There is a Treasure

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There is a treasure
long and deep,
the way obscure,
and we are pushing past
a hundred different obstacles
webby, spindly things
scratching our faces,
and it is all we can do
to keep from crying out,
and we are tripping over
exposed roots and mossy stone,
slamming against rough surfaces
that don’t hesitate to take our weight,
and the heart pounds,
and we wish we were anywhere else.
But the treasure!
Eyes in a far off place,
maybe a clearing in the path,
maybe another place,
maybe tomorrow’s tomorrow.
The forest, then,
is no longer a forest
with its endless shades of green,
and sounds from ancient times,
from all the times and all creation.
Each tree is not a tree,
that pillar of wisdom,
joining heart to heart, root to root,
with the entire ground beneath us,
with the foot that touches down.
And what is the forest?
And who am I
in its thickets and dreams?

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How About Kindness?

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How about, instead of asking
where I come from,
you ask me where I want to go,
and instead of offering your name,
you find self in a warm embrace?
How about a smile instead of a rebuttal,
an ear for listening instead of shouting?
How about looking at a rainbow,
and marveling at how few you’ve seen,
and are likely yet to see in this life,
and mark the day as a miracle?
How about making wondering,
wandering, too, your true vocation,
becoming a master in the art of awe?
How about looking around
and seeing it all for the first time,
inventing new shapes in the clouds
before they, too, disappear,
and how about inviting this change,
and finding beauty in what can’t be held?
How about finding a new perspective
instead of delighting in the already known;
how about finding and honoring
both the teacher and student in you?
How about taking your shoes off
and grounding in the earth,
and feeling this support through life?
How about talking to trees,
Finding songs in a breeze,
How about being still and
catching it all and remembering:
There is so much love where I am,
and I am here, and I am free.

Welcome to your Garden

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Welcome to the garden of your life.
It’s so pretty here, if you find yourself
taking it all in at exactly the right moment,
when the flowers are in full bloom,
and the sun glints just so through the treetops
and into the lush, verdant space around you.
There is someone praying, maybe it’s you,
for relief from the feeling that everything should stay,
that the worst thing that could happen
is that all of this is going to change.
It is a deep and earnest prayer
that brings tears to the eye
and a deep rattling within the heart cage.
Maybe your eyes were closed, so you open them,
and the sun’s rays have shifted just enough
that the flower petals, as you take note,
have changed their direction to follow
the source of their nourishment.
It’s still your garden; you are still
in its endlessly deep, luxurious confines,
and you’ve never felt more free,
letting the changes do
what they were always going to,
and these transitions around you
are the heralding of life,
it’s coming and changing and going,
and fear that it will all disappear
is the golden emblem of your humanity.
It is your gorgeous humanity,
singing and haunting and taunting,
crying and pleading and laughing.
The garden takes it all in,
has only love to give back.
Take note of your garden; take it all in
with the time you’ve been given.
There is so much being offered,
and it’s all for you.
 
– TT

Me Too

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I, too,
feel sad and confused,
I, too, dive into the sea of hurt
that weaves through
our collective past,
as the trajectories come to this,
a great unearthing,
a volcanic hurtling of
old stories churning
around and around,
maybe with nowhere
they can yet go
to be free.
I, too, do not want
to succumb to a
place without hope,
I do not want make the dance
that asks to be danced,
with powerlessness.
I, too, though, am here.
And what I would like to do
is bear witness,
to every one of you,
whose stories have mingles
over time
with my own,
and not just to the stories
that are clawing for visibility,
but to the glory of you,
who are more than your stories,
not less than … never that.
You whose pathways have helped
carve every beautiful line,
curve, and contour of you,
have given your eyes
their stunning inflection,
your heart,
its majestic endurance.
I am here, and I say,
Me too.
Me too.

– TT

Make it So (for Life)

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Make it so,

the way an umbrella shelters

without removing the

experience of rain,

the way the flags flap

in the breeze,

giving away just a little bit

of their colour

with each passing moment,

so that we may pray

through and with them,

and it’s amazing

how long they hang on.

Make it so,

a full, bright, hope-filled

life. Take it all in.

Feel the breath

moving through you.

Know, too, that  the

fading of things

is also a reminder

of the fullest

expression of beauty,

at birth, in life,

and in the passing

of all things.

  • TT

 

 

For Las Vegas (a poem)

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A life defined by loss,
whose very parameters
involve a known closing,
does not make it feel
any softer, or less shocking,
does not make death
smooth and silky on the skin;
the knowledge that
we are here, on this plane,
for such a short duration
comes as a surprise,
every time, and the sadness in this,
in the dawning of a realization
of our own mortality,
it’s a sorrow of deep wells
and hard, splashing tears,
because we are never ready.
Here, maybe, we can begin:
how will we choose to be
on this short journey
between moons, from
one to the next, how will
we will fill the days between
sun’s gracious ascent and her
regal return to the other side
of the world?
Will we allow ourselves
to be horrified to the core
when the sanctity of life
is violated?
Will we do everything we can
to storm against the unruly,
the unjust, and the terribly
violent, and work for truth
of our equality, for our equal
right to live freely, out of harm’s
way? Is there anything else?

– TT

Stars and Shadow

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Soft
enchantress of day
casting her shadows,
gentle, fluttering,
as though to ease us
into the specter of night,
where shadow is subsumed
by the Great Dark,
and we sit in this for a time,
and the stars appear,
teaching us not
through the language of shadow,
teaching us, maybe not
at all, instead,
rewarding our tired eyes
and aching hearts
with a sea of
nocturnal
possibility.

– TT