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Every Day Acts of Peace

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Saturday, November 20, 2010

Los Angeles 2001: Who I Was, Who I Am, Whom I Am Yet To Be

The rooms in some people’s houses
contain cocoons.
The custom of some Mesoamerican people 
is to raise silkworms at home.

The worms take almost one year to raise.
In the month of March the butterflies lay their eggs on mats.
At five months the little worms come out of their eggs,
and are fed Mora leaves by their family of humans.

The smaller worms 
are sorted from the larger ones,
so the big do not eat the little, 
so no harm is preyed on the weak.

Maybe we are as unique as we think.
Maybe we are part of a picture larger than ourselves.

We are coming out of the dark, 
ages it seems, that we have been 
passing through the evolutions of our souls -
swimming seasons surrounding the soul's life cycles.

Humanity naturally mirrors 
our painful glories and joyful triumphs.
We all created the stage 
that we perform our parts on.

I wonder if anything 
I have said or done, 
during my life 
has contributed to hatred.

It is not easy to raise silkworms in your home; 
they must be well cared for.

Three months after the worms open their eggs 
they begin to drool,
and secrete silk deposits 
that require immediate cleaning.

Silkworms must be well nourished.
Or they do not give enough.
Or what they give is lacking quality -
not functional for viable social use.

We are buds cast out of branches; 
grow to be leaves cast off the trees 
to fly scattered on the wind.
We land in time for rebirth.

Buried alive with the next cycle of life 
within each one of us, 
during the harshness of Winter,
we steady and ready our self for the emergence.

We ready and steady our self to grow,
into more space, we grow, into more space we grow.
Ready to emerge in the Spring 
we climb the tree of life to become life, again.

We are Spring, springing new blooms.
We are blossoms, ready to weather the seasons.

Sometimes I feel 
planted to the same spot, looking at the same view-
no matter how much I have traveled 
I am in front of my mirror, me.

I see only what appears to me, 
appears to be me,
my restructured harmony,
past-societies of aging former-selves.

I see images, all that is re-membered.

My all remembered within my bodied-structure.
All my internal-civilization 
constantly updating to reflect my potential, 
consistently blending my harmonious whole.

My past no longer exists, 
My present is now, 
My future is not yet created.

More and more, time as I have known it
has ceased to exist -
and my experience of my self 
has become simple pure existence.

The world clock echoes backward.
The world mirror reflects me forward. 
My own self-image, this world, that which I have 
asked to be revealed, I ask to see, I ask to make peace with.

My mirror image is part illusion, wholly peace.
My right side is reflected as my left.
What is left is reflected as my right.
When I view my self, core centered, I am symmetry.

Balanced, I command my house to shatter,
and by my command I manifest my implosion. 
All of me, my ceiling, my floor, my walls,
all doors open, none to close, my view is clear.

My mirror shapes peacefully shifting my illumination clear.
All thresholds are shown to me,
and I cross all the thresholds open to me.
All images of my self, now dispersed have disappeared.

All images of my self, now transformed are translucent.
My lucidity flows sustainably like peace silk.
Who I was, am now, yet to be, whom I am destined to be - all the same. 
All is the same. All that is, is always one and the same.

Who I was, was always, who I am.
Who I am, was always, who I am.
Who I was, Who I am, 
Whom I am yet to be.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1207 Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi wrote;
“One went to the door of the beloved and knocked.
A voice asked, “Who is there?”
He answered, “It is I.”
The voice said, “There is no room for Me and Thee.”
The door was shut.
After a year of solitude and deprivation he returned and knocked.
A voice from within asked, “Who is there?”
The man said, “It is Thee.”
The door was opened for him.”


Sometime after 1875, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote;
"Have patience with everything
that remains unsolved in your heart.
Try to love the questions themselves,
like locked rooms
and like books written in a foreign language.
Do not now look for the answers.
They cannot now be given to you
because you could not live them.
It is a question of experiencing everything.
At present you need to live the question.
Perhaps you will gradually,
without even noticing it,
find yourself experiencing the answer,
some distant day.

Loneliness is just space expanding around you.
Trust uncertainty.
Sadness is life holding you in its hands and changing you."