Noise-filled Thoughts

My mind is swirling of thoughts

The shoulds, the shouldn’ts the have-to's, the oughts

Unbridled emotions swirl around

Arrogances, annoyances, burdens abound

The clammer inside continues to rise

I can’t hear the external, I’m completely inside

Engulfed by past images or futures I want

The words I wish I hadn’t uttered continue to haunt

Fireworks of stimulated synapses exploding everywhere

Words burst into each other and evaporate into air

And suddenly from the depths of my noisy despair

A hear a Voice that Sternly Blares:

LISTEN.

All is quiet.

I hear my own breath.

I return

Sadness is the Stillness.

Sadness is the stillness.
The quiet holding of a breath
that exhales with a long sigh
a gasp of air before she wept

she begins to blink her eye
but she holds the blink too long
and as her chin begins to quiver
you can tell that something's wrong

and just before she knows it,
you see the sliver of tear, the rest
desperately begging not to be released
so as not to let the sadness manifest

but still they seep through-quiet
tears blossoming from a downward crescent eye
rolling through the crevasses of her mouth
despite attempted blinks to keep them inside

and despite the subtle motions of her face
and the tiptoes of her tears
the delicacy of sadness breaks
and the gasps and sobs begin to near

trying to maintain her composure
she squeezes shut her heart
clenches her fist and clamps shut the eyes
of a witnessed break-down she will not be a part

and slowly she contains herself
and of a mustered smile she tries to make
her eyes get wide and bright
but you knows this attempt at composure is fake

so for now she will pretend to be ok
and wait till the comforts of her room
to break open her sadness
and freely wallow in her gloom

see sadness craves the stillness
it likes to be alone
hidden in the shadows
where melancholy's sown.

The Box Conspiracy.

I tend to gravitate towards small contained areas that completely enclose me, otherwise known as boxes, squares, or rectangles. As a child, when my mom could not find me in the house, she would open the closet and there I would be nestled against three walls sleeping soundly. My favorite room in the world is in my cottage in Canada, a narrow rectangular room that barely fits a single bed and dresser. There is something about small confined spaces that makes me feel safe. This is probably why I love my studio in NYC. It is small...like really small, but there's something about it that brings me relief when I walk in it. There are no surprises. I can walk in, peer around from my stairwell, through my doorway, and ensure that no stranger lurks in an unseen place.

Unfortunately, my tendency towards straight geometrical patterns is what I most dislike about my self. Because not only do I physically find myself confined by small places, but I find myself living many days in a box. I think the same thoughts, I walk the same route to work, I eat the same food. I have the same weekly meetings and get-togethers. I'm living my days just like they're displayed on my calendar--in little tiny boxes, but with a different number for a different day.

And besides the squareness of my days, I am forced to spend most of my days staring into the damned glowing box of a computer screen. The Onion recently just had an article that headlined "90% of Waking Hours Staring at Rectangles." This is probably not completely statistically accurate, but it's not too much of an exaggeration either. This is frightening.

Stupid Squares and Rectangles! They rule our lives! We even force the vastness of the mind's creativity into them. Like now, in this moment, I'm trying to capture my intangible thoughts on life and fit them into the "posting box" of this website that falls within my rectangular computer screen. And when I paint, I find myself painting on a square canvas. And when I take a picture, it prints out onto rectangle paper and I try to preserve the memory in a rectangle frame. And when I write, whether it be poetry or a legal opinion, I print it out on the rectangular paper. Even the world's best novels are contained to little boxes full of print.

Is no one else bothered by this?! Is there some type of conspiracy out there to confine our lives to boxes? Is it not ironic to anyone else that the limitless nature of creativity is often expressed on the limited nature of a square? How can these limits not, at least on some subconscious level, affect us?

