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Category Archives: Creative Writing

The Invitation

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it is not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside,
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

 

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Gadzukes, I’ve Started a Podcast!

Well, it’s finally happened. I’ve been thinking about, talking with others more knowledgeable, and looking up how-to articles online for the past year and a half or so, in regards to starting up a podcast, and now it seems I’ve plunged into the waters of podcasting and am attempting to figure out how to swim.

My podcast description is as follows:

Writings & ramblings & spoken word, oh my! – of hopefully inspiring and/or humor-filled content – on the subject of being InMindfulMotion.

If you’re into listening to podcasts, I would be most grateful for your support:

https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/in-mindful-motion-podcast?refid=stpr

 

 

 

 

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Discomfort

What do you do to make sense of the world in moments when you wish it were different? How do you run and where do you go? Have you found tools for working well with fluctuations of every conceivable flavor of situation and spirit or are you bound to the same detrimental deviations perpetuating a lifetime of remorse, beholden to the swift allure of misery?

It might be drugs or alcohol we turn to for solace, it might be video games or TV or sex, or maybe it’s food we lose ourselves in – it could be overworking or overexercising or overmaintaining our small bubble of comfort or over anythinging that helps to dull whatever pain is present if we were to press pause in the moment.

There are a myriad of ways to run from the same pains that affect us all – and while some cause less harm than others, they all have the potential to unravel us one thread at a time.

We would do well to practice how to sit, settle, and be with the nature that surrounds us like the air we breathe: the nature of discomfort. And we need tools and skillful practices and things we can do to move through what would otherwise be an unsettling, disjointed, unexpected sliver of unfolding time, the likes of which leave a bitter, bile taste on our pallet.

As a woman I know who was me once said: There is nothing more potent than befriending that in which our inclination is to apprehend as suspect, to our own discomfort.

We need to get our friendship on with ourselves and everything which offers itself around us to the point of where regardless of what’s happening we can meet it as an opportunity to embrace verses an obstacle to run away from.

And the more we embrace the less we evade – the more we embrace the more space we create to allow the results that come having less baggage pitching and heaving in our wake to take place. A joyful life is possible – absorb this truth into your bones.

 

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Good or Bad? We’ll Have To Wait and See

Photo Credit: Mike Williams Photography, posted on twitter

Yesterday morning, in my twitter feed, I came across both of these photos I’m including in this post (see other one below). They were taken by the local landscape photographer Mike Williams, whom I enjoy the work of. This above pic was accompanied by the hashtag: badroads, while the pic below had hashtags such as: backroads and fallcolor. Gathering from the hashtag distinctions of what seemed to amount to the classic – and what I would judge to be un-beneficial – determining of what constitutes as “good” and “bad,” I was reminded of the sharing of a version of the story below, that our local dharma teacher Rowan told during our open mic night at the Open Way Mindfulness Center on Saturday evening.

 

The Old Man and his Horse (a.k.a. Sai Weng Shi Ma)

Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before — such was its splendor, its majesty, its strength.

People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. How could you sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend.” The man was poor and the temptation was great. But he never sold the horse.

One morning he found that the horse was not in his stable. All the village came to see him. “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal your horse. We warned you that you would be robbed. You are so poor. How could you ever protect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to have sold him. You could have gotten whatever price you wanted. No amount would have been too high. Now the horse is gone and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”

The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know? How can you judge?”

The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”

The old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”

The people of the village laughed. They thought that the man was crazy. They had always thought he was a fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the horse and lived off the money. But instead, he was a poor woodcutter, and old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it. He lived hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.

After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest. Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again, the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”

The man responded, “Once again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge the whole book? You read only one word of one phrase. Can you understand the entire phrase?”

“Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have is one fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”

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Mundane Moments Brought to Life

One of the writing avenues I’ve been traversing upon lately, involves working on my second book, for which the subtitle will help you glean its premise: Short Stories of Alleged Humor & Insight – my plan being to include non-fiction stories by which I can insert both elements. I use the word alleged because one of my greatest and ongoing hopes is that my own brand of whit and wisdom has the capacity to travel outside of my own use. While I routinely find myself extremely delightful and funny, the question always remains: Will anyone else? And so, as a writer, it is my sincere hope that my words are  translatable.

Something worth mentioning: I’m not a skilled storyteller. While you wouldn’t know it, based on how much I write here on my blog, I am a less-is-more sort of gal, in terms of verbal dialog and social interactions. My idea of a face-to-face response to the question: How did you meet your husband? would be something like: Through some mutual friends. I would then just stop talking, considering that answer good enough. My husband, on the other hand, would tell the whole lovely and winding tale, consisting of all the kismet qualities that bring it to life and create interest for those hearing our story for the first time. And I am quite aware that his version is far more engaging than mine.

