Presence

I am rediscovering that life's profoundest meaning is found in raw presence: to be rooted in the world through vivid sensation and fully alive within one's own physical self.

What we inhabit now is its bleak antithesis: a state of semi-conscious languor, a perpetual, desensitizing bath in the digital amniotic fluid of dopamine's relentless cravings, spikes, pursuits, and collapses. 

We become deaf, mute, and sightless to the world, nourished only through the narrow conduit of calculated algorithms, subsisting on intensely processed, ultra-palatable, bite-sized content. 

In this abandonment of genuine work, we simply atrophy.

True living demands engagement: to craft what is real and palpable, feeling its texture pressed into our fingertips. It calls for the painstaking, humble effort of observing the world in its exhaustive detail—memorizing its myriad names, listening to its ceaseless, ordinary hum. 

It is about an unending fascination with the minute mechanics of existence, moving beyond the fleeting thrill of sensational, superficial explorations of the grand philosophical questions, the facile sampling of grand experiences, or the tentative dabbling in grand relationships.

To live is to embrace the effort, to accept the work. It is to extend oneself outward and discover the world echoing your existence in countless dialects: the welcoming melody of the Red-Whiskered Bulbul, the brilliant splash of the Cardinal's orange, the scent released by the fragile, tissue-paper blossoms of the Tabebuia Roses tree.

In a million subtle ways, the world affirms: "You exist. You are here. You are present."

The path to ecstasy begins simply, barefoot in the grass.

It starts by anchoring firmly to sensation and to our own body, so that when our existence brushes against anything external—the strange, curious shapes of the world—we know precisely where our boundary ends and where its mystery begins.

47 and counting wishes

The light shifts. Always shifting. 

And in its changing, I find you, 

Over and over, a constant, 

Yet ever-unfolding landscape. 

Not just the woman of 47 yesterday, 

but every intricate layer beneath.

I see the younger woman who first captivated me, 

A flicker of unburdened joy, 

A certain fearless curiosity in her eyes that still sparks, 

Sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking.

And a bit older woman who built, 

Stone by careful stone, 

This quiet sanctuary we inhabit, not just walls, 

But a shared understanding deeper than any foundation. 

The one who wrestled with shadows and emerged, 

Not unscathed, perhaps, 

But richer, more incandescent.

There are moments, 

Brief catches of breath, when I glimpse the quiet woman, 

The one who sees beyond the obvious, 

Who navigates currents I sometimes miss. 

And the fiercely tender protector, 

Her heart a vast, warm ocean for those she loves.

We've walked through seasons. 

The sharp clarity of winter, 

The hesitant bloom of spring, 

The long, generous stretch of summer, 

And the reflective hues of autumn. 

Each one leaving its mark, 

A subtle deepening of the lines around her eyes, 

A new grace in her movements. 

These aren't just years passing; 

They are layers accumulating, 

Like the rings within an ancient tree, 

Each one telling a story, 

Adding to the profound, quiet strength I lean into.

So today, as the sun begins its arc, 

Or perhaps as dusk gathers its soft cloak, 

I honor the women inside you. 

The visible, 

The unseen, 

The woman I know so intimately, 

And the beautiful mysteries I am still privileged to uncover. 

You are not just time lived, 

But a profound, ongoing revelation

Of spaces that can form a human.

Sun-drenched birthmark

Speak to me of the celestial sun spots etched upon your skin,
those pale, hushed constellations, seemingly so far.

Unveil to me the commonplace nature they hold for you,
how they often fade into the tapestry unseen by hurried eyes.

Stars in the sun's bright gaze? 
Who spares them a glance —
Who truly perceives them,
save for me,
in this nearness where our very breaths entwine,
and the rhythm of your heart echoes within mine.

With a gentle touch, I chart the landscapes of your being,
seeking the silent narratives held within each birthmark,
on this warm afternoon's embrace,
where tenderness rests between us,
a drowsy warmth, curled and content as a sun-drenched cat or dog.

Not alone

Today 

has ended tomorrow.

 
Yesterday

I buttoned up and refused to leave the universe anyway 

but alive.

Apricot skies. Strawberry fields. Libraries.

 
You're not alone. 

You have me along with these.