Impressionist Reflection　　　

21 Becoming more than the person we are, consistently and concertedly, requires we cross the road of material desires and material suffering. There will always be material attachments; I seek not to renounce them but to view them from across a valley, at a distance. Only then will those considerations be secondary to what is truly important. Only from this perspective will I make peace with the depth of suffering that all can identify in the world. “We”, or rather the perception of what we call consciousness, are immaterial. Ideas, dreams— immaterial. Love, hope— immaterial. For those who believe only in science, or simply for the many disenchanted by religion, why do we spend so much time shutting our senses to the immaterial if it contains such things? Because we have had difficulty in attempts at perceiving signals from the immaterial plane? Because there is hypocrisy in the way that some try and decipher and explain the immaterial? In the intangible space that holds our enti

As my creative inspiration waxes and wanes like the tide, I look back on old writings often with a sense of wonder at the cycles in the expression of my emotions. Unfortunately, I still feel like I have a long way to go before I update this as frequently as I used to, but some thoughts I have to share: For a long time I have been uninspired in my writing. I felt I had scraped the bottom of my soul for my deepest vulnerabilities, doubts, and dreams, and how they echo more universal characteristics that I've recognized in literature and in my relationships with others. I felt I had said everything I needed to about how I will work for a better future. I thought I did, but I was wrong. I'm just getting started-- I thought I was blind to life, but in fact I had chosen to close my eyes. In a world of technology and engineering I began to forget my creative tendencies. My love for artistic expression. The importance for emotional connections and friendships. And the importance of

Love is made so rich by the pain we endure-- without thorns, the rose is similar to every other flower. Yet for the pain it has caused those who tried to pick it up over the years, it is now known as the symbol of love. Maybe it has to do with the color red, but there are many other red flowers that don’t have thorns. Some aspect of human nature has enabled us to realize that pain is central to the growth of love. There is little more beautiful than that. The juxtaposition of emptiness and loss against passion and excitement allows for gratitude, and our positive experiences are made vibrant against the darkness that surrounds them. Circles Scribbles fill my empty margins, Chaos tips the human scales, Love has slipped between my fingers, Life careening off the rails-- Such events, like death, are certain. Still, death grants life it’s purpose. Loss will fade on sunny days Made brighter by our burdens. What is be

12:08 AM Who am I? I search inside, I seek the source of heart and mind And find that many questions rise. It’s witching hours— The spirit that devours me is waking: Can you hear it whispering? Feel it kicking into life? Eight past midnight: Genesis, I am a vision born in silence, Chasing at the great unknown Beyond these mystical horizons. Even when I write, When I project this voice divine Like windows let in sunshine— I’m feeling less than certain yet. Who am I? Am I some reflection? Am I simply a given name? Am I the courier of an ancient message? These are only partly true— Brontë, Shelley, Wordsworth too Do live inside the fire I store. I am in part these writers’ dreams. Or rather a pristine reflection, Human experience with a name. Forged in part by years of change Like waves that carve the ocean cliff. I am a mission bound by fate: Beseeched by seraphim unknown To bear the sacred torch of hope To brig

Night Swimming I walk along the sweeping shore, Counting stars that dance within The shadow of the ivory moon— Do they look up at it too? Years and years ago Like a ghost was in my shoes, Someone sat where I do now And prayed to God that life would slow… The river trickles in the stones Until it flows into the rapids... Faster every day and yet We can’t escape the current. It drains into the lake of dreams— Trapped behind that windowpane, The glow of hopes and memories Is tinted with a phantom green, That silvered surface of this lake Mirrors what the river bleeds. I used to be so much afraid To show my heart and face the grave. Yet sweet exposure carries me, Like leaves upon the summer breeze, To finding peace upon the shore  Where I will rest eventually. Summertime is coming soon With pining gazes at the moon— Have you come to know of me As well as I have known of you? I smile while I cry again For sacred souls that c

The mourning dove, which also confusingly is known for singing it’s sad calls in the morning, brings me back to my childhood. Every morning I would wake up to that longing coo that sounded so lonely and empty to me.⁣ ⁣ In a way, the morning is a funeral for yesterday’s mistakes. And yet as any proper funeral it is also a celebration of life, a spark of hope for the future. Only recently have I had the strength to consistently look forward instead of backward. ⁣ ⁣ My life is constantly back and forth between persistent pessimism and hopeful resolve. Since the dove represents lightness and peace but mourning involves death and emptiness, I figured the mourning dove was a proper metaphor for the duality of morning. Of waking up wondering why we keep on fighting, but still getting up and fighting regardless. A symbol for documenting my transformation in how I view uncertainty and the future.⁣ ⁣ Peace is more than an acceptance of the ups and downs in life. It is about seeing t