Regardless of whether the conspiracy exists, my constant daily struggle is to accept the confines of physically small places, but to seek vast spaces. Though we are already inherently contained by the limits of our bodies, the joy in the metaphysical is that our hearts and minds transcend their physical organs. Our thoughts, expressions, and creativity are free and spacious. They only become contained when we decide to place artificial limits on them. I want to fight to free my mind from these limits (even if it feels less safe). I'm pretty sure my deep cravings for the ocean reflect this desire. I take comfort in the ocean not only because it is beautiful, but because it is vast. Because when I look at it, I do not see limits. I do not see boxes or squares or confinement. I see endless motion and expansiveness. It is a vast space of unboxable life. And this is how I want to live--oceanically.

I don't want to be put in a coffin when I die (do you hear this, family?) I went to cremated and spread into Lake Erie. It will be my last (and surely my most successful attempt) to be free from the confines of a physical box.

Ode to Musicians

Over the past month I have witnessed random people creating music in the most ordinary moments. Last week, on my way to to the Maui airport (yea for vacations :)), an older Hawaain man quietly began singing "Tiny Bubbles" from the back of the bus. All of the chatter immediately ceased. As we sat there listening, no one turned around to say anything to him, but there seemed to be a quiet understanding that we took joy from his song.

And then there was the flute player in Pacific Palisades Park sitting on a bench in the rose garden practicing "Chariots of Fire."

And then there was the elder Asian woman dancing and singing to herself in a language not understood by me by the East River on a spring morning.

And then there was the musician playing Van Morrison "Crazy Day" in the subway tunnel during rush hour in the lower east side.

And then there is the recorder player Mickey who greets people emerging from the subway on their evening commute everyday.

The beauty of music is that it often finds us, sneaking into our awareness in the most unsuspecting moments. Providing us an opportunity to stop our thoughts and listen. Allowing us to witness strangers gifting their talents to other strangers. Letting us enjoy something that we did not have to create.

Music allows people to stand alone in a random part of the city and share a part of themselves with the passing world without seeming crazy or annoying. The public sharing of any other passion is looked upon with disdain. People who talk to themselves on the street are considered schizophrenic. People who share their faith are preachers. People who hold up signs are in-your-face protesters. People who make art on the street are graffiti-ers. People who hand out leaflets on their cause are annoying fundraisers.

But people who make music....are musicians. People will stop and listen to musicians. People will tap their feet to a stranger's beat. People will be moved to drop money in a hat when they pass by out of a pure appreciation of a sound. People will look up and smile in the acknowledgment that you too are listening. People will feel their memory or emotions awaken to a recognized song. Because of this, musicians have a rare freedom to uninvitedly reveal their talents and soul to the world and still be embraced.

I want to be a musician. I think a lot of us do. And though we may not have the lyrical or musical capabilities of producing pleasing auditory compositions, we have something within us that we yearn to share to the world. We want to share it although it will make us vulnerable. We want to voice our inner most passions, but fear such an act would deem us crazy. Or worst, no one would listen. We want to create something that people may, if only for a moment, pause and appreciate. We want the opportunity to show the world that we can create something beautiful.

Perhaps the myth is that only singers and songwriters and instrumentalists are musicians. Perhaps we walk through life resigned to listen to others' music, without realizing that we too can create it. Perhaps music is not merely notes or sounds, but the courage to vulnerably share an inner voice to strangers passing by. Perhaps the creation of music means quieting the yelling of the mind's opinions and allowing the voice of the heart to emerge. Perhaps the melody we create will find a listener. And then perhaps the true beauty of music lies not in what is created, but what is shared.

Footprints of a Stranger

When I sit on the subway, I stare at those around me, wondering what they are thinking. It's the ultimate poker game: people's faces are blank as they look into the spaces between the faces. I always lose this game, staring at people until they awkwardly look up at me, at which point I pretend I have something in my eye and start staring at someone else.

A few months ago, while waiting for the 4,5 subway in Brooklyn, I was staring particularly unscrupulously at a tall older man with perfectly coiled dreds down to his waist. When he looked over I quickly diverted my eyes. What an intriguingly beautiful man, I thought to myself, subconsciously imprinting his picture into my memory. We both got on the subway, and a few stops later, I got off.

