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Posts Tagged ‘truth’

[words by Miriam Dyak, 2002 – discovered in this hour within We’Moon 2011]

Stop! Strike everything! No more words…

There is a fire in my blood, each cell a tiny house on fire –

something that has tasted God

 

Don’t talk to me! Don’t! Not when I’m so hungry

starving for the deep forest of your body

the way a storm hungers wildly for land

the way whales long for that hug

of thousand foot down ocean pressure

the way roots of just transplanted trees are crazy for home

 

Let me in! This is not about babies

not about houses or tea sets, not about your sweet bow or arrow

It is not even about the little gods of wheat and roads

and goes far beyond insurance, beyond stone temples

 

It is about the God that has landed in us

what I have bitten      what is now devouring me from the inside

You can’t even think of it directly

Imagine if all the birds in the world laned in this one wood

all of them at once

it would take the shape of a desire so vast the landscape itself

with everything on it would disappear into the earth

Just the cry would lift off like a rocket

Your bones your old shoes your new knowledge

all liquefied into sound

one touch and you’re turned to vibration

your geography changed and choiceless forever

 

It is too late for everything

but truth

finally on time

for love

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but from Midnite

Had the sheer exalted pleasure of basking in the power of Midnite last night. [Led there by the love in my heart and rushing through my veins, the soul has captured mine] The recording in the video was made when they performed at the same venue in Asheville last year. Trinity goddesses, loose limbs and One pulsation. This song was the message I’d come to hear

Love the life you live

Lead the life you love

Love the life you live

Lead the life you love

You should lead the life you love

You should lead the life you love

World is in trouble

Arm a geddon shall show her face

Upon creation

Goodness and mercy

Driven from the minds of the people

Lamentation

Jah Sire deliver me

Jah Sire have mercy

Jah Sire Father send I some

goodness and mercy

It a go murder them a go charge for

A pure chemical industry

Them a run from cultivation

Goodness and mercy

Driven from the minds of the people

Lamentation

Jah Sire deliver me

Jah Sire have mercy

Jah Sire Father send I some

goodness and mercy

Send I some goodness

Send I some goodness and mercy

Love the life you live

Lead the life you love

The mountains of Africa

They are familiar to me

You see the black sons of Cush

We were scattered everywhere

For as far as the eyes could see

But we are from the mountains of the moon

Kile Man Jah Row, Kile Man Jah Row

Mount Re Wen Zui, Mount Nebo

Kile Man Jah Row

So we love the life we live

Lead the life we love

We love the life we live

Lead the life we love

Lead the life we love

Lead the life we love

No tears, you don’t shed no tears

You don’t shed no tears

Awhoa no tears seen seen

Your body is your temple

Your one and only temple

You are living in the Holy Places

Of the tabernacle of the most high Jah

Love the life you live

Lead the life you love

Don’t shed no tears

You don’t shed no tears

When I cry I cry dry

When I cry I cry dry

Love the life you live

Lead the life you love

You are living in the Holy Places

Of the tabernacle of the most high Jah

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poornamadah poornamidam

That is whole, This is whole

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“In the frenzy of modern life we lose sight of the real value of humanity. People become the sum total of what they produce. Human beings act like machines whose function is to make money. This is absolutely wrong. The purpose of making money is the happiness of humankind, not the other way round. Humans are not for money, money is for humans. We need enough to live, so money is necessary, but we also need to realize that if there is too much attachment to wealth, it does not help at all… the wealthier one becomes, the more suffering one endures.”

– His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, in “How to Practice”

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Atma Vision

And the thing we have in common is awareness of the vision above, not merely as it applies to me, but as it applies to you and, too, all around us. Thank You for being receptive to the beauty within me and translating it by exercising your own.

Love

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Today, the third day of orientation for my new arrival at Warren Wilson College. They split us in to groups and asked us to say one word that exemplified the “issue most important to us.”

The list went: children. education. environment. homelessness. teens. love. environment, environment, environment, environment, environment. It came to me: Oppression. Because it seems obvious to me that all of the issues listed by others were essentially the same issue. They derived from oppression. Yes, it is important to reach out to children and teens so they can be taught skills against oppression in their formative years. It is obvious that homelessness is a direct result of oppression. And the environment? Surely the environmental problems and issues we face stem from the hierarchical position humans have mistakenly placed them in above nature. Humans wishing to subdue the environment, to use it and abuse it and push it to the corner as if it were nothing of importance. Oppression. Across the board, the issue most noted in the room was environment. Perhaps because the destruction seems so imminent? As in, say, the destruction of sexual violence and inequality between human beings does not seem to pose a threat that will destroy the human race (though it is, actively, destroying us). Nature, perhaps, does not allow us to ignore the abuses we’ve partaken in, whereas humans have become all too accepting. Even resigned. [Interestingly, none of the students in my group (all white) mentioned anything about race. I find it fascinating how eager so many are to believe that racism no longer exists and how uncomfortable people get when someone attempts to address it. Pretending it’s not there, ignoring racism does nothing to solve anything or move anyone forward.]

