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Morning Verse

Just before I awoke this morning, at 4:49am – 13-minutes before my alarm was set to sound – I remember these words clearly entering my dreamscape: It’s a good thing happiness isn’t waiting for you in the future; it’s waiting for you right now!

When my eyes popped up, a smile alighted my face and I recited this morning verse:

Waking up, I greet the new day with a smile.
May I engage with openness, kindness, and gratitude on my path of practice today.

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Upon Waking

A little something I wrote early this morning, upon waking:

Within five minutes of waking, I had come up with a handful of things to be grateful for.

Within fifteen minutes, I was reminded of how sometimes – lots of times – my husband does not smell good, even when he’s sound asleep.

Within twenty minutes, I had scooped a teaspoon of loose gunpowder green tea peals into my tea strainer and delighted in the noise it made whilst tumbling in, akin to graupel on a windowpane. And I’d been bowled over for a brief moment by the realization that having running water is a great luxury not everyone has (the sound of which reminded me that in my exuberance to put pen to paper, I’d forgotten to pee).

Within thirty minutes, I deflated a bit when remembering that today, my Saturday would include an unscheduled trip to Grimebusters Laundromat, due to the fact that one of our cats peed in our bed last night, all the way through the comforter and both sheets. And I invested brain power in once again trying to come up with a less churlish-sounding substitute word for ‘pee.’

Within an hour, I was surrounded by a collection of papered items, which would relay to someone who didn’t know me that I’m both a writer and a Buddhist.

Within an hour and five minutes, I’d been given goosebumps upon reading a new bit of writing that I myself had crafted – and I didn’t feel silly or shameful about it (which is a newer development).

And within one hour and 48 minutes, I had run the gamut of thought, vacillating from birth to old age to death; from ideas for spoken word pieces to all the people I love and adore (including a whopping 4 friends who all have their birthday today!); and from that which stirs me up to that which serves to knock me down.

 

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Early Morning Verses Of A Writer

 

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To listen in audio form of this post on my podcast: https://soundcloud.com/inmindfulmotion/early-morning-verses-of-a-writer

 

1.

Silence is enjoying a cup of tea as your sole responsibility.

Silence is what situates itself in the grooves clicking between the movie reel of thought.

Silence is where every end of day settles; and then stretches like a bridge into morning.

Silence is a disposition of character, a grace carried both firm and soft onto the battlefield, turning it to fertile ground.

Silence is anything which serves as a vehicle to transport us back to ourselves in such a way that it’s as though we never left.

Silence reveals truths the likes of which we already know but have forgotten.

Silence is not the absence of sound; it’s the full embodied inclusion of the total acoustic landscape shifting and shaping itself like the Grand Canyon,

shining in holy accord on a bluebird day.

 

2.

Hello new day.

I see you.

Though, I’m not sure many others do.

Not clearly anyhow.

It’s easy to lose sight,

to go blind.

It’s easy to regard today as being just the same as yesterday;

which will be the same as tomorrow, too.

But I know better.

Today IS a new day!

Ripe with possibilities and opportunities for
goodness & kindness & beauty to manifest.

With our thoughts we make the world.

With our thoughts we make the world.

Read the rest of this entry »

 

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Portrait of a Writer

Portrait of a Writer, A Discourse in Six Parts

One. Eyes open amid some dark and early hour, hanging in the fragile space between stars and first light. As though they’d been collecting for days, waiting to be tended to, words have gathered and piled up whilst in slumber – begging to be written – crowding one another to express themselves first through the pen.

Two. Tea awaits in the folds of white coated cupboards perched in survey over the sprawl of earthen slate tiles, cool to the soft padding of touch on bare feet.

Three. Unobtrusive bits of light are invited. A candle is lit, rocking its translucent flame from side to wavering side with the rhythm and sway of the ocean’s tides and wind licking through the towering swells of rock and roots and bones.

Four. In balanced harmony, fresh sheets of paper tremble in anticipation of fulfilling their intended destiny beside the only one worthy of being betrothed to inhabit its purity of empty space: the Pilot P-500 in blue ink, extra fine.