Three months later, in a subway stop in an entirely different part of town, I was changing from the A line to the L line. As I worked my way through the masses of people in underground tunnels, I kept my eyes focused on those walking in the opposite direction. Suddenly, I stopped. The guy from the subway, the intriguing stranger from the 4,5 Line, walked right past me. I gasped. "I KNOW YOU!" I wanted to yell after him, reminding him of our moment of diverted eye contact. He kept walking eyes straight ahead with no glimpse of recognition and then he was gone.

The recognition of a stranger's face really affected me. How often do we walk by the same people over and over again, unaware that we are sharing unrecognized familiar moments with each other? How many people do we walk past daily not knowing that we know them?

This incident reminded me of another experience I had the year before. I was at a James Finley meditation in Santa Monica and after 20 minutes of sitting, the group of around 40 or so, got up, pushed back our chairs, and prepared for walking meditation. Right before we started, I slipped off my shoes, wanting to be barefoot. As we began to walk in a circle, head down, amidst darkness, I did not know who was behind me or ahead of me. But the slow rhythm of my walk was guided by the pace of the person in front of me.

Two laps into the meditation, I suddenly realized that I could feel the the warmth left behind from the stranger's step: the physical manifestation of a life in action. And as I felt the warmth from the ground, my heart warmed. I could not help but feel connected to this stranger. I was sharing with him an intimate moment that he did not know we were sharing--but I was physically and symbolically sharing in his walk of life. In 27 years of walking behind people and in front of people, I have never considered that our footprints leave behind a momentary heat of life and, whether or not we recognize it, we daily feel the warmth of a stranger passing. We are constantly unconsciously connected to the footprints of a stranger.

Poem of Peace

My close friends and family will tell you that the only presents I usually give them for their birthdays, holidays or special occasions are poems. And the poems always, always rhyme. Since I was six, I utilized poems to convey my ideas (i.e. "my mother wasn't funny when she gave away my pet bunny; my father's the best dad because he never gets mad.") Twenty years later, I'm still doing it. I'm actually surprised that it took me this long to write an entry in rhyme, but regardless, here it is...

A Poem of Peace.

In the subtlest of moments, life changes before my eyes
Often in these moments I take me by surprise
As I unclothe the preconceptions and take off the disguise
I am left stranded, naked, seeing the stark truth behind my lies.

I tell myself lies sometimes, in order to feel free
Pretending that as a human, I lack accountability
And so I am left in a world in which I make believe
Though my eyes are open...I still claim not to see
So this poem is a poem in pursuit of honesty
Of the truths that remain, that stem from my heart
I still have much to learn, but this shall suffice as a start.

Though I believe in peace, a life of peace had I swore
In reality, most of our lives are driven by war
War between races, Based on the color of faces
war of territorial gains, the claiming of spaces
war between politics and polarized wings
the destruction of common goals, of which divisiveness brings

War between ourselves-torn with societal mainstreams
Trying to figure out where to fit our own dreams
Torn between our natural image from which we were given
And a barbie doll image to which we're subconsciously driven

Blaming others that the harm we see is another's fault
Not seeing our role in things, our own actions an assault
Denying that the jewelry we wear and keep in our vaults
Have not come from pain, of these thoughts we halt
We tell ourselves pretty things come from a mine field
But deny that it is enslaved children who painstakingly yield
Minerals and diamonds in order to survive
And we hang them from our necks, so our own wealth thrives

And I pretend to make believe that my clothes come from a store
And not from a factory where physical labor leaves muscles and hearts sore
And I pretend that when Jesus said "if you have two coats, give one away"
He really meant you can save charity for a different, more convenient day

And I see us paying for exploitation
Justifying destruction for new creation
Perhaps this all my imagination
a make-believe of truth or a miseducation
But we're all a part of the proliferation
of a culture which seeks the domination
of indigenous species and all others we come across
democracy is a gift, but there is a line we have crossed

One voice, one vote; this is what I believe
not corporations electing Presidents because their motive is greed.
We're founded on freedom and principals of democracy
But when we engage in human rights violations, we engage in hypocripsy
Letting the world be run by a profit-ridden corporatacracy

Comparatively speaking, in this country we are safe.
But we always feel so threatened, perpetual fear we instigate
But there are places where people suffer much worse fates
In Congo where girls are subject to gang rape
Fistulas ripped, vaginas torn
Children abandoned, a population forlorn

Earthquakes in Haiti, people buried alive
North and South Korea, families suffering divide
Starvation in Zimbabwe, religious clashes in Nigeria
And health care for all here is causing hysteria?

