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“Immiscible with the Congregation I am a drop of oil in this bucket of water. We are immiscible about the immutability, Infallibility, and inerrancy of their ideas. They live in the polarities of good and bad, heaven and hell, a god and a devil, Christian and not. But life is too nuanced, history too complex; my mind is too neutral to mix. Are there any more drops of oil in here? Someone that has actually looked into the water and can’t be mixed into the multitude? Each week, the congregation is baptized in the idea that everyone needs an outside entity. What I need is to know myself. To be aware of the arising of the mind. To notice what is appearing and to watch it dissipate. To know that I am not the trail of thoughts that I get caught in. I need to watch thoughts arise, To let them go, and to pay attention to the thread. What I need is not outside, but it’s not necessarily inside either; it is the awareness itself of what is happening in both places. What I need is what is. That is my salvation. That is what I need. I am saved with each moment that I am aware. Amen.”

“What I need is not outside, but it’s not necessarily inside either; it is the awareness itself of what is happening in both places. What I need is what is. That is my salvation. That is what I need. I am saved with each moment that I am aware.”

“What is my life worth, my time worth, my well-being worth? What will I give it up for, at what price? Truly, what good is it to gain everything, whether money and possessions, knowledge and power, fame and influence, likes and followers, or anything the outside world has to offer you? Is it not temporal? Is it worth losing your mind and your well-being?”

“Fading into the space between the times Since their last phrase to each other, Their love vocalized, But now the pain’s localized , It’s been fastened to the focal eye Of the absence in his voice, Closed captions of the passionate goodbye What was the last thing he’d said to her? It’s on the tip of her tongue, She can’t remember what she’d heard, Vowels ripped and consonants undone, Stuck in the space between words, Muted language that refuses to come The silence stands between them, Engulfed in a vast distance in time. She would trade in an instant, His syllables for the silence In the depths of her mind.”

“To the poet, Every act is poetry; From cutting the grass, To cleaning a headstone. From walking, To breathing. Every act is something worth holding In the mind’s eye and letting go Onto paper or into the imperfect Reflective stream of memory. Every act done simply, Reminding them of their place here And the impermanence Of experience and of the moment. No matter the situation, “Yes, and this too is beautiful.” Is the mantra.”

“Publishing a book, Watching its ways Force me to look At a screen for days "Be still, be still", My heart screams for life But I must check its sales, It's reviews, its likes. Another Instagram poet Who's dying And doesn't know it, Untying an underlying Knot of desire To be liked and admired For people to love what transpires From my mind, but I'm tired Of the social machine Producing my insecurity Hoping someone will follow me And like all my poetry From this point forth, find me nowhere, Socially unseen, Just on the back porch, without a care And without a screen”

“The practice: mindful awareness of thoughts. What is the end goal: To be an Equanimous wise old man. What is the goal in this moment: To be an Equanimous young man. The journey is the goal- and the journey is lived each moment. Each moment is practice. Cyclical. Changing.”

“Easter Contemplations It does not concern me If this life is all I have. I do not need a resurrection Or reincarnation Or to live with the gods. It is enough to live With you here In the days of your presence. When my breathes Are complete, Lay me by your side In the dust. As in life, so in death. Let us become one With each other again.”

“We have been here before, staring at the slow slide of a stick, waiting, waiting, waiting… Year after year, there was no room for us in the inn, no shepherds, no angels, no prophecies, no hope, no coming. But this time, two lines herald the Eve of a birth Two lines, like the beginning and ending of a chapter of our lives. Handel could not compose something so beautiful. Gabriel could not bring better news. All the year’s fortune changes in the end, as new life evolves.”

“We have been here before, staring at the slow slide of a stick, waiting, waiting, waiting… Two lines, like the beginning and ending of a chapter of our lives… All the year’s fortune changes in the end, as new life evolves.”

“The only way we will love our neighbor as ourselves is by getting to know our neighbors, even in the midst of our differences. I am willing to have a conversation about how my journey brought me here and how you have come to this point. The only way to truly know someone is by being with them, by conversation.”

“Anyone who has gone through this process knows that every month is filled with anxiety, hope, tears, frustration, crushing disappointment, and hoards of negative tests. You learn not to hope and to expect a bad turn. Each month builds on every emotion. It can pry couples apart and drive people mentally into the ground. Luckily, we have used this season to lean into each other and become closer. We have been each other’s foundation to stand on and compass to follow when we didn’t know what to do. We have had to let go of the way we thought this would go and walk into unexpected paths.”

“A three year journey has caused us suffering and pain but we have grown stronger, bound together by patience, determination, trials, pain, perseverance, suffering, and love. When I say, “I love you” this part is bound up into that statement. This is has been trial by fire, purification by fire, our love is gold.”