293

haunted house.

if your crops are invisible except for when your hands are in the dirt, then the month before harvest becomes a very scary time. all you have until then is the sweat on your brow and the miles that you’ve walked, knowing that your life’s work is already in those fields.

if your ghosts are invisible, then a haunted house looks just the same as a regular one. and you don’t know for how much longer you must be brave, or if you’ve been brave for long enough.

if your practice is in your bones and your memory is in your body, then you won’t know if you’re ready for the game. they line the field and sing the anthems but you don’t know anything until it begins.

there is an obvious faith in preparation but the last mile asks for something different. you know the fruits of your labor, and a match that goes your way, and a peace that you can live in do not belong to just you. that’s the real test. and it’s the scariest of all. because you have to know and not know at the same exact time without the truth getting stuck in your throat.

292

the nightmare ends.

they say everyone has two lives. and that the second one begins when you realize you only have one. sometimes you have to live in the old house for a long time, until you can move into the new house. sometimes the home is under active construction during renovation. the uninhabitable reality exists before the habitable one.

but how does the builder lay down her tools? how does the soldier lay down her sword? how does the actor release her role? how does the gardener receive what blooms? how do we trust a tide that has turned? how do you meet the dawn if the night has been too long? how would you even recognize the ship of theseus?

i’m not sure. but it eventually becomes obvious that you cannot change,

receive,

understand,

enjoy,

notice,

participate in,

figure out,

learn from

or live in

… a reality that you’re still running from.

291

the vase.

faith is the vase that holds

a centerpiece the same as rainwater,

sunshine the same as sorrow,

ephemera the same as the seasons,

love just the same as longing,

injury the same as the miracle,

recovery the same as rock bottom,

guilt the same as grace,

disappointment and humility,

the waiting with the arrival,

and tomorrow as gently as the past,

… because this is how we know its shape.

290

every country.

you think you’re here to travel the earth, imagine the stars and maybe visit planets outside of ours. you’re not. you’re here to discover every shore inside of you, to watch the seasons turn from inside your flyover states, to learn languages and dialects in the exact order they evolved. that’s what this is.

some voyages started out as explorations or vacations. there were things you wanted to know. but now you’ve arrived into paradise within days of the tsunami or torrential rain. the itinerary mapped ancient ruins and guided tours just before “the big one” shook everything up again. you packed swimsuits and beach reads for the exact week that drought and wind would transform the sunny side of your island into kindling. and just like that, your journey became a rescue mission.

it can’t end until the airports start letting people out again. you become a walking white blood cell (if you can help it) but your main job is to not make things worse, to let the community rebuild. and just as soon as you settle in, no longer counting the days, the ports open up. you’re on the first ship out, due west, finding that you are already home, now that you’ve been unexpectedly returned to yourself.

289

not indifferent.

the universe is not indifferent to you. what you have? you don’t have to have it; you have it because the universe desires it for you. this is where your gratitude can live.

in a reality that conspires in your favor, it would be easy enough to hold your blessings gently, with all the humility in the world. but what about the longing you grasp so tightly until it became malice, deprivation, betrayal? you hold your own desire until sweet turns to bitter and back to sweet again. sometimes that’s it. that’s the whole thing. sometimes, something blows in from the outside, after you’ve already reminded yourself that you’re still alive.

do you know how softly the sun rises? neither early nor late, at a different time each day. and when she’s done, she’s done. she retreats into a watery grave. we are reminded that her entire dance is a fight to the death. from first light to dusk to twilight, so many words to describe what came and went.

288

the sculptor.

do not let people, places and things convince you that you must suddenly become a michelangelo. while it may be true that he simply removed the excess from true form, this is because he recognized that things arrive as what they are. the mistake is to think we must then become the sculptor. the liberator, working her chisel against uncertainty, against the unknown. when the true artist is time. where only time can reveal. this certainty is what allows us to hold the art that emerges and to stop when it’s done.

