Be What You Are

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It is the nature of a flower to bloom;
It wouldn’t know what else to do.
It will never walk across the field
To commune with the faraway trees.
It won’t kiss the sky on a bird’s wing,
Or climb the distant mountains,
It won’t arch its pretty spine up
To greet the sky before first light.
It knows when to stay buried and wait,
and when to greet the world again.
It doesn’t know how to be beautiful,
But this takes away none of the beauty.
Its wisdom is its graceful blossoming
Into what it was always meant to do.
It is the sacred purpose of a flower
To bloom, and nothing internal to it
Will ever stop this great unfolding.
May we learn from the flower’s grace,
To find what we are, and be that, fully,
As though our lives depended on it.
 
– Tammy Takahashi
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The Morning After

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After a night

That lasts forever,

The day has arrived

On the wings of stars

And a half full moon

That arched across

The world

Taking the swells

Of sea and ocean with it

And the heaving

Absorbed our cries

And lifted skin from bone

As we ran and fell,

Looking for what made us.

We nearly didn’t make it,

Now chilled in the morning dew,

Shedding the haunting

Of diffuse, scattered dreams

Flown to serpentine clouds

Clinging to the mountainside,

Where they won’t harm

Anyone, ever again,

And all this,

So that you can stand

On a deserted shore,

Windswept, shattered,

A mass of raging heart,

At the very foot of

The rest of your life.

Summer Reading!

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Have you gotten your copy of Land yet? Who doesn’t need a little bit of heart this summer?

Thank you to Golden Dragonfly Press for this amazing image!

Available here:

Amazon Paperback:
https://amzn.to/2M28sMD

Amazon Kindle Print Replica ebook:
https://amzn.to/2sO4wGv

Amazon Canada Paperback:
https://amzn.to/2thOViA

Amazon Canada Kindle Print Replica ebook:
https://amzn.to/2t6SpFn

B&N Paperback and Nook ebook:
http://bit.ly/2M4pk4b

Google Books: Ebook
http://bit.ly/2HT2udj

 

xo

Tammy

We are the Blossom

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Is there a revolution
in your mind?
Of course there is.
From yesterday to now,
thoughts and feelings
have travelled to the
sun, moon and back,
so imagine the days
before this, the years.
Oh, the way we fight
so hard to be
who we are,
to keep the pieces
whole and tethered,
to keep closed covers
on both ends of the story.
We are always
who we are.
The tree, from root to sky,
anchors the whole world
without questioning
the what of her.
The blossoms come out
to live in time
for just one week
before the rain brings
them to their lovely end,
and still they are
fiercely and only
what they are,
even as they resemble
themselves the least.
The light will hit them
a certain way,
threatening to change
everything we know,
and this looks a lot
like magic.
And this is the
revolution.
It is the stuff,
the same and
ever-changing
that weaves our lives
together, too.
May we always be
fully, wholly, wildly
what we are. – TS

I Am A Body

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along the banks
i am a body
scant against a breeze
flowing in the directions
 
holding a worn cloth
i am a body
blinded by midday sun
and truths are emerging
 
in the blazing sun
i am a body
untamed and uncontained
generous with my fire
 
on the river’s surface
i am a body
glinting and radiating
moving but not restless
 
in the river rocks
i am a body
unwavering and true
as time moves around me. – TS

The Essence of Things.

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I am the bamboo leaves
Shuddering under the weight of rain
In a cold windless sky.
I am the wind
Flown across the ocean,
Rootless and unearthed,
Hovering around the bones of things.
I am the pane of glass,
Human-made, heavy and obtuse,
On both sides of every place
Creating distance even
In invisbility.
I am a woman, here,
Looking out the window
Memory of past rains
On my skin
Forgetting to know the how of
The patterns of shapes,
And the essence
Of things.

Change (art poem)

I was thinking about the nature of change, and how we tend to assume there is a continuity of “us” that, when we really probe the matter, turns out to be essentially untrue.

Do you keep journals? Have you ever gone back to read really old entries, and found yourself visiting an exotic place all but unknown to you? Who is the “you” who wrote those entries all those years ago, or who appears in the old family portrait?

We want to cling to who we were; we are perhaps afraid of being adrift, or more adrift that we already feel. But is this really so scary, or is this maybe the very key to our freedom and happiness, that if we really try, we can begin, and begin again?

I thought it would be interesting to flip to random pages of old journals to see what I could find, and I found this on the first page I flipped to …

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