So, given that I’ve decided to craft a book in which I’m really not qualified to write, I’ve taken to composing stories about mundane or otherwise seemingly uneventful moments, which on the surface seem not to posses much of anything in the intrigue-department, in order to actively practice honing the art required for the book I’m writing: the art of storytelling. I’m happy to report that the practice is going well. And, since I need all the practice I can get, here’s another hopeful attempt:

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Posted by on November 5, 2017 in Creative Writing

 

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To Read or Not To Read, That is the Question

So enthralled was I with A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, that I hopped online to purchase its sequel My Friend Leonard, as soon as I finished the book. Part of me believes in the potential merits of Ignorance is Bliss as a working life philosophy – and it’s this part of me that wishes I’d not stumbled upon the controversy encircling these books and their author.

I picked up A Million Little Pieces from one of those quaint little free libraries situated by the side of the road. And Oprah’s circular book club sticker adhering itself to the cover was almost enough of a deterrent to sway me away from taking it. While I realize, of course, that Oprah’s rubber stamp of approval would serve to inspire many people to pick it up – and in fact was what launched this particular book to stardom – it had the opposite effect on me, as Oprah’s massive branding of herself has always rubbed me the wrong way. Though, truth be told, I also sort of admire her for it, too.

After getting a few chapters in, I started to question as to whether I had the ability to finish the book. It was a gut-twisting, heart-rendering read. I felt as though I were being put through an emotional wood-chipper with every page. But I stuck with it, figuring since he had the wherewithal to tell his story of addiction and nefarious behaviors in such a raw and honest way, the least I could do was tag along and bear witness.

Once I figured out how to roll my eyes over his clunky and stylistic approach to the book, and compute with a growing semblance of understanding what is was he was trying to convey, I was able to immerse myself into his world and started thoroughly enjoying the read. I became invested in the people and plot line he was writing so starkly about. I looked forward to reading a new chapter each morning and was over-joyed when I discovered there was a sequel.

Mention of the controversy popped up as soon as I typed My Friend Leonard into the search bar on my laptop. Turns out, both books, while touted as memoirs, are not entirely true and accurate accounts of the author’s life. Artistic license was taken. Parts were fabricated. Big parts. And Oprah, needless to say, was not happy.

At first, the dude tried denying the accusations, brought forth by the investigative website The Smoking Gun. He even went so far as to say that his publisher had diligently fact-checked his book, which turned out not to be the case. Eventually the dude fessed up. He even went back on Oprah to be interviewed about the whole messy ordeal.

My Friend Leonard was gliding through the mail on its way to my doorstep as news of this controversy sifted into my consciousness. Knowing full well that I would not have given the first book a second glance, had I known it was either based or inspired by a true story, verses being a purely non-fiction read, I was off-put in light of this new information.

Does it really matter? I asked myself. I mean, you really liked the book.
Yeah, but I really liked it because I was under the assumption it was
his story – his true story. I countered.
Hmmm. Well, maybe
most of it is true. Would that help? I asked myself.

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Posted by on November 1, 2017 in Creative Writing

 

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I Love People

Original spoken word piece (fresh off the mental press):

People are complicated, in more ways than one,
they are heart-felt and hollow – dirty and rancid,
they are magnificent and astoundingly talented and profoundly lost without direction,
they shine bright as a Vegas marquee and lack luster like flat brown earth in winter,

and I love every single drop of it

the taste of humanity’s vast spectrum coats and hangs and lingers on my senses
the same way watching a sun set or rise reminds us that there’s something….more –
more to connect with than securing our morning coffee,
more that getting transfixed with misplaced angst on social media,
more than our stone tower of impatience stacking ever-higher day by day,
more than the petty and over-dramatic utterances we think and hear and say,
more than being bound in the self-conscious prison we hold our own selves hostage,
more than constantly trying to assess who’s right and who’s…not

Me? I revel in the more –
from the enchanting song of pre-dawn silence to the interplay of colors interloping in the hills,
from the gentle sway of tree tops to the grace of birds in flight –
and I love people,
I love their fascinating awkwardness and amazing proclivities,
I love the way gals smile and guys walk,
I love watching people open up and talk in a way they never knew they could
and I love bearing witness to something new

I love being reminded that Yes we are all different and Yes we are all the same too
and I revel in the person I get to become when I’m around the all encompassing and collective You –
the You who allows the Me to interact more wholeheartedly
without fear of rebuke or ridicule or discontent
simply because you’re living how you’re living and now I get to be better for knowing

Cuz, when we stop listening we stop growing,
when we stop listening we stop loving the wet drops of humanity
falling like nectar in the valley gracing the fertile fields of our understanding,
cuz there is nothing more potent than befriending that in which our inclination
is to apprehend as suspect to our own discomfort

And one of the greatest misfortunes is that we run too easily,
we shut down too quickly when confronted with shaky ground
and we haven’t learned the benefits of sticking around,
even and especially when it’s hard

I love people because they’re messy and unpredictable
and pains in the ass
and full of surprises I did not see coming

I love people because I see my own self reflected
and they show me the work I have to do

I love people because
how can you not,
when the alternative is anything less

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2017 in Creative Writing

 

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