As Plain as the Nose on Your Face (or Mine)

[Image: “Oh, of course. Now I see,” by user “sf-dvs” on Flickr. (Used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!) Further commentary probably self-defeating.]

From whiskey river:

In the Buddhist view, I depend on you for my existence. All things depend on each other, equally. Welcome to the doctrine of dependent origination. It’s teeter-totter metaphysics—I arise, you arise; you arise, I arise. Forget about our presumed Maker, the divine machinist in the sky. Take a look at this moment right now. You are you because you are not something else; therefore, what you are not—the chair beneath you, the air in your lungs, these words—births you through an infinity of opposites. It’s like the ultimate Dr. Seuss riddle: Without all the things that are not you, who would you be you to? There’s no Higher Power in this system to grab on to for support; we are all already supporting each other. Pull a person or people the wrong way and you immediately redefine yourself in light of what you’ve done to your neighbor.

(Shozan Jack Haubner [source])

…and (first paragraph):

Mindfulness may seem like a difficult practice that takes special training and abilities to practice, but in many ways we are naturally mindful, whether we practice mindfulness or not. Everybody has awareness. That is how we know that we are suffering. We know we’re anxious. Whether we practice mindfulness or not, we notice our breathing. We notice that we have a body. We notice the taste of our food, the smells in the air. We notice that we feel good when we are generous. We notice that we like it when people are nice to us. We notice that we feel wonderful when we feel loved. We don’t need a special practice to notice these things. That is what we do because we are alive.

Whether we practice mindfulness or not, we train our minds to manage our emotions. We practice habits that create our typical moods. We live according to our beliefs to create as much happiness as we are able. Even if we don’t practice mindfulness, we live in the present moment. That’s all we have.

(Peter Taylor [source])

Not from whiskey river:

How It Adds Up

There was the day we swam in a river, a lake, and an ocean.   
And the day I quit the job my father got me.   
And the day I stood outside a door,   
and listened to my girlfriend making love   
to someone obviously not me, inside,   

and I felt strange because I didn’t care.   

There was the morning I was born,   
and the year I was a loser,   
and the night I was the winner of the prize   
for which the audience applauded.   

Then there was someone else I met,   
whose face and voice I can’t forget,   
and the memory of her   
is like a jail I’m trapped inside,   

or maybe she is something I just use   
                                       to hold my real life at a distance.

Happiness, Joe says, is a wild red flower   
                      plucked from a river of lava   
and held aloft on a tightrope   
                      strung between two scrawny trees   
above a canyon   
                      in a manic-depressive windstorm.

Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it—,   

And when you do, you will keep looking for it   
everywhere, for years,   
while right behind you,   
the footprints you are leaving   

will look like notes   
                                          of a crazy song.

(Tony Hoagland [source])

…and:

Eating the Avocado

Now I know that I’ve never described
anything, not one single thing, not
the flesh of the avocado which darkens
so quickly, though if you scrape
what’s been exposed to the air it’s new-green
beneath like nothing ever happened.
I want to describe this evening, though
it’s not spectacular. The baby babbling
in the other room over the din
and whistle of a football game, and now
the dog just outside the door, scratching,
rattling the tags on her collar, the car
going by, far away but loud, a car without
a muffler, and the sound of the baby
returning again, pleasure and weight.
I want to describe the baby. I want to describe
the baby for many hours to anyone
who wishes to hear me. My feelings for her
take me so far inside myself I can see the pure
holiness in motherhood, and it makes me
burn with success and fear, the hole her
coming has left open, widening. Last night
we fed her some of the avocado I’ve just
finished eating while writing this poem.
Her first food. I thought my heart might burst,
knowing she would no longer be made
entirely of me, flesh of my flesh. Startled
in her amusing way by the idea of eating,
she tried to take it in, but her mouth
pushed it out. And my heart did burst. 

(Carrie Fountain [source])

…and:

So much within my imagination I accept by faith: I assume a lot about things. I jump assuming that I’ll be safe. I have always been safe within my imagination, and that is really the only state in which I find myself able to jump.

I think we are losing that capacity to play. The analysis and overthinking of things has come to dominate acting and all the arts, and I don’t want to see the scaffolding of the beautiful building. I am content not seeing where the plumbing has been laid out. I have not enjoyed working with actors who need to nail everything down, find the source, exhaust the full biography of the character. I am going to die not knowing everything about me, for heaven’s sake, why must I know every single thing about the character I’m playing? All relationships are full only due to what we bring to them through our imagination, and that is on and off the stage.

I think, and I am not at all claiming to be expert, that our imaginations are our souls, and that is where we find our salvation.

(Alec Guiness [source])

…and:

We’re all prisoners of life and death. The question is: What kind of prisoners do we want to be?

(Bonnie Myotai Treace [source])