Five. Held captive by the spectacle of it all, a reflection of grace and ease mirrors back a fragrant reminder of how very precious this embodiment of the coming together of elements is. Careful not to disturb the din of quietude, the conditions are rich and delicious for savoring.

Six. Sometimes words string together like decorative garland, adorning the air that gave rise to their maturation. Sometimes words tumble and spill out like crude oil, unexpected and defiling. And sometimes words need to sit and settle before the time is ripe for them to reveal their buried truth.

 

 
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Posted by on February 21, 2018 in Creative Writing

 

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Dear Early Morning,

Dear Early Morning,

The other day, my alarm roused me from slumber at 5:02am, for the first time in a long while, as lately I’ve been waking up on my own accord much earlier. And my first thought was: Shoot! I slept in!

I have a wish to draw you out for as long as possible, these days, like the warm, slow drag of one’s last cigarette or perhaps, more appropriately, like a masterful song I never want to end, as a cigarette connotes a distasteful vice, whereas music can be translated into the heart of all beings.

You are the fragrant waters I bathe in, rendering me anew each day; the magnetic north I set my compass to, so that I may stay the course and not run aground.

You are the dance I fall into with the whole of everything I’ve got – and you catch me and cradle me with the arms of orchestral silence.

Like cups of earthen tea, you soothe and aliven me in a way no one and nothing else can. And the more I bask in your unfolding, the more my grit and static evaporate like mist, uncovering all that remains.

With all the love I can shake up,

Nicole

 
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Posted by on December 21, 2017 in Creative Writing

 

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Strange Hope

This morning, on my way to turn on a small light to illuminate the darkness of 4:00am, my right foot rolled over something unfamiliar in the living room. It was a dead mouse – an offering no doubt thought worthy of praise, brought in through the cat door some time over the course of the night.

Later, at 4:47am, through a window I had cracked open to invite the cool air of pre-dawn in, an un-welcomed sound pierced the lovely quietude. A neighbor was outside somewhere close by, rehearsing their smoker’s cough in violent fits and starts.

And isn’t this the way of things? The unexpected, unpleasant stuff keeps happening. Yet, we hold out some kind of strange hope that it won’t. That maybe one day, when we’ve figured out the right alga-rhythm or when the stars align just so, the unexpected and unpleasant stuff will just stop happening. But it’s the darnedest thing: despite our strange hope, that stuff keeps happening.

Perhaps, then, it would serve us well to lay that strange hope down – to place it with care in an ornate box, close the lid, say a fond farewell, and then grab a shovel and bury the freakin’ thing in the woods.

_______________

Each time we cringe, ruffle, shutter, or wince is a calling and an invitation. A calling to return back home to ourselves in the here and now and an invitation to do the work it takes to cultivate a less friction-filled way of living and being.

A happy life is possible. But, it’s only possible when we create it for ourselves in the present moment and tend to its ongoing development.

As long as we’re in a state of waiting, as long as our happiness hinges on something or someone, our quality of life will remain in disagreeable flux, punctuated with bouts of great turmoil, upheaval, woe, struggle, stress, and hardship.

“Constantly apply cheerfulness, if for no other reason than because you are on this spiritual path. Have a sense of gratitude to everything, even difficult emotions, because of their potential to wake you up.”

– Pema Chodron, from Always Maintain a Joyful Mind

A joyful mind, like the almost full moon that sits aglow in the sky just outside, is always present, even when clouds of uncertainty, agitation or sorrow roll in. If well tended to, a joyful mind is indestructible and inexhaustible.

 

 

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The Befriending Hour

Pre-sunrise over the Flathead Lake, August, 2017

 

I have and could and will continue to write verses, haikus, opening paragraphs in letters, slam poems (no, not slam poems), and asides in my journal dedicated to the splendors of predawn early morning – the time when slumber is the collective activity most commonly engaged in.

And it’s not only the townly stillness that perfumes the air so sweetly, but it’s the dimming of heart-static, too. A time when communion with self is on an open frequency.

Hence, let us call the time before sunrise The Befriending Hour. And it is in this hour that we have the power to heal.

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2017 in Creative Writing

 

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