My Peace Anthem Today


Sometimes life
is just one big plush
nearly impossible blend of
gorgeous sunset hues, yellow too,
gathered not like armies but like trees,
not like missiles but like bamboo shoots,
not like things imprisoned but connected,
not signatures of doom but of wonder,
ready, haven’t we always known it,
to get fire, to be our fire,
to get lit.
– tt

The Right Side of History


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

How About Just For Now


How about, just for now,
this one small moment,
nothing but this:
As far as I can see,
the world as a history of origins,
life coming into being,
and I dissolve right into
a time that predates me,
and the greens are readying
for the birds that will land for rest,
the sweet supple leaves plump and open,
and the sky, our shelter and window,
has not yet had to bear witness to the atrocities,
the trees are not yet scorched or felled.
But I do not have to travel in time
or let my imagination take over.
I can be braver.
I can stay.
I can let what is, is.
And I can look at my fear
until it turns into love.

– TT

The Spectre of My Freedom


the spectre of my freedom
in the event you are not free
the words congealing
with nowhere to land or fall
empty movement on land
you cannot escape from
we are a people blessed
we are a people cursed
we are a people born
and raised of our times
yet still, still, we breathe
we gasp on the intake
we pray the air is clean
and if we discover what lives
there is something in this
there is our responsibility
to breathe more and deeper
until the body lights up
and there is no other choice
but to light up the rest.
– TT

Despite the Terror We Are Love


I don’t mean to sound trite or self-helpy when I say that we are love.

I was probably born spewing cynicisms and am a recovering pessimist. I believe it’s important to be aware of our current realities, and not turn a blind eye to the tragedies in our midst. I believe in knowing that corruption and impure intentions form a part of the web of our humanity as we’ve evolved up to this point (Not devolved. Bad news makes us think we are devolving, but I don’t believe devolution is our narrative arc).

I am horrified and saddened beyond words to hear about the terror attacks in Paris, the suicide bombings in Beirut, and so many other soul-ripping issues and problems occurring around the world.

One or two horrors don’t eclipse all the others; they are a searing, painful reminder of the darker side of the world. One broken body, one broken heart is the cracking open of an awareness of all heartbreaking things everywhere.

It is not meant to sound trite, either, to say that we are all connected. We know that we are, with our deepest instincts. We bleed for the fallen and laugh with the triumphant. Though it doesn’t always seem like it, we are not on any perch; we are not our own havens or cocoons. We are not reacting to world events from somewhere apart, no matter how far we might seem.

This is the world we all live in. Moments like this, when the world rips into shards of pain, highlight the fact that the separations between us and everyone else are illusory.

It’s not that these things “could” happen to us. They are happening to us. Our reality is an enjoined one.  This is why we cry at someone else’s loss and remember our own: we are exercising our great capacity for sympathy, and also tapping into universal pain and suffering. This universality of our experience is also evidenced in the hundreds of thousands of monks meditating creating an observable ripple of peace everywhere.

Focusing on the potential we have to generate and spread peace from within us to the world is not to turn away from the shocking realities in our midst. It is a way of taking action. It is to confront tragedy directly, and instead of getting angry or placing blame (though some anger is healthy—provoking, as it does—impassioned action), we are cradling it in our arms in acknowledgement, and providing an antidote of love.

The longer we sit in meditation, or quiet reflection, the more we come to understand that we are swimming in a sea of love beyond the immediate world of suffering.

We can feel it within the microcosm of our bodies, too.

We sit down to meditate, and it isn’t long before we become uncomfortable. Our back and shoulders begin to ache, our legs fall asleep, sharp pain shoots out from the knee, the stomach rumbles, the heart begins to palpitate. Intertwined with all this are our thoughts and emotions, buzzing every which way, wreaking havoc through our system, reminding us how hard it can be to be human, to have this history of our past pain living inside of us.

We confront all this, observe it head on, and give it compassion.

