention, nourishment and cultivating. And watch out the window and there goes autumn in the parade of loosed leaves, whistling tree limbs, and swaying landscapes. What do we know of the stealthy wind other than these minute effects? How the leaves blow before my vision, so goes God.

    We are deeply committed to what we know, yet we know not the capacity of that –ness. In the Marvel box office movie, “Doctor Strange,” the main character Steven Strange asks, “You follow her, but you do not know her?”

    We can close our eyes and lower our finger into the ocean, or a glass of water – if I didn’t tell you which is which, you’d not know their difference. For all you know, you could drink down both, having no sense of their volume… just water-ness. Why become muddled with particularity? Knowledge is never ending in the cosmic world, compassionate understanding in the spiritual world is the mastery of our station.

    What lies just “beyond” is fractured by the foreground of the “cosmic present”…were it not for the moon’s compacted sphere of dust “galactically” suspended there, what would we know of the solar light just beyond that. And so, if not for the moons reflection of (recast) light, what would we know of the foreground of simple tree branches. Each owes its detected existence to the previous. From this position, we see the silhouette, from the moons perspective, she see’s its face most clearly.

    All in this world owes existence (as we know it) through our awareness… and that awareness, through our esoteric senses. We know of truth (of light) through its “impedance” not its absolute actuality… for its essence (light-ness) exists quietly and hidden, and still until it bounces off of something. It is like the wind that is invisible and quiet until it collides with tree branches. All persists this way until there is “compassionate interference” which quickens interpretation through our consciousness.

    The true Beauty of our observations, the Reality of knowledge, depends not on the object of knowledge nor its cognitive recipient… rather, it is the clarity of the human soul that reflects the essence (the -ness) of divine existence. Perception is a replica; understanding is its interpretation. Yet, we couldn’t be further from the truth, and still the truth depends on us from within us.

    It is wise to be “individually” clear, if we are to “compassionately interfere” (understand) in the collective, single universe, which is wholly contained within the multitude of each of us. And all this from a super moon.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • Writer in the Artist Studio – This and That

    (a story about entering the studios of Nasser Ovissi – dictated on the drive home)

    Oh, this sweet exhaustion.
    This weariness from wanting,
    this fire that burns towards having.

    I woke this morning
    and went to visit the Artist.
    The colors on His gallery walls were alive.
    Each portrait poured the water of life
    into white woven canvas.
    I was surrounded by an eternity,
    Wing to wing with jeweled angels
    arm in arm with all of burgeoning humanity.

    Breathless from a palpating heart,
    I walk quite trustfully
    into this craft of love that entwines us
    and everything we see, and hear, and do;
    even among those things that remain hidden
    from our deepest perception,
    from our senses day-lit views.

    Slipping into a ceaseless state of wonder,
    swelling with the sense,
    that my purpose is to be fully thankful,
    that this bears fruit in expressions
    that serve all
    By this art within,
    inspired by the Artful.

    I am always transforming
    In these threshold doorways.
    This is not a road with many stoplights,
    this is not even the road.
    It is a wide and expensive flatness
    the Artist’s studio
    going in all directions,
    endlessly.
    We do not stop to turn or to let others pass,
    nor do others stop to let us
    for nothing impedes us
    on this path.

    Happiness birthed by love
    is a writer’s cup spilling over,
    cascading into an ever thinning
    but never disappearing,
    veneer of water,
    purling outward infinitely.
    These ripples do not expire,
    it does not evaporate.

    When I entered His abode,
    it was into a place where my heart
    was already waiting.
    This is how lovers come up to one another.
    Arriving where they had already arrived.
    A rekindling of a bonfire spirit,
    one that might at times smolder,
    but is never near extinguished.

    Maulana says that we are moving swiftly down the stream,
    and what appears to be trees passing by us on the banks
    is just the speed of our vessel leaving this world.

    You and I talk of this and that,
    these cycles of melancholy and ecstasy.
    We see sinuating patterns where there are none.
    In the end it is a white light,
    in which to feel the spectrum
    of all its hidden colors.

    There are no cycles beloved friends,
    we scintillate in a perpetual state of splendor
    here there is no end
    and to remain here we need not try,
    we simply surrender, you and I.
    A writer with an Artist’s eye.

