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
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The Power of One

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The power of One
to step into the self,
to cast the gaze within
and contemplate who,
what and why, to
better face the world,
still and always
curious, seeking
integration.
 
The power of the Many
to stay, to speak
and stand up for
what one alone cannot,
in which one plays
his or her part
in the weaving of
this, the grand tapestry.
 
The power of the
Many in One
and the One in
the whole of us.
 
– TT

The Right Side of History

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I want to be on the right side of history.

We all do, of course, and we all have
our ideas of right and wrong, as though
every part of this were an open discussion.
We want to take the comfortable path
and be assured of our golden destination.
We don’t want obstacles along the way;
we don’t want the seamier side of the
fairy tale, only the ending, rainbow bright.

But there is a wrong side of history, we
know this. It is the side most of us won’t
be here to regret, mourn, or reconsider.
It is the side that bears witness to our
ugliest nature, that twists our own need
for comfort and security into a languishing
hole all those who are struggling will
easily fall into. It is the hole we will have
dug, depraved, with our own two hands.

I want to be on the side of history that
favours life, and that honours the sanctity
of the living. I want to be on the side
that remembers what it’s like to desire
the chance, no, all the chances we have
in us to imagine, for every last one of
us sentient beings, from beginningless
time until the never-ending. For all of us.

Here is how to recognize the right side
of history: it lives, it breathes, it includes,
it contemplates, it makes things better.
It never looks away. It never looks away.
It is full of hearts that can rest in the
knowledge that they beat the to soulful
rhythms of compassion-driven action.
It is full of people who hold hands, and
take every opportunity they can to listen
and bear witness. It is waking up to a day
free of bloodshed and the thoughts that
take us there, that can unfold and stretch
and open into all the infinite tomorrows.

– TT

In the Land of Sweet Honey

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In the land of sweet honey
that flows like endless water
that nourishes the flowers
that feed our wild things
that hum and buzz the
world alive
 
Every year, a new year,
every day, a new sun.
every moment,
life follows death,
 
death, which for
all our efforts,
we cannot fathom,
 
life, the foundation for
and the trajectory of
our awareness.
 
One follows the other
at every turn, and we
can glide, as though
on a magic carpet
through the
alchemy of our
 
transformations
turnings
cycles
 
And when we are tired,
we can come to rest
on this, our land,
and expand this
piece of Time
to encompass
all that is.
 
The reflections in
one grain of sand,
even.
 
We will find
one another
there.
 
– TT

Come Sit With Me

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Come
Sit with me
I want to say,
It’s been such a long time.
 
Maybe this place is unfamiliar to you,
I know – I am also, still, not so sure of it,
or even how I came to be here.
 
I’m not sure which of my histories
had to emerge, defiant and victorious,
from the rest, for today to take
the shape it has, or why,
 
Or how to contend with
my other stories, so stubborn and sure
(so much more certain than I am),
each cropping up, in turn,
to ask something of me.
 
Maybe it’s like that for you, too,
where you are?
I would like to meet you there
and hear your stories.
 
I would like for the act
of our communion, though,
to be our beginning,
to form the core of our existence,
both yours and mine,
 
and for the stories
to enlighten us without taking over.
 
Let us sit together,
and not scramble for meaning,
or dismiss the struggle either.
 
Let us take all of it,
hold it in the space between us,
and breathe and love and be,
you and me,
 
And start
the only place we can,
here, now, free.
 
– TT

Tomorrow

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t has never been the same,
but still we have fallen into
our comforts, taken to the belief
that things get better, that
there is a sheen on the horizon,
which is always, deliciously, ahead,
and if we stopped here, maybe,
in the playground of our versed hopes
and our deepest wisdom,
our steps would graze the ground
lighter, a golden future we’d make
from the firm beingness of now.
But what of the other side,
the way we turn to the past,
not with our bare feet on holy ground,
but with our eyes turned inward,
fixed on an object that never, really, is?
The happy-laced, the moments receding,
buried so in a fortress of our love and
desire, that it changes colours, hardens
and turns without our ever knowing,
and we intuit that we must leave
them where they are, but
we build altars and shrines
around them, with our tenderness
but also our fear, for we know
that in their unveiling, there would
be a disappearance, and a shudder
would pass through us, like lightning,
as though nothing remained, as
though we were not here, blood
and bone and hope on sacred
ground, still moving toward
the beckoning hues of tomorrow.

The Life of Clouds

 

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The birds started first,
singing into the darkness.
Then the sun opened
the day up to the size
of our possible worlds. It
was expansive, the way
I imagine a desert would
be, at the break of day,
before thirst sets in,
when the body is still
thick with dreams, the
kind that beckon, invite.

The same world, a different
time. The clouds roll in,
form a dense layer between
us and the endless sky.
It always seems you
can reach up and touch
them, like they are our
shelter, our protection, as
though they are not
heavy with the responsibility
of nourishing the Earth, or
lacking in tangibility.

And I think, I don’t just
want my story playing
over and over; I want
them all. I want to be
everyone and everything
and all of history at once.
Not only to understand better,
but because there is just
so much to this life, too much
for our one psychology, and
I am and want to be
every colour, sound and
emotion at once, to finally
be the One in the All.

– TT

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