Welcome to My Personal Blog

This being human is a guest house, a theme often explored in personal stories and poetry. Every morning brings a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. 

Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they are a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight, much like the process of writing can reveal new insights. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door, laughing, and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guest from beyond, contributing to the rich tapestry of our personal stories.

As long as we are lost in the world of purpose, we are not free. I sit in my ten-foot square hut, listening to the personal stories told by the birds singing, the bees humming, and the leaves swaying. The water murmurs over the rocks, creating a backdrop for my reflections. The canyon shuts me in. If I moved, Basho's frog would splash in the pool, a reminder of the poetry of nature. All summer long, the gold laurel leaves fell through space. Today, I was aware of a maple leaf floating on the pool. In the night, I stare into the fire, where once I saw fire cities, towns, palaces, wars, and heroic adventures in the campfires of youth. Now, I see only fire. My breath moves quietly. The stars move overhead. In the clear darkness, only a small red glow is left in the ashes. On the table lies a cast snake skin and an uncut stone, emblematic of the writing that captures both beauty and solitude.

Everybody wants green scenery, yet nobody wants the rain. In our personal stories, we often find that we desire food on the table, but again, nobody wants the rain. Everyone longs for the colorful rainbow, yet still, nobody wants the rain. We all want water in our bodies, but nobody wants the rain.

I went to the prairie, the Expander of Horizons, to ask about the rain. I stood on the edge of the world and watched as the rain came all around. The prairie proclaimed a vision: each time the gift of rain was offered, people ran in fear. Heart's fear perverts darkness into evil, missing the gift of life hidden in the clouds. Let it rain down, let it rain down, let it rain down on me.

In our personal stories, everybody wants green scenery, but nobody wants the rain. We all want food on the table, yet nobody wants the rain. The desire for a colorful rainbow exists in everyone, but still, nobody wants the rain. We all want water in our bodies, but nobody wants the rain.

I went to the mountain, the Giver of Wisdom, to ask about the rain. I knelt on ancient rocks that have been awake for fifty billion years, and the rocks spoke to me. The rain shapes and molds us, turning us to sand. These rain-shaped rocks feed the earth as their dust becomes soil. The mighty mountains are transformed by but a tiny droplet of rain. Let it rain down, let it rain down, let it rain down on me.

Everybody wants green scenery, but nobody wants the rain. In our poetry, we explore the longing for food on the table, yet nobody wants the rain. The colorful rainbow is a universal desire, yet still, nobody wants the rain. Everyone wants water in their bodies, but nobody wants the rain.

I went to the ocean, the Alpha and Omega, to ask about the rain. I sat on the ocean's edge, feeling like a tiny grain of sand, as the ocean questioned me. Where is my beginning and where is my end? The ocean's edge is hard to find: is it on shore, in the sky, or inside my body? The ocean's end is its own beginning. Let it rain down, let it rain down, let it rain down on me.