    Surrender to the resistance of effort,
    Surrender this, for resistance is effortless.
    This is what illuminate’s distractions;
    and when these distractions lift on the light,
    it is one Bliss about us,
    it is all One portrait’s
    indescribable sight.

    We are part of the single thread
    that weaves through time
    and space
    and our part is a whole.
    What we want and cannot have,
    is distraction, so have
    without wanting.

    The sweetness of the sugar cube
    is not in the cube;
    It is in us.
    It is not on the tongue,
    it is of the tongue.
    The Us we seek, seeks us!
    Let us turn toward it, not away
    It is only ubiquitous Love.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • Give Away What You Love: The Feather and the Mirror

    I read a friends accounting of her meeting with an artisan named Calisto, a traditional Hawai’ian woodworker.  He drove up to her house one day to buy a wheelbarrow from her. Both she and Calisto immediately knew that their coming together was for more than a financial transaction and they spoke of things well beyond words and mundane “accountings.” Their friendship burgeoned. Recently, he surprised her with a beautiful gift lovingly made from some tamarind wood she’d found and given him the day before. So moved, she gave him some bundled sage and a most auspicious feather she’d kept with her for years. As she watched him drive off in his truck, a beautiful owl came to roost on a fence post nearby. Intended for him, he returned the tamarind wood, sculpted and inlaid with a mirror. He gave her something formed from his own heart in which to reflect. And he took with him something quite dear to her heart.

    I am moved by the story. I am moved by the gentle intersections of human paths. The transience and the eternity. What we remember is the flare of the flame as the flint of one strikes the frizzen of the other. Even after this, even if the flame returns to the sun, we are left living in the present with the persistence of its warmth and light. We become the effects of our engagements if we nourish ourselves in the graceful orbit of encountering objects.

    Everything is a love affair and we often attach this to notions of the transient and carnal. And this habit of attachment causes us to miss the real Truth of love because we become caught in the gravity of falsity and we reason around illusion. One cannot wash away mud with mud. Whenever I meet a beloved, I am somehow breaking the binds of illusion. Love is water for the earth, sun for the leaf, air for flight.

    She gave him a feather that she kept as if her own for so long. The falling feather has been a reoccurring omen and talisman in my life. And while I hold no idols for God, I do believe He manifests messages in all things that fall to earth. So I see everyone and everything as the word of One ultimate true Being…even idols.

    So we give away what is loved the most. We return a golden fish to the river, a bird to the sky. The ocean is in the pearl we find in each oyster, we can remove the pearl from the shell, but never posses its greater essence. Each plume belongs in the wing of love… it is not ours to keep and does little unless part of that which allows us to fly. I’m grateful to meet people who let things go… truths given for greater truths.

    So when I see an owl fly, a fish swim, or a beloved drift on, I am reminded of my indissoluble presence with the universe. She and Calisto are each feathers in the wing, and the wing is within each of them. Even me now.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • The Pillars of the Ride

    in the wheel(Day 9 of the Ramadan Riding series)

    1. There is No Bike Path, but One Bike Path.

    There is no path, but one path, no matter which direction you go or how many trails you ride – even across separate days, it’s still the one path; I call it “the Ride.” The bike, the rider, the pavement below the wheels are all one, and the “true” rider is the mystic within us, not simply the “body” in the seat. During the ride the heart of the mystic speaks to the mind and body of the rider; it is a voice within a voice and if we are not aware of it, the ride becomes miserable. It is best to set and harken one’s intention at the beginning of the ride, that we are alone and one with the bike and the path. This is necessary for clarity, simplicity, and comfort during the pain of pedaling, for there is a difference between pain and discomfort. There is no ride if we are only pedaling.

    2. Riding is Prayer and Meditation.

    Riding is quintessentially a fluid journey through long periods of reverent silence along a straight line. The mind is free to wander, yet there are things we must do on the bike to keep our course and tempo; and then there are those things we must do on the ride “itself.” This is where the mind must speak to the heart and holds faith that the heart guides the mind’s will through the cycles of pain and ease. Pain is a poor guide for how well we are biking. There is a joy in submitting to the ride itself and this joy is the guide. At the height of an experience on the ride, there is a voice that speaks to us, whom we also speak to. It is a mistaken duality – we can “speak to be heard” and “be silent to hear” at the same time. Riding is a conversation with the true self.