287

identity.

each person has an elemental that protects them. fire burns, wind runs, water overwhelms and earth resists. fire hurts the other person and tortures itself. wind escapes and loses itself. water floods the other but submerges itself. earth delays change and refuses to cooperate. these are not the identity. they protect the “i am,” the true nature of the person inside.

each of us, we long for what is ours. for what belongs and for where we belong. just like fire wants the truth, wind wants possibility, water wants to flow and earth wants what will bloom. there are so many ways to seek and be distracted. but the crisis arrives when we cannot distinguish what belongs to us and what does not. when we want to belong to the person, place or idea that has disappeared or been destroyed or changed irrevocably. when we want the relationship between what we desire and the thing that’s ours to be that of identity.

and after decades of eating out of everyone else’s lunchbox, we’ve already had the first three bites of every cuisine, sampled cultures and food stories from around the world. but the hunger persists and now we just want what’s ours: what actually nourishes us, and does not turn our stomach. we want our own lunchbox. the one with our name printed clearly on it, black text on white, in all caps, with a label-maker. and our favorite flavor is vanilla. or chocolate. or strawberry. because we know what it is now.

286

which choices.

do you know which choices are available to you and not?

if you are a fighter, you do not choose whether you fight. if you’re a fighter, you will always fight. your assignment is battle. your only choice is how you will fight. because how you fight is who you become.

if you are a lover, you do not choose how or whether you love. if you are a lover, you will always love. your assignment is relationship. your only choice is who and what you love. because who you love is who you become.

if you are the witness, you do not choose what arrives. if you are the witness, you will always perceive. your assignment is reality. your only choice is how much, for how long and how far you will carry it. because what you carry is who you become.

if you are an engineer, you will make it work. your assignment is coherence. your only choice is what to solve. because what you fix is who you become.

if you are a healer, you do not choose who will find you. you will always know what is broken. your assignment is recovery. your only choice is who you claim. because whoever you heal is who you have always been.

if you are an artist, you do not choose whether to create. if you’re an artist, you will always make. your assignment is expression. your only choice is to allow what flows through you. because what you allow is who you become.

285

lesser desires.

when choosing your own loneliness becomes choosing the Beloved, the lesser desires have already exhausted themselves or worn us out or even manifested beautifully, leaving us now with the deeper ache. the oldest desire. the separation that wants union. the illusion that remembers the Beloved. the one that makes room for many, lesser beloveds, but holds space for the capital “B” Beloved, everywhere and nowhere. only to be felt, in fleeting glimpses, just out of reach.

choosing this loneliness contemplates an even worse fate, the possibility of losing the possibility. because fasting is a choice that honors the mystery. to starve is to acquiesce to famine. and that’s not what we want.

so we choose the loneliness. not starved and not desperate. in the place where all the vices and voices and distractions and obsessions and accomplishments set themselves aside. because there is plenty to do and be and seek—all the minor manifestations that don’t answer the purpose of your own manifestation.

but to choose the loneliness, to surrender into the movements that go nowhere and the silence that isn’t peace and the waiting with no relief, that’s where the Beloved will know to find you.

284

freedom knows.

freedom knows all the ways she was not free, for how long, and all the ways she may never be. freedom sees the cords on your wrists and the gag in your mouth. all the ways you are not free. and she does not have the key; she can only describe it. so if one day you happened to see it, you’d recognize it and choose it willingly.

freedom stands outside the prison yard. that’s why when it rains, it pours. and when the sun shines down, it burns. because nothing protects her anymore. there is no shelter when you become free. nothing but your own skin.

freedom means you now have to build your own house and live in it, too. freedom means figuring out and choosing the unknown, which is fine until you realize you won’t know what it costs until it’s time to pay. and even as the toll is exacted, the reward has yet to unfold. does this flower bloom now or later? is this a fruit that fails to ripen? you won’t know until you’re outside, on your own, close enough to wonder, now that it finally matters.

because it’s really hard to become free and stay free. even if you do everything you can, it still might not be enough. and even if it is, there are consequences. freedom is a lot. freedom can be heavier than chains.