I understand the need to preserve a certain status quo
But of the current state of things, is this the way we should go?
If being a nationalist
Means preserving self- interest
And becoming isolationist
Then to my spirituality and God will I seek guidance to step
Obeying the laws, but questioning the people we elect

And though I may be defined as poitically liberal
And my values declared impractical and much too cerebral
An idealist who lives too much in imagination-
To others I seem to engage in conservative conversation
Pursuing a moderate way and supporting religious vocations

However I am labeled, I seek to fight evil
That perpetuates extreme disparity and leaves others as unequal
Although I don't suffer from discrimination because my color is white
I know racism exists and minorities still fight
To overcome stereotypes and be seen in the same light
Frustrated by conceptions that white often means right
To say racism is over ignores a greater plight

And though I am straight, of the mainstream sexual orientation
I have seen loved ones cry tears based on gay discrimination.
And they say words don't matter, if you don't mean what you say
But I have seen sadness as a consequence of a joking "fag" or "so gay"
Sometimes intentions seem pure, we justify principals with beliefs
But if beliefs cause pain and suffering, perhaps we're missing a piece
Because while love can cause sadness and love can cause pain
Love doesn't treat the essence of one's being with disdain

And other lies that we believe, I begin to see...
I've come to realize that money is certainly not free
It may come at the sacrifice of who we may want to be
Hiding our dreams for financial security
Saving money for things that we don't even need

And our relationship with the environment, of this I have learned much
At times it seems that everything that we touch
the grass, water, forests, begin to destruct
We indeed have broken mother earth's trust
Like vampires, of her resources, we perpetually suck
it is rare that we stop at enough...
we always want more
turning mother nature into our whore

We treat animals and trees as objects for our use
Taking as much as we can, turning our eyes at abuse
Forgetting that like a time bomb about to blow a fuse
if we don't change our ways, it is us who will lose

But regardless of differences or what we each believe
from deep within our sorrows we all seek to be happy
If I can fill myself with love, pushing aside hate
Hoping that with openness, judgment will dissipate
And with judgments aside, in my heart there is more space,
I can better relate to others, of new beginnings I can create

Let us appreciate the difference, to acknowledge other sects
But still embrace diversity, ensuring no neglect
Believing what we may, but not owning notions of correct
We can build a community of differences based on universal respect

If we can demonize the injustice, and not the person
then we can start to live by love's assertions
of a religion based on kindness, there will be no desertion

So, to sum it up, in my quest to self-actualize
I yearn for a union of all of the divides
of self and God
of self and other
let other be brother
let me become we
thy become my
all unify.

I try find to find peace in the "i don't knows"
Hoping that as I listen, my heart will grow
And observing the cycle of reaping what i sow
life will unfold in equilibrium, balance will flow

A new earth filled with simplicity
This is a dream I pursue actively.
Through lies, I hope I continue to see
And if God asks, "a fighter for peace who will it be?"
I will bow my head and fall to me knees
Here I am, I am waiting... God, please send me.

"I'm ok."

This morning, after my dentist appointment, I rushed down the block towards the subway station hoping to make it to work before 10 a.m. It was cold. Really cold. As my list of things to do swirled in my head, my eye suddenly caught a blanket shaking at the corner of 59th and Lexington. Except, it wasn't a blanket shaking. There was an older woman whose body was curled in the fetal position on the concrete, wrapped in a thin blanket. Though her body remained tightly wound, her head stretched upward seeking the generosity of strangers, her eyes gazed a few feet ahead of her at the passing of feet. She was shaking. Profusely. I watched a stranger drop their gloves at her feet. Her head remained dropped, but she lifted her eyes in appreciation. "Oh my goodness," I said as I approached her, "you must be freezing! Please take my hat." I outstretched the hat towards her, but she was too cold to reach out to it, so I dropped it in her lap. She nodded her head. "Thank you," she whispered.