    3. Biking is Giving

    If I pull over during my ride, another passing rider inevitably asks, “You okay?” I’ve seen many riders pause his ride, dismount his bike, and provide his last spare tire and assistance to another in need; this is what allows the giver to know that if he is ever in trouble himself, another rider will help him. In a cycling group, one rider will take the place as the lead rider, when the leader becomes weary. It is far easier to stay back in the pack, than lead; in this sense, leading is giving and giving is leading. At the Tour de France, second place Jan Ulrich passed Lance Armstrong after Armstrong fell due to a careless spectator. Instead of racing ahead, Ulrich waited for Armstrong to dust himself off and get back on the bike. Ulrich eventually lost the race – but did he lose the ride? Giving is honoring.

    4. Riders are Spiritually Sated by Their Bodily Thirst

    Riders get hungry, tired, and uncomfortable. In fact, there is seldom a true ride where this isn’t the case. In fact, we signed up for it when we got on the bike. This is what differentiates the rider-body from the rider-mystic! We become better under hardship and so the ride grows easier. The experience of moving along a trail in a sense of “time and speed induced impoverishment” creates ecstatic states as the body and mind submit to the heart and to the senses beyond our senses. A weary rider is stripped of his guard and becomes ultimately vulnerable but ironically empowered; and if he completes the ride, becomes the euphoric mystic. Spirit is nourishment for a hungering rider.

    5. Every Biker is a Pilgrim

    As all paths are one, so every ride I take is the same as that taken by all who have gone before, or who will go after. The lush W&OD trail has always been here in Virginia – even as I was riding through the parched deserts of Arizona. What makes these the same is that each is a journey “inward” to the shrine of the heart of the “true rider.” Be clear that the ride out is the same as the ride in… each turn of the crank is an affirmation. Reverence to our own ride as “that of a lifetime” is the act of perfecting ourselves as true riders. The “behavior of the rider” is what moves the bike – it is well beyond “body and bike mechanics.” The ride leads back to It-self as the self began – the Ride is a circle.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • On Hope

    If you give a deaf man a colorful music box with an ethereal dancing figurine within it. Do you hope that he hears the music? Do you hope that he enjoys the visual beauty and pirouette of the ballerina? Or perhaps you hope that he simply appreciates the gesture of giving or that he passes it along to someone who can hear the music he only imagines.

    Reasonableness and thoughtfulness are necessary companions to hope. Just like every choir needs a tenor. And in our example above, there is always hope if you search for it… hope before action, and hope after action. If we allow ourselves to linger in the remembrance of the the divine, our actions will become second nature and quite consistent with “hope.” Thoughtfully listen to the entire choir, if you want to hear the tenor.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • On Sorrow

    Too often we treat sorrow as the shadow in the light that is better-off ignored. We might find it as the single black sheep in the flock that doesn’t see the white sheep as different. This thin and mangled dog in need of nourishment and yet we shun it, send it away. Sorrow has a beauty and a note to play in the song of life. A soft and subtle glistening and the elegant markings of the Divine artisan. A shudder in the breath of the neyzan that quivers the registers of his ney.

    We treat sadness and doubt as if it’s an unwanted limb. A blemish we wish we could rid. But sadness is a birthmark; to be examined for the beauty that gathers around it.

    Our lives do more than endure sorrow, whether it has descend upon us through the actions or lack thereof by loved ones, significant others, lost lives and loves, and colleagues. Sorrow can be simply the pure essence of a misfortune that has yet to manifest; general malaise without reason, and so we create explanations for the inexplicable.

    There are clusters of dense knots in the smooth and sinuous aloeswood. Still the wood burns as sweet, knowing the knots are but fragrant florets.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • Never Ending Spells of Bliss

    meminiJust beneath the expressive notes of the consoling ney (reed flute) I hear the current of His breath carrying the burden of the neyzen’s lamenting song. Such intimacy between the lips of man and the kiss of his Creator reveals a musical beauty that does not discriminate between sadness and joy.