283

screaming baby.

do you know why the baby screams as it is pulled from the womb? because the birth of a new consciousness is painful. even if only the birth of the next consciousness, it still hurts. the light is piercing. and it’s scary. it’s new, and the past just died for this new life to be born. it did not come from nothing. it did not come from death. life kept evolving into a new life.

you set sail, the storm hit, left you shipwrecked on a beach, and your new ship has just now been struck by lightning. you’re starting over again. and that kind of a birth comes with tears. tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of “it’s a healthy baby” and tears of “here i am.”

the baby’s scream is a battle cry. it’s the first movement in the next symphony. and when new you is born out of the husk of old you, you can expect the new life to come screaming out of the old one. that’s what it feels like when every version of you is taken away. childhood does not last forever. neither does first love. and neither did your last. what you built out of the wreckage is in the distant past. you’re a new version of you again.

morning always comes. it’s always a new day. the screaming baby emerges from the dark.

282

the worst version.

do you know the worst version of yourself?

do you know what she eats? what she needs? do you know her shame? her primal scream into the abyss?

she needs you. but you pretend she doesn’t exist and shove her to the back. it’s almost like you save her for crisis. for moving day. your deadline. for holidays with family and travel in rough weather.

and then she’s out, loud and uncompromising and insistent. she wants to help or exist or express and still be loved. and no one can do this for her except you. but you don’t. you treat her just like everyone else. then she gets pushed back inside just as soon as she’s out. and you think she’s gone but she always comes back.

because the lock loosens when the mask wears thin. that’s the gift. you get to see what she needs (and what she wants) so she can soften into her correct configuration. because she wasn’t given to you for ruin.

her only job has ever been to remember your true face.

281

home sweet home.

home is not in other people, or legibility in systems, or in success or in failure or identity.

home is not in the drug or the fantasy or the memory.

home is not in the storm or the clear blue sky. it’s who you are when the sky stays white. when you do not know the time or season. in the chapter with no name, in the scene with no score.

the negotiation ends when the other side does not have anything you want. the addiction ends when the reward stops rewarding. home is where you go when you walk away. home is the place you receive. not the place where you make, not the factory and not the forge.

home is where the tower falls and the star rises. it’s where the earth opens up to feed you pomegranate seeds. where chiron, prometheus and sisyphus take their coffee (black) and where cassandra, pandora and eris giggle over tea.

home is a sleep without dreams. where there is no self to make sense of or person to solve. home is where the day can unfold without eroding the shore. where dread loses meaning and love greets exile.

home is not in the carrot and it is not in the stick. home is the one who emerges without either. the one for whom neither would suffice.

280

no one is coming.

no one is coming. just you. just the version of you that made it through today. because the way you hold powerlessness is the way you will hold power.

the way you hold pain is the way you will hold joy.

the way you hold solitude is the way you will hold your person. the way you hold heartbreak is the way you will hold fulfillment. the way you hold the storm is the way you will hold your own purpose. the way you hold grief is the way you will hold your own healing.

when it comes.

because the way you hold the fire reveals the depth of the water inside you.

the way you hold others is the way you hold yourself.

279

the desert.

in the desert there is sand, sun, moon and thirst. you learn from each mirage, with your footsteps as your only companion. you count your beads and tie your knots, reciting new poetry and wrestling your thoughts, watching the shadows and telling time by the seasons that pass.

you begin to notice that mirages are not too dissimilar from night and day, reflecting angles and light by perspective alone. the sun is fixed, even as we turn away; the moon does not disappear, even as she wanes.

your hunger comes and goes. even if a warm meal would be nice. your memories of hospitality now threadbare, there is pleasure in the fasted quiet of the body. and of course there would be a way for you to learn both.

there is no other way to find out who you are in the desert. you walk until the desert becomes oasis.

278

someone else.

are we living as if “someone else” will take care of it? like “someone else” will figure it out? clean it up? or pick up after us? that it’ll just be “someone else’s problem?”

reality is a closed system. even if growth is possible. even if everything is expanding. even if time is an illusion and separation is not real. that’s the reason there’s no “take care of it later” or “just throw it away.” it’s not happening somewhere else. there is no button to “delete” or dumpster for “trash.” everything recycles because everything cycles. it’s always only here and now and you. there are no straight lines. extend any line far enough and it curves right back around to you.

and if you’ve always been the “someone else,” absorbing chaos and stabilizing the system, don’t worry. there’s already a judge, jury and executioner taking good care of everyone, almost better than you ever could. own your piece of the puzzle. there is a divine creativity to refusing other people’s limits while wrestling your own.

