Words for Free

on Service

freebird — Sat, 03 May 2008 22:05:31 GMT

Rachel Naomi Remen, MD on Service From the Cancer as a Turning Point Conference, Stanford University, 9/96 The life force is our mutual birthright and it can be trusted. We can serve life, all of us. But if you don’t trust life, you become helpers rather than servers. When you help someone you use your strength to help someone of lesser strength. We are always helping someone weaker than we are. I am aware of my own strength because I am using it, but I don’t serve with my strength. I serve with my wholeness, with everything I have. When I serve I become aware of my wholeness and I have a greater acceptance of it. My limitations serve, my imperfections serve, my wounds serve, even my darkness can serve. We don’t serve weak people. We are always serving equals. The wholeness in us serves the wholeness in others, the wholeness in life. Serving is different from helping. Helping always incurs debt. If I help you, you owe me one. All of business is based on these kinds of arrangements. Helping can actually diminish the life force in us. But serving, like healing, is mutual. There is no debt. I am as served as the person I am serving. The life force in me is as served as the life force in you. It is a level playing field. Helping gives one a sense of power, and leads to a sense of satisfaction. Serving gives one a sense of belonging and gives one a sense of gratitude. Serving is different than fixing. Fixing is a form of judgment. When I fix someone, I see them as broken. And I act on their brokenness. When I fix, I don’t see the wholeness on life, and I don’t trust it. Judgment always creates distance. There is always distance between me and the person I see myself fixing. There is an inequality usually of expertise. Service is not about expertise. Service is about being human. We can all serve the life force. The disconnection that is built into fixing makes it very difficult to fix and serve at the same time. We can only serve that which we are profoundly connected to. We cannot serve at a distance. Fixing is an experience of expertise and mastery. Service is an experience of mystery and surrender. A fixer feels casual. A server knows they are being used and is willing to be used by larger, unknown forces. Service is renewing. Fixing and helping drains you. Everyone who serves, serves the same thing: the wholeness and mystery of life, the wholeness and mystery of each other.

Amazing poem by David White

freebird — Sat, 03 May 2008 06:00:51 GMT

All the true vows are secret vows the ones we speak out loud are the ones we break. There is only one life you can call your own and a thousand others you can call by any name you want. Hold to the truth you make every day with your own body, don’t turn your face away. Hold to your own truth at the center of the image you were born with. Those who do not understand their destiny will never understand the friends they have made nor the work they have chosen nor the one life that waits beyond all the others. By the lake in the wood in the shadows you can whisper that truth to the quiet reflection you see in the water. Whatever you hear from the water, remember, it wants you to carry the sound of its truth on your lips. Remember, in this place no one can hear you And out of the silence you can make a promise it will kill you to break, that way you’ll find what is real and what is not. I know what I am saying. Time almost forsook me and I looked again. Seeing my reflection I broke a promise and spoke for the first time after all these years in my own voice, before it was too late to turn my face again. By David White, from The House of Belonging

Parvati herself...

freebird — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 07:37:42 GMT

Of course, a craniosacral therapist would get off on this... No, this is not an image born of Photoshop... This is Lali, born one month ago to impoverished parents in Saini, 25 miles from New Delhi, with a rare condition known as craniofacial duplication. Even though this condition often comes with more serious health problems, she is doing well. She can eat out of both mouths and opens all four of her eyes at once. She even shares one dimple between her faces. Isn't she lovely? I really do think so... The people of Northern India seem to think so as well. Hundreds of pilgrims have visited her to touch her feet out of respect and receive blessings. She is being worshipped as the reincarnation of the Hindu warrior goddess Durga, also known as Parvati. The village chief is going to build a temple to Durga there, to help raise money for the family to take care of Lali. Maha Durga, or the Great Mother, was created from a fusion of all of the female divine forces. Legend has it that during a great battle with demons, Shiva advised all the gods to concentrate and release their shaktis. These formed into The Invincible One, with 10 arms holding each of the gods' weapons, and a tiger to ride. Durga protects humankind from evil and misery by destroying evil forces such as selfishness, jealousy, prejudice, hatred, anger, and ego. Is that irony, Dave Eggers? It just makes me wonder what would have happened to this little girl if she had been born into American culture, with its...excuse me...buttload of "evil forces"? OK, I know there is darkness all about, but what an amazing difference in perspective to worship someone who is unique and rare rather than worshipping the silicone goddess with the gleaming teeth known as Botoxia, whose single power is to turn a hairy stinking human into an ageless liposucked clone with a deer-in-the-headlights look and puffy lips. But I'm ranting now....maybe I should go pack for my pilgrimage... [Lali's photo credit: Manan Vatsyayana, AFP/Getty Images]