    Many of us feel the spells of bliss amidst the austerity of living in this world.  Within these moments are radiating spires of clarity streaming through the breaks of shifting clouds.  It is the undercurrents of our present awareness dispersing the fog of pain and confusion.

    We often react to our pleasure so blindly and thus quickly go from both creator and created to simply spectator.  And so we whip out our cameras, open our notebooks and sketchpads, or raise our hands and voices toward the magnificence. No sooner do we set the snare for our experience, than the elusive moment shimmers one last time and blinks out for good.

    While walking with my young son along the Shenandoah mountain trails yesterday, he said, “…it’s weird how we rush down the path just to get to the next location, and then we get to that location and all we do is think about all the things we saw on our way to that location…” Was he simply impatient with our stops along the way, or was the effort of waiting revealing something so deeply profound to us both?

    We covet the beauty as if the sky-clearing-breath is solely our own; an occasional and accidental gust of wind.  Do we choose to be the occasional neyzen or are we each music’s timeless messenger? Beyond the limits of our easily distractible consciousness is a state of pure presence that is forever an open channel to the true breath.  The potential to shift the opacity and translucency of the heavens is not acquired from the crypts and treasure troves around us, but rather is recognized within ourselves through meditation and prayer.  We may withdraw our reach, but beauty is always within reach inside of us.

    Everything in the world is breath, persistent and unified. We are both the ney and its hollowness; the polished surface is the harmony to the melody within us.  The rising music is our honored wayfaring guest, a gracious essence – nourished by our presence and hospitality.

    Be all things by resisting possession of anything in particular.  And should you come across the wealth spring of being, give it away to the world’s chorus that stirs you.

     

     

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • Darkness Longs for Its Shadow

    I spoke of poems I’d never write
    Of ghosts that haunt in broad daylight
    Like the time I kissed you silently
    When you forgot you said you’d remember me.

    Words that spill from a poet’s pen
    Form iron links that lock you in
    A heart whose walls are paper thin,
    From which you leap, you’re gone again.

    I find myself in darkness now…and it’s here I wish to linger. Darkness, an old friend who listens to my enlightening stories with a sardonic grin and small dagger that he slowly but deftly twirls in his fingers. He knows when to show up…when I hang the light of a beloved in the heavens, he comes and grins…and lets me continue to sing the praises. “Oh this love I’ve found…if you only knew.”

    This love we emanate pales in comparison to its source within. Yet we wield the light as if we hold the eye of God. We rip open our chest and beat rays of light on everything around us. “I never felt love, until I loved her…I never knew the beauty of the moon, until my heart shown upon it… ’tis my own illumination, whose reflection I seek.”

    I’m a tenant of my own heart…darkness is my neighbor on one side, light on the other. But the dark companion patronizes me…and taunts me to expend myself, “write poet, write! Cast that heavenly light on everything.” It is darkness that drives me to love myself blind – and it’s there the poet fumbles for his quill, spilling the ink reservoir all over the parchment. Darkness spreads whispers of light into the ears, but we hear with our hearts. Outside our hearts, darkness moans to enter, begs for deep and undulating penetration – to seduce its way into our hearts; but nay, not to snuff the flame within, but rather to reveal itself to itself in light. For how lonely it must be, to be darkness and never see your own reflection. How lonely to love, without another heart to at least cast back a glimpse of our own image.

    We are dervishes – wanderers and aloof mystics; seeking to seduce our way into the depths of the divine. But it is the divine that seduces us. You are the wandering gypsy and vagabond, learning to love in the absence of another’s presence. I see the emerald worn in that necklace, glimmering in the dark shadows to where she sometimes retreats. It takes but a pinpoint of light to find the heavenly source.

    “I want no more of this,” I once conceded…and threw up my fortresses. My hands cracking with dryness, my fingernails were laden with dirt from digging the mote around my heart, that no one would enter – and I spilled my own blood into its trenches. I took my fertility talisman up to the mouth of the volcano and threw it in with disgust. I leaned over to watch it descend into the sacrificial pyre – flames shot up, and the nuée ardente seared my eyelashes. I wanted no more of this idolatry…I’d been loving the symbol, wooing her for too long.

    I’d loved everything lit by the Sun, while I lusted for a brighter star. If love is a tiger, then lust is my pacing the cage. I loved my possessions, my family, many a vagabond and gypsy – I loved myself and my God.

