Walk Softly Live Gently

“We can’t fear the past. Fear is a future thing. And since the future’s all in our heads, fear must be a head thing.”

– Tom Payne

It helps to understand that fear is usually a projection into the future. We typically fear what MIGHT happen rather than what is happening now.

Susan Jeffers notes that 90% of what we fear usually does not materialize. So replace your images of disaster on the TV screen in your mind with awareness of what is really happening. And don’t allow your thinking to change channels.

“I have not ceased being fearful, but I have ceased to let fear control me.”

– Erica Jong

What are you afraid of?

(From Higher Awareness - (C) Reproductions Permitted: http://www.higherawareness.com

Funny….

hehe   : )

What if this day brought with it colors

wrought in tear-stained stone. Would it

then be a remembrance to dally on? What if

the sun were blotted out and the light became

awash in shadow? Would the day then be

a waving, rolling wheat field for you to

drown in? “But” you say, “that is not my doing.

I am only, after all, one who tumbles

with the wind and I thought I could respond

with grace and thus brighten the day by

stroking it with ochre and azure as if the sun

came out of my belly, and fields of poppies

came from my heart, like the love that is hidden

in skies of vermilion and French sidewalk cafe’s”

Oil on canvas 81.0 x 65.5 cm Arles 1888

Just a simple recollection of childhood:

We constructed the roads we would drive

our little toy cars around,

with a small metal shovel about three inches wide

that we used with our pails at the beach.

The cars and trucks were also usually metal,

plastics not being as ubiquitous in those days.

We would pile up the dirt and sand

to make hills and valleys.

Sometimes we would even connect

two earthen mounds with a small board

to make a bridge over a pretend river.

We would race around the roadways

with our little cars and for a while

be utterly lost in our make-believe world.

We frequently crashed into each others vehicles

and in the process destroyed the roads

we so painstakenly designed in the dirt.

And then we would argue about who did what

to whom and end up yelling and perhaps

even hitting each other unless

our mother heard the ruckus and intervened

and forced us to apologize and make up

(against our will, of course).

Destroying each others toys seemed

to be the prevailing sport when we were so young.

Just as it seems to be today (metaphorically),

when we are not so young.

Globally. the difference being

that we tend to hurt a great deal more

than each others feelings.

Where is Mother when you need her?

It was not the time of morning
for chasing dreams
like slippery fish tails
or shunning the shadow of her,
forever enshrined in perfection.

The wheels crackle over gravel
as she pulls away and
Summer lulls into Autumn
like a libretto dimming.

Though it is the morning
of the evening
of perhaps Armageddon,
I still bother
to straighten the sheets,
fluff the impression of her head
from the pillow,
and mask the mystery of us
under the soft comfort
of quilted down.

When I find all my parts

In their proper place

With my nose stuck on my face and

Arms dangling from shoulders

Like shirt sleeves on a hanger,

When my heart wallows in its dark pocket

And my head precariously perching

On its pedestal, I want to say….

This is the sum if it; my body,

With which I sense the earth while

Walking fields, yellow and green, feet

Crushing unsuspecting blades of grass

As they yield to my intrusion,

Seemingly with abandon and grace.

Still, while in this place I am

Aware of the fullness of

The spiraling of galaxies like

Water spinning around the rocks

In the creek where the tiniest

Of my parts drowns

In the cold wet tears of the earth.

A farmer had a horse but one day, the horse ran away and so the farmer and his son had to plow their fields themselves. Their neighbors said, “Oh, what bad luck that your horse ran away!” But the farmer replied, “Bad luck, good luck, who knows?”

The next week, the horse returned to the farm, bringing a herd of wild horses with him. “What wonderful luck!” cried the neighbors, but the farmer responded, “Good luck, bad luck, who knows?”

Then, the farmer’s son was thrown as he tried to ride one of the wild horses, and he broke his leg. “Ah, such bad luck,” sympathized the neighbors. Once again, the farmer responded, “Bad luck, good luck, who knows?”

A short time later, the ruler of the country recruited all young men to join his army for battle. The son, with his broken leg, was left at home. “What good luck that your son was not forced into battle!” celebrated the neighbors. And the farmer remarked, “Good luck, bad luck, who knows?”

about the time we met

After the divorce.

After the new husband.

At our child’s house, for

the baby’s birthday.

I could still feel my fingers

wandering to

Those places now forbidden.

I tried not to think

Of it. To no avail.

It is too fresh.

Your luminous

Self is all I feel.

All I can see of this moment.

Even though I can no longer

feel the softness

Of your body, your hair,

your mouth, I am close

Enough now to sense

the warmth from only

A foot away….

a mile away….

a millennium

Away. Forever

away.

Ron Russo ©1992-2006

I can always count on mr Rumi to come up with the most esoteric, pithy little statements that take one to another level altogether.

“Let the waters settle
you will see stars and moon
mirrored in your Being.”
Rumi

Here’s another favorite of mine…Lao Tzu

Emptiness here is the same as Emptiness there.

The space behind your mind is the same as the space behind mine.

What sees out my eyes, sees out yours.

Walk outside, breath the air

Walk outside and remember.

The Tao is an empty vessel; it is used, but never filled.

Lao Tzu

They will meet again.

It will be soon.

He will say things to her.

Deep things from what is a deeper place.

In him.

It is where he goes sometimes,

When it hurts and no one knows.

Things arise there, often dark.

Shadows with twisted faces.

Only the eyes have life, light.

The rest is buried where shadows sleep.

They will awaken at dawn.

The faces will be smooth again.

And pink.

The dawn comes when eyes are willing to look

in the darkness to see what is there.

Shadows run.

There is nowhere to go but the fire, light.

Burning dross.

Pure. Fine as gold. Shiny. Heavy.

Warm is his love.

© 2007 by Ron Russo

What we call “church”
is too often a gathering of strangers who see the church as yet another “helping institution” to gratify further their individual desires. One of the reasons some church members are so mean-spirited with their pastor, particularly when the pastor urges them to look at God, is that they feel deceived by such pastoral invitations to look beyond themselves.
They have come to church for “strokes,” to have their personal needs met. What we call church is often a conspiracy of cordiality. Pastors learn to pacify rather than preach to their Ananiases and Sapphiras. We say we do it out of “love.” Usually, we do it as a means of keeping everyone as distant from everyone else as possible. You don’t get into my life and I will not get into yours.

Choosing between friendly religiosity and the hard-won peace of Golgotha

Source: “Resident Aliens” by Stanley Hauerwas.

“We transition from the clean page to the dizzying rush of word upon word to the saying said and the calm point that comes after the spirit has manifested itself in language. The paper holds the words; they are secure and steady there. We become steady as well. For the time being, mystery has unveiled itself.”

“To write spiritually is to engage in a search for authentic language. You’ll find your truth by writing your way to it.”

Patrice Vecchione