Wednesday, January 20, 2016

The Weaver

I’m not going to be the hero you read about in books. I’m not that type of hero. I am a weaver. I weave seemingly random moments into a tapestry of words that come together to form a message that connects the outwardly disparate, distinct threads of my life. I merge bold obnoxious hues of green, red, and orange, with soft pastels of pink, yellow, purple, and blue. That is my craft, my gift. I connect things, subtly, invisibly, patiently, into an intelligible whole.

The other day I went to community mediation with a friend. The teacher spoke of the Zen Buddhist tradition of koans, and I came to understand them as being a bit like Jesus’ parables, paradoxical anecdotes used to demonstrate the inadequacy of logical reasoning to arouse enlightenment. I left the meditation with the sense that my gift, like my life, was remarkably similar to this notion of koans. It doesn’t make sense. It’s an answerless riddle, whose truth, invisible to the eye, is discernable only to the heart.

The weaving, I often don’t see it happening. No, I feel it happening. I sense myself gathering threads, random moments of significance that capture my attention.  It is an unscripted, non-linear process. I don’t know how the moments will come together. It doesn’t fit a pre-determined path; its not goal-oriented. It unfolds moment-to-moment, word-to-word, from some non-distinct origin.

It’s an abstract, confusing, and frustratingly slow process. People often ask me why I’m still playing field hockey, well, its simple really, the tapestry isn’t complete. I’m still weaving.

You know how you can see a thing, and understand a thing one way your entire life, you think you know it, but all of sudden, in an unsuspecting moment, everything shifts, and you see the very same thing you’ve been looking at your whole life in a totally new way. Well, that’s what is happening for me, everything’s shifting, a new sense of awareness buds within my soul, and these random moments of significance I've been cataloging for years are beginning to settle themselves into the weaver’s tale.

And when the tapestry is complete, I can't wait to share it.

Monday, December 14, 2015


Morning dawns,
And with it,
I’m gone.

Darkness settles,
And in it,
I mettle.

Demons come.
And from them,
I run.

Bells ring
And with them,
I sing.

Winds blow,
And from them,
I know.

Light appears,
And in it,
I hear:

There’s nothing to fear
God is here.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

The Personification of Sadness

Lips brushed gently against my ear. It was like the soft caress of a warm wind. A shiver descended my spine. I anchored my bare feet into the brown panels of cold wooden floor. The room was empty, and yet, I wasn’t alone. I knew those lips. I knew that wind, and I knew that the swell was nearly upon me.

“You’ve returned.” I mouthed in wordless welcome.

“Yes. I’ve returned.” She whispered.

“Again?” My eyes spoke.

“Again.” She replied.

I bowed my head in calm acceptance. The urge to fight - to run, to protest, to demand a reason for her intrusion – rose instinctively inside of me. I let the urge rise, I let it morph into anger, and I let rage color me blind, enjoying for a moment, the freedom of sightlessness.

Still, I felt her. I opened my eyes.

“Yes, I'm here.” She answered.

Unyielding and inescapable, she remained.

I had no choice. I let the rage reach its crescendo, and then, I watched it fall, and with it, my body crumbled to the cold floor. My forehead came to rest upon the earth, my hands clasped gently together in prayer. With heaving sobs, I surrendered myself to her, to the flood of emotion, and the swell of truth. 

I’ve run away from Sadness my entire life. I've pretended she wasn’t there. I've ignored her whispers. I’ve fought her with anger, achievement, excuses and fear. The hardest, and perhaps most beautiful thing I’ve ever done in my life, is I've learned, well I am learning, how to accept Sadness. She comes as a teacher, with a kind, compassionate voice, offering presence, and an opportunity to flow into a vast new ocean. If only I am courageous enough to listen, to heed her wisdom. For like all great teachers, when the lesson is learned, the teacher fades away.