    I loved my poetry – my beautiful poetry. Some writers court their readers – seeking not their understanding, but rather a watering eye. I wrote to be worthy of love… but not just any. Yet, I have whored myself to the masses, but being poet, a seam from my heart tore through and caught the eye of its reader, or rather, caught a glimpse of itself in the divine opening of another. God came through the emptiness – and without describable content filled my container.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+

  • What is “Is”

    A most beloved friend and I met a month prior to my writing the passages below  in January of 2013.  Little did I know of Sufism or the Shahadah and little do I know now.  It’s a tad philosophical, in many ways incorrect, stodgy, an only hints toward that divine experience we so love on faith.  By I still enjoy these confusions.  So, this morning as I prepared to travel west for a retreat in the tradition the great Maulana (Rumi), I stumbled upon this email to that friend which began with a passage by Kabir Helminski; the passage that inspired the remainder of the email.  So it’s perhaps not surprising that I will meet Shaikh Kabir this weekend, three years later.

     


     

     

    “I am contained, as a guest, in a faithful heart, without qualification or definition or description, so that through the medium of that heart everything, above and below, may win from Me sovereignties and fortune. Without such a mirror neither Earth nor Time could bear the vision of My Beauty.”

    – Shaikh Kabir

    Living in contrary to a world (Dunya) is to place that world in an immobile place, un-reaching and unreachable place. A loving heart (“Dergah of Love”) shimmers inward from the nexus, along that delicate membrane that is the mirror between Self and World. Porous before impermeable – it is. Such that selfdom is not a place of space and time, but a ubiquitous realm, that when experienced by two or more – conjoins their essences into one. It is as present as a the earths horizon is finite; as the tip of starlight before it simply exhausts itself before ever reaching the eye of consciousness. If we are the source of such light, then nothing ends or fades…we are not at the receiving end of light, but it’s creator.

    My God is not a bitter one – He is not fearful of what is taken away or given, for giving and receiving are origins with no beginnings, destinations with no ending. To speak of God in terms that make Him unattainable is to destroy ourselves, to make Him fully achievable is to destroy Him. There is no God, rather God is. The act of being equals “is.” “Is”ness requires an a priori state from which an action of belief implies “existence.” To argue whether there is or isn’t a God gives more credence to “arguing” than what we actually argue about. God is…from there, one may continue the sentence or not…that is not the argument…it is the origin of choice…the only one we are given in this universe that seems to have merit. Bill Clinton – may or may not have been existentially moved to dispel he was lying when he stated, “there is nothing going on between us…?” Is means there was never a was. All things “are” and “are not.”   His affair with “that woman” had always been an “is” from the beginning of time, but as a reality to be contended with,  to manifest or not.  This as much the case as his affair with an elephant or becoming a famous race car driver. He played on the present and past tense implications of “is.” So, “is there a God” is not a question relative to his existence or purpose… Yes, there “is a God” in the Bible, in the Koran… But in our hearts, our minds… “God is.” And “God is not…” Suppositional argumentation always begins, “God can be…so where do we go from here?” I’m making myself dizzy…

    The human condition (being fleshly alive, with a soulful capacity) is to experience the fine line between starvation and fulfillment. Within capacity of Soul, there is no ending, no suffering, no entrance from the outside that is not opened from the inside. Yet we are in a world, where monetary systems are inextricably tied to biology, and nourishment an integration function as as relationship captured within a global physical value system. The equation of biology, versus the Soul, exchanges within limited opposites…feast or famine, abode and homelessness, physical joy and pain. The human condition is to exist in an entropic world that is not driven toward active existence but static equilibrium…quite simply everything is born to die. And a little more is dissipated with each change state. Are we in error to equate thermodynamics and human socio-cultural behavior in their proclivity to irreversibly progress toward disorder?  Are we victims of entropy, creators, or misguided in our imaginings of “order?” I do not ask if there is order, order “is” or order “is not.” So where we go from there, is to the hearts language – animus lingua.

    Love and thermodynamics.  The soul is not measurable energy, it does not exchange states – it simply is what we must acknowledge in order to understand the course of humankind…and love.

    tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookPrint this pageShare on Google+