I reflected on my time at the Cambridge Women’s Center today. Boston and Cambridge continue to feel like an unfinished phantom leg of my life. Pleasant and realistic dream.

I volunteered at the Women’s Center about 3 hours a week for one year. In that time, I had experiences and conversations that I will never forget. They influenced my immediate life and worked to change my attitudes and beliefs longterm.

The center began in 1971 when a group of pissed off feminists commandeered an abandoned Harvard building, declaring that they needed a community space of their own. Donations flowed in and the women were able to purchase a house in Cambridge. The house became a vibrant flowing space. Completely volunteer run and absolutely free, the Women’s Center was a place for women to go where they could feel safe and celebrate themselves and each other. It was a place of honesty. A place of community. Over the years, however, attendance receded. The Center slowly became more of a service center than a community space. Now rather than a space for all women, it is a space for poor, homeless, struggling, mentally ill, and women who are victims to come for shelter or use of the kitchen or computer lab. There is little interaction between women and oftentimes it is angry or resentful. There is a separation between the women who use the center and those who volunteer there –

volunteers are placed in a role of authority over the women who are using the center. And I don’t mind noting that many of the volunteers are young women attending college or coming from a place of privilege. This isn’t true across the board, but by and large the women who use the center are not from privilege and those who volunteer are. The hierarchy thus remains enforced.

Reflecting today, I realized how important it was for me to have a regular time slot at the center every week. To see the same people and hear the same voices on the phone over the span of a year.

I realized today that this is how social change is made. Getting people together to interact in some space without hierarchy or structure. Getting two people who would normally never have a reason to speak or meet one another to bond, to form a connection. To learn to appreciate each other’s gifts and to see one another for who they are, rather than their race, economic class, religion, whatever.

This is revolutionary. This is how social change is made. I want to be a part of social change as made this way.

But how do we do this? How do we go about it. How do we get a group of unlikely people in a space together and melt them down until they realize the raw truth of their humanity, their oneness? Especially because what is so important is getting people who are most aversive to this kind of thing to participate. Old people, young people, black and brown and hindu and catholic and muslim and whatever people. People from all walks or wheels. People classified as mentally ill. People who only see their money. People who only see their kids. How do we collect folks together and break them down into the understanding that they are all living together in this life and essentially, everybody wants the same thing. How do we get people to realize that their interests, their true interests (not the false consumer-fed and individualist-bred) are everybody’s interests. And that if everyone stopped participating in oppression and all of its many omnipresent tools, many of the problems this world’s people experience would take care of themselves.

I want to be a part of the transcendence that occurs when two people overcome every obstacle and see one another. I want that in love. I want that in life. If ever I were to have any sort of “career,” this is the career I might choose.

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We’ll come Together

At the place where my horses run free. A place that is him and me, surrounded by some pure open expanse. Standing on solid ground. Ground that is solid but gives. And swallowed full by the sky –

this charcoal, indigo sky brown and blue. We are surrounded. And I

link my hand into yours

the delicate fingers loving each touch enough and so not to snap any

rubbing of pads and circles colliding

we shall link then

and toss our head back, its crown wanting the earth but the feet still firm roote

we shall roll our shoulders down and open our heart to the sky

the shine of our face drinking in the moon

and moving up, forward,

spirals.

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Absence of Age

One may notice, if they cared to, that I’ve eliminated my age from the “apropos blog” section. At first, I included my age in that section for want of maintaining complete honesty as far as the source of these writings and observations. But how much does my own age have to do with such honesty?

In truth, when I reveal my age, people are always, without fail surprised and sometimes even shocked. Across the board, this is true for strangers as well as new friends and long-time coworkers. Remarkably, I’ve even had hairdressers assume I have children (which undoubtedly speaks to the sort of culture and life they’ve grown up with as well as implies an assumed age for me).

When I was younger, I’d constantly hear “Oh, but you’re so mature.”

Come to think of it, my age has done little but hold me back in life. I can remember feeling stifled creatively as a child because my work in poetry, drawing, singing, was never taken seriously. But I had big beautiful words! Big beautiful thoughts! Passionate pencil drawings of people! I was considered a child playing rather than a person working creatively. My passions for numerology, wicca and paganism, astrology, the occult, were dismissed as simple “phases” I was rapidly growing through as a result of my passion for fantasy. The way my parents and other adults in my life dismissed these interests created doubts in me about their legitimacy, and sure enough, my interest in them waned. [Even today, though I am drawn to astrology once more, I am having doubts about becoming versed in it because a small voice from my past writes it off as a crock.]

