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Washing Dishes With the Radio On

I meditate while I wash the dishes.  Consider the bruises and scratches on the extremities of my body, a cratered and flimsy field my organs somehow trust. I take a plate and think about our stories, the life they take on. Narrative makes everything that much deeper, meaningful, and real. Not knowing your story is terrifying.  Sponge, soap, contact. I'm afraid a lot. I wonder about this. Everything I say and do, I fear, or judge or hold to a strange microscope of importance. Is what we say important because it's the only noise we make? Maybe bang things and break down doors. I clean bang at the dishes. I'm sorry, thank you, I love you. Slow care and nurture of ourselves and the world takes on a pacing of its own. Skimming the water over a plate to rinse it. My shoulders hunch and I release them.  Time. Memory. The small pieces we've held captive for measurement for the illusion of congruency. This story is a soft nerve, touched when the energies are ripping toward th

Sloshing and Slipping About

As life is a series of waking up after a dream, sometimes it's hard to tell which is different.  Waking, sleeping, holding tight to images that mean a difference in the moment. Our little sizzling bodies taking it all in. We jump, spark, ooze. There's a sudden loveliness about our sloshing and slipping about. Then the stories. Melodies of sound and vacancy that lift and lower the senses. Breathing in, taking all.  Inhaling the silence of our own bodies and accepting the chaos of the world. Holding this stimulation, just for a moment, as the flow of blood excites every tip of us. Breathing out, releasing it back. Exhaling our own translation and mixture of the cosmos. Mini mixing bin of spirit and attention. Between efforts of being and wanting, our breath continues.  With effort or none at all, escaping ourselves and our industry beyond any measurable account and into a world of just being.  Only being.  Instinctually captivated by brights, sweets, and warmth.  Moving tow