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My Conspiracy Theory

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We may dispel almost all conspiracy theories by applying the principle known as Hanlon's Razor: "Do not attribute to malice that which is more easily explained by stupidity." However, I do subscribe to one conspiracy theory, and you may feel free to borrow it. For billions of years, the black hole at the center of our galaxy, and the gravity of each gazing star, and every hydrocarbon, chloroplast, or photon of sunlight in my breath, yes even the shy colors of the meadow, celadon and sage, have conspired to gather my atoms toward this moment, now, where the only choice is to fall on my knees in sparkling moss, spreading to wind and sky my arms,  useless though they be as wings,  and to confess: "I don’t know what the fuck is going on!" Only then am I capable of praying:  "I'm sorry. Forgive me. Thank you. I love you." This is how the whole universe conspires to fill my heart with perfect joy.
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Frolic

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Don't be so deep. Spend a meager moment frolicking on the surface of things. Some say you're the ocean. I say, be a wave, a bubble of foam. Skip across a thousand crests like a sunbeam. Moth-dance on my lips and eyes, figure me with little kisses. Be pollen on the window, not the glass. Expressionist bird droppings on a marble terrace. Your soul defined by blemishes and crow’s feet. A vintage golden earring in the trash. Pay more attention to what's thrown away. ‘Away’ might be your motherland. When you dust off Great  Aunt Gertrude's teapot, become the dust. Or a snowflake dissolving on the first plum bud. Holding the void in your head, trying to merge with nothing, makes you heavy. Be a blade of grass. What's wrong with thingness? Sumi-e: Sakai Houitsu, Late Edo period
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One Word Prayer

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    God has given me a practice, the beginning and end of every path. Rest the mind in the heart, breath scattering stars. God has given me a discipline. Receive just what the moment brings, want nothing more, learning to say, 'Enough,' the one-word prayer of ineffable gratitude. Here is a secret. It's not what God gives me each moment that makes me rich, it is this prayer. * A poem from 'Strangers & Pilgrims'
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Not Broken

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  The broken heart is not "broken."  Breaking is its nature.  Nothing needs mending.  Just dissolve the thought,  "I have a broken heart,"  in a breath of silence. This is the healing that has  always already happened.  Do you call the flower a broken bud?  Do you call the gushing spring  a gash in the earth? Or the door  to the wine cellar, emptiness?  The wine is love. Descend.  Give your wound a new name.
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