Beyond The Wall

June 1, 2008

I laughed at something I read by Roy Blount, Jr., and I’d like to share it with you…
“If you were a member of Jesse James’ band and people asked you what you were, you wouldn’t say, ‘Well, I’m a desperado’. You’d say something like, ‘I work in banks’ or ‘I’ve done some railroad work’. It took me a long time to just say, ‘I’m a writer.’ It’s really embarrassing.”

Ah, the fame/shame of being a writer! (smiley face)

I’m sitting outside at a table writing this and the birds are providing a morning chorus for me. It’s especially loud at this time of year when birds are mating or establishing and defending a territory. Different birds have different thresholds of sensitivity to light that triggers the morning song session.

And then, there is the bird who sings all night. It’s an unmated male mockingbird, and it is working overtime in hopes of attracting a female, who, if she has any sense at all, is home in her nest asleep.

You wrote of “The Circle of Life” in Seasons of the soul. It’s a beautiful, heart-felt essay. It inspired some thoughts of the last stage as you wrote “…this process of releasing life takes the time it needs for us to gather ourselves in preparation for the next great journey.”

If I were facing that, I would want those who care about me to know that if aging should rob my strength, mental alertness, and physical stamina, I would offer them the strength of my conviction, the depth of my love, and the spiritual stamina of a soul that has been carefully shaped by the hard edges of life.

And so, when I can no longer dance, I will sing joyfully; when I haven’t the strength to sing, I will whistle with contentment; when my breath is shallow and weak, I will listen intently and should love from my heart; and when the bright light approaches, I will pray until I cannot pray.

Then it will be time for me to go home, time for the next grand adventure.

As always, it has been a joy to connect with you. We bridge the gap between time and distance and meet at the level of the soul.

May 31, 2008

Thank you for “Gifts of the Soul”. It’s an excellent book of healing, and I especially like the exercises. They make it practical and useful for us, regardless of our circumstances. They challenge us to not despair, but to dive deeply into our hearts to find the wisdom that can heal and liberate us.

Thank you, too for your kind words. Sometimes when this prison experience seems like it will never end and the light at the end of the tunnel begins to flicker, along comes a message from you reminding me of who I am and not to give up. Your words and your loving support have made a huge difference in my life, and I just want you to know how much it means to me. You and the work you’re doing are truly Spirit made visible.

It’s magical to see Spirit because many times when we only see the masks and the holograms that the culture presents as real. We’re not our bank accounts or our ambition. We’re not our collection of personality disorders. We are Spirit, we are love, and even though it’s hard to believe sometimes (especially here is prison), we are free. If we find out next week that we’re terminally ill – and we’re all terminally ill on this bus – what will matter are memories of beauty, that people loved us, and that we loved them.

When I tend to forget this, when I have the “itch” to be refueled and renewed, I return to the doorways of the heart that have opened me before. For me, the “itch” gets “scratched” by beginning the day with softness and silence before the bumps and nicks and noise rush in, before the confusions and conflicts tighten my sense of things.

The quiet times can cast a spell on our hearts. They remind us who we are capable of being. They provide points of connection with what is authentically true. They illuminate the meaning with which we imbue an experience, raising it to the realm of divine understanding.

In the ritual of quieting my mind and going within, I remember that I am a creature of fertile soil and endless sky, and that the acts of praise and thanks and music and tears transform me. It helps me to see the while I keep looking for the wings of a sparrow, the wings of an eagle have already been given me. It reminds me that we’re all like birds who have forgotten we have these wings and we were meant to spread them and fly, fly, fly!

May 4, 2008

It’s a quiet Sunday morning and I’m sitting outside at a table writing this. And how about the magic and the mystery of this moment! Here I am, making these marks on a sheet of paper that you will read sometime in the future and give meaning to. I feel your presence as I write this, and you’ll feel my presence as you read it. I remind myself daily that everything is in order and that this very moment is a miracle, as is everything around me.

The warm sun is shining. The birds are singing. All is well. An old saying comes to mind…
“Sitting quietly, doing nothing
Spring comes and the grass grows.”

There have been many times when I’ve tried to “push the river” and force things to happen before they were ready to germinate. I’m still learning to “go with the flow.”

I’m reminded that you can’t pry the petals of a flower open, but you can provide the flower with healthy soil and plenty of sunlight and water. Then, when the petals do blossom, they will unfold in just the right way and time, and the flower will be an expression of beauty and grace.

It’s hard to believe how quickly time is passing – even here in prison.  I’ve heard that it takes about ten years to get used to how old you are. Well, I think it takes longer than that. I’m still not used to my age. There’s a little boy in me who keeps asking, “What happened?” He’s the part of me that still looks at life with awe and wonder, the part that creates a dog named Ralphie who tells bad puns, the part that loves to sing and dance and play.

In fact, that part of me is acting up right now as I feel a tug on my pant leg. It’s Ralphie and his insisting on telling us something. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to humor the little fellow.

“Ralphie, what is it?”

“Do you remember the story I told you about the WING and the WONG families? Although there are many people in China, there are few telephones. The reason for this is because there are so many people with the names WING and WONG and the authorities are afraid they’ll WING the WONG number.”

“How could we forget that, Ralphie? It’s awful.”

“Well, I have some news about the WONG family. Something very unusual has happened to them. Mr. and Mrs. WONG have had a Caucasian baby and we all know that two WONGS don’t make a white.”

“What’s the baby’s name, Ralphie?”

“They have named him “SUM TING WONG.”

When Ralphie tells those Chinese puns, I get disoriented. As you can see, he has no shame.

It’s hard to follow him with anything sensible, so I’m not going to try.

Sending you love and blessings!

The Deepest Things

 

 

 

by Charles “Tom” Brown

Copyright 2008

 

It has always amazed me to see how the deepest things in life are intangible. It seems that the things that are worth saying are unsay able.

 

We spend a lifetime gaining grain after grain of wisdom, working to understand it and struggling to express it, only to become more and more a part of it. We age into a stillness and become unspeakable ourselves.

 

We take years of living to squeeze a few precious words from all that will not speak, and steadily, being shaped by our suffering and polished by our joy, we become the earth, knowing more and saying less. Ironically, after a lifetime, we may finally have important things to say, just as we lose our ability to say them. Yet this doesn’t diminish all we try to say. For the fact that sound always ends in silence doesn’t make music any less precious.

 

This is necessary, though. It’s how spirit recycles. We are each born one step closer to our Source than those we are born to, for which we are loved by some and never forgiven by others. We each will die with one more thing to say. We each will wake with something familiar on our lip, which we must find and love.