Our trusting friends

I’ve spent the better part of five years in a dedicated meditation practice. Part of the practice involves work on the self and it might sound easy — and it isn’t. The world is full of books and essays telling us about our False ego and our True ego, stories about contemplation and prayer. It is helpful to read and still, at the end of it all, remains the actual work. Writing is the way I journal my experiences and this week I was helping someone through a very difficult time using Tonglen meditation. This little poem came to me and it struck me that most of us talk much more harshly to ourselves than to others. It isn’t easy to quiet the thoughts in our chaotic minds and if we practice, just sitting silently and breathing, the divine Universe or God — (or what ever one wishes to call their diety), will invite us to a much more loving place than inside our minds or thoughts.

Rooms

Today I went looking through

the rooms in my mind,

cluttered with metal shavings

of judgement and self-loathing.

Just around the corner

I caught a glimpse of something,

of someone maybe, but it wasn’t shiny

or sparkling like the razor’s edge

of the words I use on myself.

So I kept looking through the rooms,

filled with books,

worn, tattered pages,

words I’ve written.

It made me cry.

Who would say such unkind things?

Every page filled with doubts.

The words are like knives that

cut just deep enough.

I kept walking through the rooms

looking for something that

didn’t cut me or make me cry.

I know there is kindness here,

I just can’t find the door.

More rooms papered with a hundred

good deeds and forgotten intentions.

I caught the edge of her again,

out of the corner of my eye

and I followed her into a room

filled with invitations I’ve ignored.

Some I haven’t even opened.

It is quiet inside this room,

even with the chaos inside my mind.

The familiar arms of silence

reach out to protect me.

Then I felt love standing next to me,

Divine Consciousness inviting me

to move out of the rooms

in my mind and into my heart.

S.D. Fletcher

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.