He Grows Trees

freebird — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 04:49:54 GMT

This morning it snowed Big flakes, oblivious to The fire in this room. Naked at the window, I wonder what the blooming Trees think of spring. Under you, I am bare, Looking out through liquid. My house is also yours. Panes dripping with breath. Ice crept in last night With thin fingers, Just above my breast. Brittle crystals formed, Beautiful and severe. I want to crack this crust, Break the habit of winter. The frost wants to still me. It congeals my joy, Slows the nourishing sap. Some plants require The chill to blossom. Even before the flurry ends, Gentle melting begins. You are solid, but not cold. In your warmth I grow Like one of your tiny trees. Here inside there is movement. Roots burst through bark. I reach for your hand.

Germination

freebird — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 17:12:11 GMT

There are hours so crisp, At the end of winter, They taste like poetry. This is the instant The seed stirs in the ground. Unraveling fronds Build subterranean pressure. On this breath the movement Pulls and pushes evenly, No effort. I want to dance that way. My body aches to push Out toward the growing edge. Why did I not move that way before? It was so important to be small That I could not laugh. Unfurling is not a modest act. The earth crumbles all around. Trust is what I need, Not effort.

Tibetan Vajravadharan Purification & Healing Ceremony

freebird — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 01:46:16 GMT

If you have a chance to catch these monks who live in a refugee community in South India, they are on tour to raise money for a hospital which has been built from funds from a former tour, but which stands empty waiting for equipment and enough money to pay doctors salaries. Until then, this whole community and poor surrounding villages have no health care. They are doing blessings and building sand mandalas throughout the US. I went to the healing ritual this morning and it was quite remarkable The following was written by Lobsang Wangchuk of Gaden Shartse - Gaden Shartse Monastic University is presently located in a refugee settlement in South India. Gaden Shartse is touring to raise funds to furnish our newly made hospital. Presently it stands empty and it is our wish that it be fully functioning by 2009. This healing and purification removes all negativity, subdues negative states of mind and gives protection. The Lama will enter into a body, speech, and mind made of light; pour radiant nectars and rays of light into the crowns of participants and fill them with radiant bliss (removes gross negativity), sweep them with laser like rays (removes subtle negativities), subdue negative states of mind, evict and bind them with light; generate diamond like layers of light under the skin and around participants for protection. Each person will receive a photo of Vajravadharan; mantra, cord blessed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and receive blessing pills. www.gadenshartsetour.org <http://www.gadenshartsetour.org/> 562-794-6700

Now this:

freebird — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 18:33:18 GMT

Looking through an old journal from 1992, I found the seeds of this poem. The more things change, the more they stay the same.... This morning it takes all my will To lift my mind from slumber. On these days Crows huddle in the alder Puffed up, beaks pointed silhouette On these days Clouds toss and tumble Grey feather pillows hung out to air. On these days Dreams fight to stay alive In the world of wake believe This morning it takes all my will To remember I am alone.

Be With Those Who Help Your Being

freebird — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 18:29:46 GMT

Be with those who help your being. Don't sit with indifferent people, whose breath comes cold out of their mouths. Not these visible forms, your work is deeper. A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces. If you don't try to fly, and so break yourself apart, you will be broken open by death, when it's too late for all you could become. Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots and makes them green. Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow? --RUMI, Ode 2865, Trans. Coleman Barks

Test that feeling out....

freebird — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 06:11:57 GMT

A wise fool himself, one of my friends sent me this quote of the week. Bust a gut: "Here’s a simple test. If it’s soothing or comforting, if it makes you feel warm and fuzzy; if it’s about getting into pleasant emotional or mental states; if it’s about peace, love, tranquility, silence or bliss; if it’s about a brighter future or a better tomorrow; if it makes you feel good about yourself or boosts your self-esteem, tells you you’re okay, tells you everything’s just fine the way it is; if it offers to improve, benefit or elevate you, or if it suggests that someone else is better or above you; if it’s about belief or faith or worship; if it raises or alters consciousness; if it combats stress or deepens relaxation, or if it’s therapeutic or healing, or if it promises happiness or relief from unhappiness, if it’s about any of these or similar things, then it’s not about waking up. Then it’s about living in the dreamstate, not smashing out of it. On the other hand, if it feels like you’re being skinned alive, if it feels like a prolonged evisceration, if you feel your identity unraveling, if it twists you up physically and drains your health and derails your life, if you feel love dying inside you, if it seems like death would be better, then it’s probably the process of awakening. That, or a helluva case of gas...." --Jed McKenna is the author of The Enlightenment Trilogy — Spiritual Enlightenment: The Damnedest Thing, Spiritually Incorrect Enlightenment, and Spiritual Warfare — published by Wisefool Press. Articles, books and more at our website: www.wisefoolpress.com/

