if you feel little
think upon the brave sparrow
fly and rise above
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Riding Thin
tenth pabst
collapse
this too will pass
pull strength
out of thin air
clean the bits from my hair
give it one more stab
in the gulch
where
the hurricane spins
a lot of people
ride thin and fall in
and still manage to swim
but I drown
until
I come around
and when my feet hit the ground
with purpose and sound
I give away
the urbane
to embrace the the slick terrain
one shoe will never know
if the other is completely blown
my audible groan
will let you know
at last I am home.
Learning to be a competant breather
Life is as hard as diamonds and cuts like them too. But if you slice a diamond just right, that rock can sparkle. For most, life is a longing for that sparkle.
We spend long hours in dusky air-choked mine-shafts looking for that glimmer of hope. Statistically, it eludes us and we settle for some nicely polished granite stones engraved with our names.
Then, there are the few who see the sparkle within themselves. There is no longing or searching. They have dumped the contents of their soul onto the proverbial floor, surveyed the goods and have determined that what they see is everything they’ll ever need.
They exist in the moment. When life gets hard and cuts, they take a cue from time, knowing they can only live in each second. They understand their enigmatic human body is designed to heal from the inside out. Living isn’t any easier for them as it is for anybody else, but their realization carries them a long way. Such a person hardly cares about polished granite stones.
I surmise those who search don’t think too fondly of those who just exist. Perhaps someone who is content to merely exist has actions, motives and words that are foreign to the Searchers. The Searchers must think, “What fool can be happy with so little? They should be trying as hard as I am. You haven’t found anything and shouldn’t stop now.” A frantic person does not appreciate a person who is still. Ask a person who is about to be late and has lost their keys if they think they will still be alive in 45 minutes.
I know a woman. She has the good sense to know she had that sparkle inside. Searchers pull her like taffy and guilt her into their dank lair, not for the sake of appreciated company, but to rid themselves of their own misgivings about their fruitless quest.
I try to understand the Searchers motives:
“To be okay with myself, I must validate that the way I live is right. Therefore, if someone is doing it differently, they must be doing it wrong. I will feel better about myself if I point this out and save them from their erroneous ways. I cannot bear the thought that they might be living the right way, let alone better than me. Because I am showing them the way life ought to be, in a way, it will be like saving them. I am a hero for having tried.”
It’s another fruitless pursuit, Searchers. Once an Exister has discovered the art of being, that awareness cannot be undone, only forgotten. The most vanquished soul is an Exister who has lost their way. They have resigned to searching but are unconsciously awaiting instructions as to what the prize actually is. It is absolute unnerving futility and it leads to inexplicable madness.
The woman I know will remember the sparkle. Unfortunately, it may require an earthquake that ruins the very foundation that supports her, reducing it to smithereens.
Buildings will crash around her like plaster waves, scattering their pulverant debris in the typewriter ribbon streets; sin sitting in knots in the pits of the bellies of all the victims- merely lost souls who never found their gem. She’s never willfully brought harm to anyone, but she will initially feel like a roach- alive and despised.
She is not a heroine.
But alas! She is! She breathes!
When she rises like a phoenix from the disheveled mess around her, bewildered and distressed, her clothes, strips of muslin hanging loosely from her frame, ragged and mangled like a ship’s sails; she will not be remembered for valor and fortitude. She did not perform a feat of incredible strength or save a fellow man’s life, let alone a kitten. She will be momentarily regarded simply because she clawed her way from the rubble and chose to stand up. Her victory will be in the modest effort she made to continue breathing when she could have sacrificed herself to despair.
“Fall seven times, stand up eight.” ~Japanese Proverb
partially executed bravery ususally results in painful failure
examples:
the time when I thought I could spring up very high on a diving board and curve my body up and over like a rainbow, to get in to the water pin straight and diagonal, hands pointed above my head. The classic dive. Whilst midair I realized it was not going to work or I got scared. Whatever the reason was, I belly flopped HARD! It jolted my neck like sedan whiplash. That plane of water slapped me hard and taught me a lesson. That lesson is the title of this blog.
One time I thought about making a snappy comeback in jest by using the voice and words of Eric Cartman. I chickened out on the voice, and what I said didn’t come across as being a quote from a foul mouthed cartoon character, but rather as my own feeling about the situation. That lead to a big misundestanding later, and a great deal of awkwardness.
I was in the spelling bee when I was in sixth grade. I studied my ass off. I was so sure that I was going to do great. So many times I had stood on the stage at church and sang, my knees quivering, and would go cry after I was done. Not because I had done poorly, but just from the sheer terror of being watched by so many people made my nerves fray. When I went to the spelling bee, I had unusual courage. I bombed. I was the third one out. The word that was the nail in my coffin was one that my mom gave me a pneumonic device to remember. It was wrong though, so I had memorized it wrong. I wasn’t mad at my mom. I was mad at myself for having been so bold, brave and confident. Never again, I vowed, would I ever be so sure of myself.
If you ever feel like putting yourself on the line, make sure you go full balls out and see it through, or have the wills or skills to do it in the first place. Otherwise, it’s gonna hurt. Have you ever seen a tattoo where the person chickened out half way through?
