she challenged me to
taste each word —
the cinnamon of it,
the sweet —
to know the movement through my feet
of the world
as she speaks.
rhythms and invitations,
rhythms and invitations,
in rhythm and invitation.
can you smell the wind,
the shifting of the sand?
how do you exist
in these make-believe lands?
do you listen
through fingers tips
or only through
this and that,
good and bad,
become a stranger in these dreams,
these conditionings —
always a stranger
and only then
Write to become curious. Write to become bold. Write to awaken to the life that is living through you, to know the unbidden thoughts that shape what you believe to be true. Write to question them all.
Write to be, and not just exist.
Write to discover freedom. Nature. Vibrance. Interconnectedness. Interbeing. Sensuality. Humor. Grief. Fear.
Write to become compassionate. To courageously see struggle AND possibility.
Write possibility. Write love. Write the future our hearts know could be.
Write to reclaim impact. Write to reclaim ‘empowered’.
Write to reclaim everything that truly matters in life.
We make our world significant by the courage of our questions and by the depth of our answers. — Carl Sagan
Splashing in our personal puddles while the ocean rises at our front door.
There is a whisper that contours the typeface of these some-odd thousand words, embedding itself between the fibre and ink. It is a tensile thing, fragile yet audacious. It is the force that permeates our cells, compelling us to move, to breathe, to be. It is abstract and tangible, science and metaphysic.
It is life, pulsating, the polyrhythmic chaos of global existence, and life, permeating, an ‘unbroken wholeness’ that binds us all.
Everything is connected.
Between the experiencer and the experience exists a subcutaneous union that belies…
The wind has been my company this evening, whipping against the windows, a whisper that speaks to some place deep and within. Sacral. Root. A glowing orb-like fuzzy energy that grows bolder, stronger, matching the psithurism outside. Inside, outside — which is which? Fuzzy warm powerful feeling makes inside/outside not so distinct. I know this feeling. It is not so different from the waves of energy that arise in the midst of a thunderstorm. Feels… delicious. Sensual. Warm. Rooted. Powerful.
Tonight, this is how I understand Skolimoski’s assertion, “Through sensitivities matter is transformed into spirit.” Through the sensitivities that experience…
Let’s talk about possibility, about the young women in Metiabruz — a poor, orthodox Muslim neighborhood on the outskirts of Kolkata — who excel at coding and are now the main breadwinners for their families.
Let’s talk about innovation, about the proliferation of off-grid solar energy in rural villages in sub-Saharan Africa, poised to displace the use of toxic and environmentally harmful fuels and deforestation.
Let’s talk about reclaiming our impact, about the power of ’voting’ with our purchases to support ethical, sustainable, responsible businesses or consciously re-evaluating our daily demand for finite resources. Our use of plastics. Our waste…
The thing I can’t seem to shake is the smell, a mix somewhere between metal and chemical and humidity and fear. It catches me off guard, in the most unexpected places, and suddenly without warning, I am returned to that balmy October night, that corridor, that Kolkata government hospital. The memory has softened with time, but with each remembering I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten and my shoulders draw forward. The sadness and the anger. Flashes of gauze and ceiling fans and emaciated bodies. And all of it shrouded in the memory of that unyielding, acerbic smell.
There are 13 billion year-old molecules inside of you.
Everything on earth is made of slightly varied combinations of the same atoms: Carbon, Oxygen, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Calcium, Sulfur, Magnesium, and Silicon.* It is a testament to the sophisticated simplicity of nature that such unfathomable variety can arise from such a limited set of ingredients.
As Carl Sagan once remarked, “the nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.”
Scientists have determined that the hydrogen that…
Sometimes you just have to — gently — tell your mind to get over itself and do the thing already.
You know what the thing is: it’s the yearning of the heart that comes to visit between breaths, in moments of weightless, unbounded possibility; it’s the clarity of vision revealed in the pause between thoughts; it’s the silent pull of that which makes you feel truly alive. Connected. Present.
It’s not the thing that will make you happy. That thing doesn’t exist. Well, not as a thing or activity.
No, this is the thing that helps you come home to…
May we thrive along disturbed edges, healing sweetgrass to the earth.
River water, rich, black soil, breathe the songs we sang before birth.
She said: we are to earth like maple seeds, pirouetted on autumn breeze.*
Light in the darkness, dark in the lightness. Balance. Sacred. Wisdom witness.
Use this fluid human being-ness to know, to know.
Know the beauty — bodies, movements — hearts and rain and whispered pines.
Know the cries of pain and violence, know the hatred — yours and mine.
For it was my hand…