Waiting to Inhale

Hola mi gente,
Some people got pissed about yesterday’s post and insisted I’m a cynic. That’s just bullshit. What I find insightful that some so-called progressives are now pathologizing dissent. SMDH

Waiting to Inhale

(or Drowning in Love)

A wise woman and her student were standing by a pool chatting about longing and ambition. “What do you want more than anything else?” the wise woman asked.

“To perfect my ability to love all of creation the way I love myself,” the young man replied.

At that very moment, the wise woman tackled the student and before he could react, shoved his head beneath the water. Accustomed to his teacher’s sometimes unorthodox manner of instruction, at first he didn’t resist.

One minute went by... then another. Finally, as his lungs screamed for air, the student began to struggle and kick, but his teacher was strong. Finally, she released her grip and the student surfaced, struggling for breath.

“What did you want more than anything else during these last few minutes?” the wise woman asked.

“Nothing else was in my mind except the desire for air,” the student managed to gasp.

“Excellent!” beamed the wise woman. “As soon as you are equally single-minded in your desire to perfect your ability to love all of creation in the very manner in which you love yourself, you will achieve your goal.”

My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization... 

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Mirrors of the Self, pt. I

Hola Everybody,
I feel tired -- bone tired. It’s not so much a physical but an emotional exhaustion. I wish I could rest.

I was my maternal grandmother's favorite. Sometimes it was cruel, but she made it clear to everyone that I was her heart. Every time she saw me, it was all hugs and presents: secretly handed folded crisp bills, a toy, a bicycle. My grandmother worked her fingers to the bone in the garment industry, exploited by heartless men who paid her by the piece. She would bring bags of work home and cut lace by the miles. She always had something for me, even if she didn't have for the rest of the grandchildren. I was her fair-haired boy.

My paternal grandmother died of headache long before I was born when my father was a mere boy, but his sister, my aunt, was a surrogate grandmother for me. And here too, I was her favorite.

Both women knew pain. They knew the pain of arthritis, of hands and joints broken down by years of hard, relentless work. My aunt was a washerwoman, whose hands were stripped of skin from the harsh chemicals of her trade. Both women knew pain, both worked hard, were poor, but they always seemed to have enough for me. It was only when I grew older I realized the tremendous sacrifice a bicycle or a brand new pair of shoes meant to them. They gave and never asked for anything in return, except perhaps that I be a good boy and do well in school.

And man, did I break their hearts -- countless times. But their love was without condition and so their favorite I remained until they passed on. I like to believe that reverberations of their love still carries me to this day.

Song of the Self: The Grandmother  

Me (r) with my maternal grandmother, Adela (c)
Also pictured: my sister, Darlene (l) and my cousin, Quentin as an infant)

Surrounded by my shields, am
I:
Surrounded by my children, am
I:
I am the void.
I am the womb of remembrance.
I am the flowering darkness.
I am the flower, first flesh.

Utter darkness I inhabit --
There, I watch creation unfold --
There, I know we begin and end --
Again. In this darkness, I am
Turning, turning toward a birth:
My own -- a newborn grandmother

Am I, suckling light. Rainbow
Serpent covers me, head to foot,
In endless circles -- covers me,
That I may live forever, in this
Form or another. The skin she
Leaves behind glitters with
The question, with the answer,
With the promise:
“Do you remember yourself?”
“I am always woman.”
“Flesh is flower, forever.”

I enter darkness, to enter birth,
To wear the Rainbow, to hear her
Hissing loudly, clearly, in my
Inner ear: love.

I am spiraling, I am spinning,
I am singing this Grandmother's Song.
I am remembering forever, where we
Belong.

-- Alma Luz Villanueva

* * *

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization… 


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On Giving

Hola mi gente,
Today for the first time in a long time, I looked at a bottle of rum and I felt a faint but familiar stirring inside. No, I’m not going to pick up, but I was reminded that the seductive and insidious lure of numbing unwelcome feelings is always just an arm’s reach away.

Sometimes giving back what has been so freely offered gets me out of my head. You know, my head? That dangerous neighborhood where I might get mugged. LOL I was laughing the other day because I had three quarters in my pocket and you can’t buy even a candy bar with three quarters. So I gave my treasure to the brother on crutches who stands by the stairwell to the number 2 train at the Park Row station. I thought he could probably make better use of it.

Desperately seeking to make gratitude -- giving thanks -- something more than just a thought in my head, I looked for inspiration and that brought me to the following last night.

Life is good. I figure if I say it enough times, it will make it true.

On Giving

-- Kahlil Gibran: The Prophet, Giving, Chapter V

Then said a rich man, “Speak to us of Giving.”

And he answered:

You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?

And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the over-prudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?

And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have -- and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.

And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.

And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.
It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
 
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall someday be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’.

You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.”
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.

They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you.

And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
 
And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?

And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?

See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.

For in truth it is life that gives unto life -- while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers -- and you are all receivers -- assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.

Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be over-mindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.

* * *

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…

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