Weather Report

freebird — Tue, 28 Nov 2006 08:59:00 GMT

You left my bed before the storm. Now, from my window, Branches dance wild With the agile hands of the wind, Echo your touch on my skin. You asked to know my wounds, Showed me some of yours, Scars barely knitted, and I am Smitten, though I try I cannot hide it well. The wonder in my heart, once still, Begins to wave like the trees. Your love has no plan. Its current rounds my edges, Sweet erosion of rigid angles. Perhaps it is only new, A fresh breeze, but it moves me To unfurl my wings, And let myself rise. You’ve blown into my life Like this gale: dynamic. You settle only briefly To shudder me awake, To flutter my hair and play, While the force behind you Gathers, then you blow. Behind you, a litter of Tangled sheets and sighs, And enigmatic smiles. A storm this strong is rare. You seeing me seeing you, Blows us perfectly open. I breathe in the essences Of ardor, truth, and tears, Which drift like seeds On the current of your words. We all navigate the desire To choose and to be chosen. I watched as you made it to the Joy on the other side of pain. I trust you know the way. You said that I could teach you. You have already taught me I cannot grasp the wind.

Post-Apocalyptic Secrets

freebird — Sat, 18 Nov 2006 20:19:08 GMT

I. When two seekers find unity, There is a pause between seasons. Hope and fear birth each other in unison. Logic and consequence go unheeded. Waking from my fever to flowers on my pillow. I was dreaming the owl’s wing waving by the roadside, Even in death it is moved by the wind. The talons were empty. We grasp without clutching. II. How many strangers’ lives we change With our simple acts each moment? We move through life innocent of our wake. That man with the blue cowboy hat Never knew he was a wager in my game of hope, Secret agent of my unfolding dream. In the face of despair, faith prevails, And we light up as we find what we sought In the chaos of swirling bodies Moving in the ritual of night. III. The perimeter is where you invited me to speak, Hands cupping my face, And words streamed out in a torrent of story. Without the edge I would have wandered for miles, Fed myself to the desert in my madness, But the gift of your dark-eyed listening Pulled me out of my narrow despair. Our star will eat us when the time is right, Until then we will evolve. IV. Despite rumors of death and poor design, The fires of our imagination rage, Bellowing tornado of blind passion. We race toward the funnel, hair streaming, Pulled toward our uncertain future, There was no looking back. The eye of the vortex meets our gaze, And we fling ourselves against it like moths, A sacrifice worthy of the hungriest gods. In the face of fear, hope prevails. V. We have landed in cacophony. Try to find the silence within the din. The sounds that are the loudest Are the ones that are not here. The beats become the foundation. An earthquake of naughts and ones Ripples in our ears, cracks the ground, Rattles our bones, but we don’t run. We do the only thing certain to save us. We drop our bags and dance. VI. Glory comes streaming through our cores. Testing how much our bodies will hold, It cuts its own swath with its light, Stretching me with images of raw bone. Dancing ecstatic skeletal rapture. I recognize the necessity of destruction. I open my eyes and you are flesh and fire. High voltage superhero gleam in your eye. I show you myself and you see me! VII. We told ourselves we didn’t have our selves to give, Yet with our care, gifts grow on this vine. Now our bodies can’t hold the juice of This secret fruit, which ripens in the desert. It squeezes out our eyes and down our legs, And spills into the cracks of barren soil. We already gave lifetimes to reach this Moment of clandestine bliss Now we take it as it comes. VIII. Summer is breathing its last breath, As you lie in the dust reflecting the stars, Arms reach toward the mountains on each side. The fires burn nearby and everyone looks on. They heat the brand we use to mark The spot where our foreheads meet. It is the place we will return to when we Want to feel the space between us disappear. On that arid plain, too base to support life, It screams my joy into being.

