Things Exist By Virtue of their Effects

We create what we resist. Resistance comes with the symptom of indirectly studying and ideologically manifesting what it is we previously only suspected we’d feared. The more we yield to the condition of resistance, the more we create, empower, and bolster the characteristics which we resist. For example, children are born without certain fears and only through socialization, language, education, and externally inspired inward recollection are given the tools to “embody, describe, and express” and so IT is created…and whether real or not, it’s “perceived” existence is enough to change the course of history….

things exist by virtue of their effects.

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I cannot trust a truth that has a purpose more important than itself

I cannot trust a truth that has a purpose more important than itself. When we are through with the pounding pursuit of objectives, and the chisels of tactics are worn down to nothing but pitted dull stumps, we will find we have created a tall berm of talus and dust between us and the truth, but there stands the “fruits” of our labor nonetheless. A true artist can look at a block of marble and know the true form within it before the chisel is ever set and struck.

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Defined by a Feather

A feather fell.. .2 years after writing this, a feather literally fell from the sky in a Caravanserai in Turkey... since then, my entire life has shifted.

Two years after writing this, a feather literally fell from the sky in a Caravanserai in Turkey… since then, my entire life has shifted.  This is literally the moment I picked that feather up.

My gift at mid-life, (which is defined by the fulcrum that shifts continually to the right over the course of a lifetime) was received when I dropped a palette of gold that I pulled from the earth to catch a single white feather that fell toward me from the sky. The gold was intended to pave the trail from whence I came, the feather, to show me the direction I should go.

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Arthur – on the art of Living

Our lives, each of us, are like perfectly tuned instruments…objects of intrigue in our stillness, but exquisitely beautiful when played among the symphony of life. When I go, the strings may snap and wood may warp…but the music is indelible. Go ahead and make a beautiful sound.

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Love is Fierce –

Love is Fierce – if you stand in it’s way, it will not swerve.

I have learned in life that sometimes truth (even our own)
is largely a function of how well we calibrate and hone
the instruments of self observation.

I suppose it’s “how” we look at ourselves,
more than “what” we see.

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Happiness – Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.

I hear so many exchanges about “happiness” here in the amphitheater of social media. It is everywhere spoken – so much, that we fail to take a breath as we speak of it – it fills space with an abundance like oxygen, yet we suffocate as if it is absent altogether. Ironic. Herman Hesse wrote, “…happiness is a how, not a what; a talent, not an object…” I subscribe that happiness is the cause, not the effect; and still the “best” flavor of happiness seems to finish with a taste of gratitude on it. I find it odd that we know ourselves least, when we are confounded by why we are so happy and to whom we should be thankful. Ah, it is “I” that am the cause of happiness…so “I” am the effect! Take time to listen to what is inside, least spoken.

One evening, I came upon a Lovely Dreaming Fox – I paused and spoke, “Fox, imagine if water were happiness and you were a fish…would you sooner die drowning, than from thirst?” The fox stirred and thought for a moment… “Clearly, in either case, I would be miserable as a fish, which only reminds me of how happy I am to be a fox…”

How Parafoxical.

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The Heart of the Matter

“Go away,” I hiss, as I coil in the shadows,
slowly and broodingly licking my wounds.

If you are to love me, then do so forcefully
to spite the resolve of my injury,
but you must not love me
for the well of hope that flourishes below my scars.

If you must speak to me,
then squelch the pain in my voice with deafening cold volume –
you cannot harmonize with the melody that I keep muted.
I will not stay with you to be loved for what you see in me,
you may only love me for what I show you.

So if you are of keen sight and intuition,
and can feel the joy and love within me,
then dull your senses –
and repress such imaginations.

You see, at some point,
an unattended injury, an unforgiven transgression,
will roost proudly within the cage of our being –
doing little else but blocking sunlight –
in essence, as “victim”
you become the ward of will power.

Enough time has passed, and you remain only a victim
because you coddle the victim,
spite the victim, mute the victim, hide the victim,
and turn the knife in the heart of your own creativity.

You have willed the victim.
You are the benefactor of all you will to be.

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Understanding Never

I never gave up calling your name,
it was just done through the tremendous space of silence.
So when you did not answer,
I understood…

I never betrayed my hopes for you,
it was just done through the faith I maintained toward those I loved.
So when I found they were not you,
I understood…

I never doubted myself,
it was just done to encourage my search for truth.
So when I found one drop of certainty in an ocean of doubt,
I understood….

You came to me in all names
It was my silence that spoke to your soul without condition…
So when our lips met,
You understood me.

Through your faith in me,
You always followed close – gathering tears on trails I’d blazed for others
So when the light in my eyes illuminates your own path
You will understand me.

Even in a river of endless possibilities,
You will be quenched by one discovery, left in a curling eddy of love…
While, fathomless currents of truths,
Disappear as myths over the edge of disbelief.

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Mysteries Need Not Be Mysterious

You enter me through mysteries
That come to rest inside my heart
Like obsidian shadows from another soul
You brush gently along within me,
Softening luminescence –
an intuition of who we are – not told
You breath, Leaving a trail of nostalgic aromas
Of honeysuckle and dew on the moss
You glisten along the nexus of moment to moment

Like pearls strung together and touching sweetly
Clattering like chimes, pattering
A string of quiet satin kisses
that go on incompletely
From distances beyond what may be measured
With provenance in the tears of angels
On pillows of time
I dream awake, entranced
I enter you, through mysteries
that cannot be seen, not blind

And while bells don’t ring it clear to us
They blend and blend…and blend
To glow from brilliant eyes –
low chimes sound like mysteries not mysterious.

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Rose Speak

the color and bloom of a breath when you speak,
I curl around every petal
to see you as a daffodil
would only be to settle

no, I think thou ar’t a rose
In a garden rooted in love
drawn deep down from a blood red heart
blessed by a morning dove

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