But fascinatingly, as I reflect on those times in my life I realize that I was around ten years old when I began independently investigating religion. My mother raised an unbelieving Christian, my father barmitzvahed but practicing only twice-a-year Jew, I had free reign to explore these and other different religions and make up my mind for myself concerning spirituality. I read books and asked questions.and researched. At such a young age I decided for myself that Christianity rubbed me the wrong way. I felt ethnically Jewish but again the traditional worship aspect didn’t speak to me. I could get behind Paganism’s celebration of the earth and the elements, but the rituals and spells involved in practice seemed excessive and overly playful. Buddhism I very much believed, but I felt it was more of a philosophy than a religion.

At ten years old I discovered what death meant to me. I remember the moment precisely

sitting low at Gramar’s round wooden table, doused loosely in a stained white tablecloth and swathed in a cover of old spider lace. A lazy Susan sat mid-table – I was always fighting the urge to spin spin spin it around and watch all the cut fruit and stale crackers fly off onto the carpet, already and always strewn with small clots of dirt and hair from a dog long dead and sometimes needles for sewing. The must of that old house my father, uncles, and aunt had grown up in clogged my nostrils with the thickness of stagnant time gone. I sat there in a wooden chair, my shoulders just coming up to the table, family members bustling around me in preparation for passover feast. My favorite holiday. As I sat, something carried me away from the conversations in the room and swiftly, I thought of death. Everything went black. Out like a light. And there was no sight or hearing or touch anymore. There was no thought. There was nothing remotely recognizable to the life I lived every day, there was nothing for me to grasp to or care for or comprehend or appreciate. There was vast nothingness.

I sat at the stained table of lace and stale crackers and felt as if I’d choked on ether. The feeling was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything about it was wrong. I knew it was wrong. I knew immediately that death was not this swift, intense cutting of your umbilical cord to the world. Nothing in life has proved to be that completely unforgiving. Life is too much of a process. It’s an investment. It’s a rotation of seasons, a game of cycles and multi-facets and ever-expanding knowledge and ability. The ending of life would surely fit the same pattern of all these natural governances.

I decided then that death was surely like a video game, super mario brothers to be exact, and I have the next level to look forward to (And the level after that and the level after that -).

This is the knowledge I gained as a child if you were to limit me by age. Knowledge that I continue to know and use after the passage of such time. And what is it worth to limit that discovery by belittling the age at which it was begotten? It isn’t worth.

And so, a new challenge, is about disowning age.

I am not so completely on board with this concept yet, because I still see small value in keeping age in terms of comparisons and analysis and separating life’s challenges for the sake of learning. However, I also see that the longer I ascribe to my own age the more it will serve to inconvenience me. In measuring my age, I’m sure to feel I haven’t completed all I should yet complete. Or I may hold back from creating because “I can’t possibly know enough yet” or “I’m just not there yet.” My age may force me into untrue decisions about finding romantic partners. Age will give me false ideas about my own physical beauty and capabilities. Age will simply serve to limit me in the future as it has in the past. It will mottle my understanding of myself.

No, I am on board with this: age will no longer exist for me. When people ask me how old I am, I will simply respond that it does not matter. Because it does not. It was always just an erroneous piece of information anyway, created and held firmly in place by the powers-that-be. Age, simply another way to keep the status quo. Hold us back from reaching our full potential. Instill doubt in us, keep track of us, separate us into students/workers/soldiers/alcohol-drinkers. Age, simply another false constructed separation between us and other human beings. I do not need to use age to compare and contrast myself with other people. It is enough for me to know that they are human, struggling human struggles, and in this way we are connected, related, the same.

I am disowning age. Because if I hold on to age, it will automatically age me. Ascribing to age, I will “get older.” And I don’t want to get older. I want to simply be and learn and discuss and create. I should be too busy with life to worry about a false construction like age. Sometimes I feel old and wise, sometimes I feel young and exuberant. I’d rather focus my attentions on these feelings of age rather than some arbitrary number on my driver’s license, constantly used to identify me to those in power.

It’s decided. And I’ve just realized that disowning age is a small form of activism. I do hope others join.

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krs-one

KRS ONE: “I am not just saying this because you [a woman] are asking the question, this is my real answer: More women. More women. Not just emcees or b-girls, but women taking control of hip-hop. Let me be culturally-specific- hip-hop’s women should teach hip-hop’s men how to speak to them. Because when we learn how to speak to you, we can learn how to speak to the whole business world. It’s not just about respecting you…it is…but it’s deeper than just respecting another human being. Everytime you degrade a person, you degrade yourself, because you are standing next to that person. You can’t diss a person, and not diss yourself…I should say ’she’s a queen.’ And what does that make me? A king. So now at the end of the day, what’s missing in hip-hop? Knowledge of self, that should only come from women. I know that sounds feminist, but that’s real talk.

[Check it: feminism is real talk.]

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