Eventually, the discomfort subsides (it will return of course; everything earthly cycles before we can free ourselves from all our past wounds), and we wonder: where did it go? How could such disturbances just disappear? But they do. And then an ocean of calm floods the body, the mind, the heart. Breath elongates and we dwell in a calm universe we know extends far beyond the boundaries of our physical form.

We even come to see or feel that this universe of calm is our foundation, our platform, our natural state.

It’s most crucial to remember this when it most feels like this cannot possibly be true, because violence is erupting and hurt and horror are spreading like wildfire.

Let’s grieve, and cry, and really feel the suffering that abounds. And then, let’s give it love.

Let’s breathe in all the suffering of the world, gathering it into the soft spot of our hearts, where we transform it to love and peace.

Let’s breathe out this shimmering love and peace to the whole world.

Breathing in all that is, breathing out the love that underpins it all.

May we all find peace.


This  piece was first published in The Tattooed Buddha.

From the Bus, Eyes Almost Meet. {There’s No War in World}

On a bus dashboard in India. Photo by Tammy T. Stone

On a bus dashboard in India. Photo by Tammy T. Stone


From the Bus, Eyes Almost Meet


Sometimes, when you’re on a bus here, in India, all you can do is look; it’s almost a desperate act.

It’s often too bumpy to read, and anyway, the Hindi music, that most mesmerizing blend of pop, soul and bhajan (devotional song), is aggressively persistent frankly captivating. This music is one of the reasons we’re not travelling with any portable form of music.

We took three bus rides today. What would have been unbearably hot and dusty most days during these languid days of summer was passable comfortable; the day is a bit overcast, and almost cool in the earlier hours of the morning.

The buses, however, without exception, are packed. We were lucky to get seats for the first and last journeys of the day, because by sheer chance we arrived at the bus stands just as the buses were pulling in, long before eventual departure. These moments on the bus are quiet compared to the chaos swirling outside of it, almost peaceful. You can watch the driver read the paper, smoke or stare off into space, or leave the bus for one reason or another.

You can talk quietly as you listen to the ticket guy flit here and there around the bus shouting out the destination to attract customers, or hear people noisily embarking and settling in; there’s a general sense of anticipation for the ride to come in the form of laughter, chit chat and packages of food wrapped on laps or resting on the ground.

Once the bus leaves, that sense of peace dissipates, and suddenly you’re smack in the middle of an Experience; there’s no hope for perspective of any kind. So, you just look, from a small, awkward seat, or lodged between people … wherever you can find something for your eyes to rest on.

I sat at the window for the first ride, so I stared outside as we passed endless shops, chai places, mechanics, men sitting around, old men sitting on tree barks, kids walking to school or to the bus (often the one we’re on) in groups, cows grazing in garbage piles.

You watch, and India seems to greet you in a joint understanding that you have entered a wormhole in which old or familiar rules no longer apply. I find myself both in the space and watching it, not sure quite what the vantage point is.

Then, suddenly, I saw something. Someone actually, and I was jarred out of my semi-trance. A man stood at a human-forged intersection of sorts, not young or old, sickly or fat from wealth. He had no animals, or tools, or friends. Somehow, the space around him felt crystal and so powerful that everything around him just slowed down, almost fading away.

He wore a simple, modest dhoti (a skirt made from cloth the men wear here in Tamil Nadu). What arrested me were his thick dreadlocks and his shell-shocked eyes, which were somehow enormous despite his distance from the bus. Dreadlocks are not out of place among the sadhus (orange-clad spiritual seekers) of Rishikesh, but they’re downright strange in the middle of a small town of industry deep in the south of India.

This man looked frenetic and wild, his energy spilling all over his immediate surroundings, but there were people all around him, and they hardly seemed to notice him. I briefly wondered if I was making him up, because he was what I needed to see, or what I was already harboring inside.

His eyes seemed to say, “I am in India, as are you, but I’m not India. Think twice about what you see, what impressions you form. Everyone around me belongs here, but you found me. I am stood still. Where should I go? I might belong to another place entirely, and maybe I’m on my way there.

And you? Where do you belong?”