And then, I kept walking. Because that's what you do, right? Carry on with your life? Move on to the next obligation? I walked down the subway steps on 59th and waited for the 6 train. Something whispered inside of me, "that's all?" I stared straight ahead waiting for the screeching of an approaching subway train. "She was freezing, Ker," the voice whispered. "Go back." I didn't listen. The subway came and I got on. The train conductor called out, "train traffic up ahead. We're going to be delayed for a moment."

"Go Back." it whispered. I stared ahead, glazing over blank faces and trying to avoid looking at the train door which remained open. Two minutes we waited. The train started moving again.

I'm not listening, I thought to myself. I should go back...I'm not listening to...wherever the voice was coming from, be it my heart, or my conscience, or my guilt, or the universe. Regardless where it came from, I wasn't listening.

Oh well. Too late, my rationality chimed in as the subway jerked to the next stop.

We got to 51st street. The doors opened. It's not too late, I thought...8 blocks away...I could walk back to her in 8 minutes. She's probably gone though. Someone else is surely helping her. Gotta make it to work on time. "Watch the closing doors," the conductor yelled out. The doors didn't close. The conductor yelled out again, "doors closing!" The doors remained open. "Go." it whispered. The doors started to close, I grabbed my bags and dashed through the open door. Back to 59th Street I headed. I counted the blocks as I frantically walked. Definitely going to be late to work. I passed the stores I had just past, watched people sipping their coffees and rushing to work. My bags bumped against passerbys. I grabbed a hot tea to give, just in case. Finally, I reached the corner again. She was still there. Someone had taken off their jacket and wrapped it on her. Two people had already left hot coffee by her side.

I kneeled next to her. The hat I dropped by her side had fallen off. "Your hat fell off," I said. This time I put on her head. "Can I take you somewhere to get warm. Are you freezing?" She didn't recognize me from before, probably because I hadn't looked her in the eye and probably because she likewise avoided eye contact. "I'm not too cold," she replied, still shaking and looking down. "People are layering me up with clothes. My legs are in pain. I'm just gonna stay here." I paused. "Ok. that's ok...ok." I mumbled, wondering what else to do. I stared at her, finally asking, "But..are YOU ok?" She finally gazed up at me. "You know," she said, "all morning I sit here and people drop things at my feet, but not any one ever ask me if I'm ok."

She paused. And gazed back towards the concrete. Someone dropped some change in her cup.

"But I'm ok." she finally said. "I spend the nights in the shelter, sometimes at a friends' house. I'm ok. Thank you for asking ma'am."

"Ok." I replied, knowing that while she was surviving, she was barely ok. "Ok. I'm glad you're ok." I said, nodding one too many times.

We exchanged a few more words and then I crossed the street to get back on the 59th Street Subway. I started crying as I walked away. Crying because she was suffering and I had walked by her and it took me 9 blocks to turn around. Crying because I was someone who had thrown something at her feet. Crying at the justifications we tell ourselves to pretend we're not responsible. Crying at the hundreds of people who walked by her each day, pretending not to see. Crying at the kindness of those who gave her their clothes. Crying at the thought that no asked her if she was ok. Crying for the millions of other people who only want people to care enough to ask the three simple words of "are you ok?" Crying at the mere thought of the magnitude of suffering in this world. Crying at how it was only after I looked in her in the eye that my heart awakened to her need.

When I exited the subway in Brooklyn and approached the court house, I looked at the clock and tears brimmed my eyes once again. After all of my concern with timing, I was only twelve minutes late. I breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm ok on time," I thought. And then I paused, feeling the heaviness of the unspoken story encompassed in a shivering woman's words of "I'm ok." My heart hurt. But on to the next obligation.