Thanks, giving.

I heard someone say that giving and receiving are one act. Though we've all heard of the law of the universe in one of its many incarnations: karma, reap what you sow, you get out of any thing what you put into it, what comes around goes around. But this thought takes it a bit further. This assumes not a separate cause and effect, not a separate action and reaction, not a separate giver and recipient. But, one continual flow. To put it into a physical metaphor, not getting a hug and giving a hug, but hugging.

What a perfect idea to consider as we coast into this long weekend. Not simply being grateful... although that's infinitely important. And not simply giving back, whatever the inspiration (to spread joy and abundance, for instance) or motivation (to assuage guilt perhaps). But acting in embodiment of the teaching that all things are one, seamlessly connected, whole. We act then with an understanding that we are not engaged in the business of unilateral hugging (because that's either creepy or done simply to make us, the hugger, feel better).
Maybe that's why Thanksgiving is one word, instead of two.

Over, under, in and out,

TQ

You can't hold it all anyway.

I read that the eye moves 50 times a second, taking in as much as it can of the world, faster than we can conceive. If that is true, then what happens to all those images? When days seems to disappear too quickly under the covers of night. And weeks and months are swept up before we know it into the translucent containers of memory.

On holiday we seem to pay more attention to things, don't we? I remember my first trip to Europe. My mind recorded all the little new subtleties. Smells and breezes. Steamed milk and colors of skin. Shadows blending with my own. Rain falling on cobblestones. Shades of birds’ voices and sounds of sky. The brightly colored squeak of a shaved door from a shadowy alleyway as I pass under a rusted and peeling sign which swings carelessly like a child in the wind of my imagination. I open a heavy door into a musty used book store where a stooped old man with hair sprouting from his ears and elbow patches on his worn corduroy jacket offers me a plastic cup of sherry to sip while I browse, even though it’s not really cold outside.

It doesn't take me long to figure out that I just can’t hold it all. The world is too big. So I carry a journal. And I use it. The journal is a see-through container.

What Makes You Happy?

The question was asked this morning.

I was in a foul mood and didn’t feel like giving it much consideration. I wanted to wallow. You know how it is. Don’t ask me to think about happy. Can’t you see I’m clearly not happy right now.

But what I discovered was, if I came up with only one thing, my mood changed. And it led to me thinking of other things that made me happy. Pretty soon, I’m thinking, my life is pretty good…
Of course, I went on about my day, having to do some things I didn’t really want to do. Resistence set in, and I began feeling shitty again. And wanting other people to feel shitty with me.

I don’t really want to feel shitty, or to be depressed, or resentful. None of those are things that make me happy. Neither though does chocolate ice cream, if instead of eating it, I’m sitting in the office on a Saturday having to work on a project I’d rather not have to do.

But, if I can put down the “rather be doing…” thought for just a minute. And remember siting on the couch with my honey, with two spoons and one pint of organic chocolate ice cream, then I start to feel better inside. Not because I want to be doing that. Because I have, I will, and more than that, it is something that exists. Something that I created out of happiness, for the sake of happiness, to return to happiness. It is a gift of happiness I put out there into the universe. And that gift remains. And the world is better because of it. I am better because of it. And maybe, it creates a happiness loop. Something I can step back into at will. By just remembering… ah, there it is… happy.

So, what makes you happy?

Looking for the light.

You know how you come home sometimes later than you planned, it is dark outside, you haven't left any lights on in the house, your hands and arms are full with mail, packages, groceries, beer, and you are trying to find your way to the light switch without dropping your mail, packages, groceries, beer, and without banging your toes, knee, elbow, forehead, into something stationary, hard, sharp, cat-like, and you know approximately where the light-switch is located, but can't see it, and just have a bad feeling about your chances of getting there with you and your stuff intact?

It's kind of one of those days. I know the light is out there (and also in here), but I'm having some trouble finding it. And some trepidation about which way to move in the dark.

Did I mention there are stairs near my light-switch?

Keeping dropping by. I'll try to remember to leave a light on.

An Introduction.

Song of Myself.

A human being is not static. Not capable of definition. Resumes lie. Even when they tell the truth. To define something is to kill part of it.

Life isn’t really linear. Although it’s generally perceived that way. The stories we tell are woven like snakes around a divining rod. A center of time containing all that’s ever been told and heard. Remembered and forgotten. Lost and found.

Our pasts, presents and futures are unwound, stretched flat, cut into pieces and held up with human arms. In this way they are understood by a human culture who has forgotten all but a few of the numberless dimensions, a culture who has lost its sight looking for its name.

If I tell you who I am today, by tomorrow it won’t be true. I am here to expand my ideas of myself, not to limit them. The best way to know who I am is to keep reading.

And I'll keep writing.

Until then...

Thomas