Coexisting with the fish...

freebird — Tue, 03 Oct 2006 07:16:41 GMT

Feel the irony...no idiot left behind.... This is a short poem made up entirely of actual quotations from George W. Bush. These have been arranged, only for aesthetic purposes, by Washington Post writer, Richard Thompson. MAKE THE PIE HIGHER I think we all agree, the past is over This is still a dangerous world. It's a world of madmen and uncertainty And potential mental losses. Rarely is the question asked Is our children learning? Will the highways of the Internet Become more few? How many hands have I shaked? They misunderestimate me. I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity. I know that the human being And the fish can coexist. Families is where our nation finds hope, Where our wings take dream. Put food on your family! Knock down the tollbooth! Vulcanize society! Make the pie higher! I am the Decider! --George W. Bush

Edict

freebird — Thu, 20 Jul 2006 07:00:00 GMT

How big the silence is In my universe When you’re not here. It's like when I want to write And I can't find my favorite pen. In my universe We will have infinite soul-mates as a natural law, like gravity Or the scattering of light Pelting the atmosphere. There will be so much love In my universe That we will walk around blind from Looking at each other. We will hold our arms out to see. In my universe We are all ants under the Convex glass, huge and bright With the heat of it, In another moment gone.

We Have Come to Be Danced

freebird — Mon, 17 Jul 2006 07:19:22 GMT

Hey! Maybe this has cycled into your life already somehow, but someone recited this poem to me the other day, and I thought it was so great that I wanted to share it... We Have Come to Be Danced We have come to be danced Not the pretty dance Not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance But the claw our way back into the belly Of the sacred, sensual animal dance The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance The holding the precious moment in the palms Of our hands and feet dance. We have come to be danced Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance But the wring the sadness from our skin dance The blow the chip off our shoulder dance. The slap the apology from our posture dance. We have come to be danced Not the monkey see, monkey do dance One two dance like you One two three, dance like me dance But the grave robber, tomb stalker Tearing scabs and scars open dance The rub the rhythm raw against our soul dance. We have come to be danced Not the nice, invisible, self-conscious shuffle But the matted hair flying, voodoo mama Shaman shakinb ancient bones dance The strip us from our casings, return our wings Sharpen our claws and tongues dance The shed dead cells and slip into The luminous skin of love dance. We have come to be danced Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance But the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath and beat dance The shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance The mother may I? Yes you may take ten giant leaps dance The olly olly oxen free free free dance The everyone can come to our heaven dance. We have come to be danced Where the kingdoms collide In the cathedral of flesh To burn back into the light To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray To root in skin sanctuary We have come to be danced! We have come. by Jewel Mathieson from This Dance: A Poultice of Poems

On Courage

freebird — Mon, 10 Jul 2006 01:02:25 GMT

The fool walks the path between courage and calamity, In love with the crumbling edge, Where the familiar meets the abyss. With no fear of fear, he is buoyancy and innocence. Stand in his boots and listen to the hound at your heels, Barking at the silence between yes and no. Carry in your satchel the choices you’ve made. Peer over the edge and feel small. This gap is a fertile place Where seeds of fear open in the dark, Unfurl their sprouts and grow huge. Fill yourself up and then stretch beyond your skin. Let yourself be split open, grow Your own tinder for the fire That leaps at your heart, The one that makes you uneasy With your contentment. We know the difference between discomfort and danger. Put down your weapons again and again, Gather your belongings and Hold in your hands the ability to act from love. Stand at the rim of the abyss. Choose each moment to take up The space that you never were given, That you never gave yourself. There is no boldness without fear. Step into the darkness every day And stoke the fire.

begin it now...

freebird — Mon, 05 Jun 2006 21:49:10 GMT

I found out last week that an old friend of mine with whom I had lost touch just died a couple of weeks ago from a heart attack. He was an interesting character, full of love and care for humans and kitties alike ( he always had about 7 or 8 of them wherever he lived....). He was a neo-Reichian therapist, and spent his days helping others release old traumas from their bodies and minds through breath and sound. He also wrote amazing songs and played them on the guitar and painted beautifully. His name was Cloud because he was SO amazingly tall that his head would graze the clouds. Since I found out he has died, I keep thinking about all the things he shared with me that have stuck with me...his legacy in myself...the ways in which he has become immortal in my mind. The most lasting contribution he made to my life was contained within this quote, which I fell in love with: "Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now". --J. W. von Goethe We only have a small time on this earth...

The Sense of Home

freebird — Fri, 26 May 2006 23:03:30 GMT

I once heard it feels more Like rising than falling. Breathing yeast-scented air Is all it took to be drawn into sleep. Your quiet stride, A blanket over. Light turned off. Simple acts like these, Filled with life. Nested, I am safe curled Like a child on the couch. Just one hour, I said, Will unravel my mind from this Elastic knot of stress. Miracle of melting flesh, Leaking poison as it perishes From too much warmth And human care. Bubbles of sound expand Through dough of sleep Filling empty dark with Exquisite vapor of Fragrant peace. Knife and fork clank, Cast iron pan, Your cello voice, Coltrane, Davis, Mingus, It all flows into familiar. Rested, I open my eyes on this: Chair drawn close to Your temporary fire, You sprawled gifted, graceful, Ever book in lap. Round loaves swelling, Kneaded to smooth rhythms, Shaped by your big hands. I bask in this fleeting Sense called Home.