277

in heaven.

in heaven, there’s no one to fear, no one to flatter. no one experiencing themselves as “the good thing” (and you as infrastructure) for whom it becomes your pleasure to be sought after, to serve and soften and listen. no one saying that while 50% dilution is fine, 90% color transparency could be appropriate, at least some of the time.

there’s no one to entertain in heaven. you wouldn’t have to make what you enjoy or what you do and how you think more interesting or more palatable or digestible—just for some company. you are at home with yourself.

no one is looking for you to fix, explain, help, care, affirm identity or carry overwhelm. you can do it if you want to, and they would know that you are how you are because you are special. that the way you give and love is not their reflection; it is an expression of your light. going to heaven marks the end of your usefulness, not because you earned your ticket, but because you always belonged.

in heaven, you would know that God wanted to experience you this way, not to be more or less or different. in heaven, you grow without improving; the striving ends and you can rest in your own existence. you remember that you are the answer to your own question, the medicine for your own healing, and the variable that balances the equation.

276

the day after.

the day after goodbye does not feel like decisiveness. decisions are earned over time. this is not the crisp blue sky of an early fall morning. it’s the heavy yellow humidity after a summer storm. or the bitter gray cold of a harsh, unrelenting winter.

you’ve stumbled out from the past and now it’s a future you don’t know. the day after just carries its own recency, a surreal immediacy. you’re still living right next door to the version of you that used to understand the past and could tolerate the present; she’s not somewhere down the hall or around a corner you can avoid, and you’re noticing the walls are paper thin.

you can hear her scared and crying on the other side. she is playing the same songs that keep her warm and the same shows that pass the time. you know she’s just pretending to be ok. she is not going to help you.

she’ll be living next door and grieving (loudly) until she can be convinced. convinced that her full heart and empty diary are a blank canvas, maybe even a blank check, and not a shallow grave where she’s meant to curl up and die. that the old story can untangle itself without breaking any threads. that there’s more to come after the something that suddenly became a nothing from one day to the next.

275

in a bottle.

because we want the solution in a bottle, we now see a lot of bottles labeled, “the solution,” even as the bottles change in shape and the labels evolve in style. we expect convenient dosage and ready availability. that’s why we want it “in a bottle.” and we’re not wrong. even if simple can be difficult and easy can be illusion.

what’s funny is that the solution does come in a bottle. it’s you. you’re the bottle. the medicine is already inside. you hold the remembering, the recognition, the knowing, the truth. and that’s the solution. only it’s not as loud as what stocks the shelves.

each of us has signed up for some version of the story. some walk a long path: there’s an ailment, we try all the medicines, none of them work, many just make it worse, we need more medicine, get upset and disillusioned, and then finally turn to the medicine we carry within. there are shorter paths. and sometimes, we might even be the last to notice how well our own medicine has been sustaining the ones we love.

that’s how you know it could work. but the journey is the prescription, and it only has one name on it.

274

leaving las vegas.

there’s a version of you still sitting at the slot machine, racing a bandit, spinning the wheels in every possible combination. she’s at the tables, playing hand after hand, with the world’s most beautiful strangers to blow on the dice. alternating red and black, she keeps placing bets.

let her. it’s what she knows. she can stay there. but another version of you, she is the one who gets up to leave. she puts out her cigarette, splashes her face, and walks herself out. she wanders the great boulevard and eventually, she’s leaving las vegas.

she visits with nature and makes it home, back to her own house. back to regular life. it’s not exciting. no bright lights. no rush. no crowd. but she can see the sky again. she can have her sunrises and sunsets and the way the moon moves with the seasons.

there’s what she always wanted; she still wants it. but she can accept that it was not coming in a winning hand or lucky jackpot. it was going to happen a little closer to “chop wood and carry water.” this doesn’t really make sense and it’s not what she wanted. but it wasn’t going to find her in a gamble. life is not that kind of a game. she can’t know yet for sure. but she was sitting at that casino for long enough, either way.