Flash Flood

freebird — Wed, 24 May 2006 04:00:27 GMT

Remind me that Even thunder and lightning Rolls in and fades away. The stories we tell ourselves Come down like sudden rain, Sting the toughest skin, Arch the longest stems, Spatter the magnificent Blossoms with mud. Gutters fill fast with broken petals, Residue of hard-earned dreams. Road turned rivulet, washed clean. There is not a more Tender flower than hope. Its petals fray ragged in the rain. Tucked behind my ear, The fragrance clouds me As it sheds its petals one by one. I look back to see My crumb-trail to devotion Dissolving in the downpour. Too strong, the temptation to hold on. Put the last sweet petals in my pocket. Scraps of scent saved for tomorrow. I close the door on sounds of Drops and crashing petals, The crushing of my own myth Muffled by human sounds within. Soon the space in the sky Where the clouds were Will be filled with stars, And in the bare blue dawn I will still hold you dear.

The Juggler

freebird — Thu, 09 Feb 2006 07:07:51 GMT

Morning fool, I only know you from a Festival dream, But I thank you For the mirror you held, Juggler. You know there Is only one of me And one of you. And time goes on. I can trust you To understand. If only all my lovers Had known That one day our hair Will fall out, Our teeth will yellow, We will only have humor And friends And community To adorn us. We will laugh At how proud we were, As the image in the glass Diverges from the One in the mind. Yet, dark coals glowing from the eye, We will still wrestle on the grass, Still find calm in Each other’s arms, And still feel Like velvet Inside.

Solitaire

freebird — Sat, 21 Jan 2006 00:31:26 GMT

Sometimes my crust dries grey On the surface Solid While the insides Melt into a Hot pool Grief and sorrow Thick Hidden Impenetrable We dance With the diamond Wheel in our hands Cutting and grinding Each other Ourselves From rough Edged Rubble Now my strength centers In the inner Core Solid mass Beneath Peeled skin Viscera shining Exposed Tender Exquisite Shocked By the beauty The play of light Of our facets We are cleaved Abraded Shaped Polished By the dance

The Flooding

freebird — Thu, 19 Jan 2006 08:52:56 GMT

Four rainbows. The first day of the year. Blinked, They faded, Fleeting as the sudden Holy torrent of desire. Currents carve A hollow place. I search for words there. Hidden in damp, They transform Beneath your gaze, Dissolve mutely Into wonder. Water falls on water. Swans return after The freeze. Riverbanks bulge In the yearning to have All they are given. Upstream turbulence Streaming silt that forms Fertile ground. Sifting into cold arcs, Shifting old streams, Filling valleys, Razing hills, Leveling all. Universal solvent, This fluid love crumbles my dam, Tumbles its way out, Seeping through Every open pore On its journey to be free. You draw silence around you, Like soft sheets of rain. The glint behind grey Hints of clear skies Beyond.

freebird — Mon, 02 Jan 2006 08:32:26 GMT

One thing I know: This Has been going on since long Before the snow fell Before the first dance Before the kiss. This has been going on Since the time before The time before The time that The clouds came Home for winter And tucked in. The wheels trail across time And there is No reverse. Different ways map Themselves in my tracks Crackling and crunch In the blown ice. Coyote on the road, I see you And I must laugh. For this Has been going on since long Before the star fell Before the first kick Before the crush. This has been going on Since the time before The time before The time that We leaned our Weight together And found friend.

Contact improv....Yummy....

freebird — Tue, 20 Dec 2005 20:47:43 GMT

Dessert

freebird — Mon, 05 Dec 2005 07:04:49 GMT

I want chocolate fling time with ding-a-ling in afternoon or can I bring a good water dream of delicate sex taboo with black voodoo mother My beautiful moon and bright sun very old spirit & earth body You need nothing but versatile appetite --midnight refrigerator magnet madness (I'm still hungry, but ain't nothin' behind the door...) by D. Free and C.S. Rice 12/4/05

Thursday 12/8 Crazy-Ass Music by Seattle's Grey Filastine

freebird — Sat, 03 Dec 2005 08:57:21 GMT

Grey travels around the world collecting indigenous music and street sounds. Also travels to world political events with the Infernal Noise Brigade.... Dec 8, @ Dunes 1905 NE MLK Download a freebee here: http://filastine.com/Sounds/Filastine_JudasGoatTmix.mp3 http://filastine.com