I want to feel the cold on my neck,
The grass beneath my feet,
And God’s breath in my ears.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
I’ve spent months in daydreams,
Where the mountain brooks flow through timbers,
I longed for the briars to pierce my skin,
To know that I am alive with cadence,
Lullabied by the breath of morning,
Stirred by the reflective sighing dawn,
I came to know,
Men were made to be wild,
With heightened senses,
Erasing the hue of artificial smells,
As dew washes away the contempt of solitude,
I am free where only the eagles can see me,
Laid bare by winter’s afternoon,
Drifts of capes dances in the background of fire,
The wood burns as deep as my soul,
As my breath labors for a full moon,
I swear at daybreak,
For I wasn’t done drifting in dunes,
I search for gratitude in the tension of remembrance,
As the new day incubates, the cauldron of memories.
I hold the mountains if they were my own,
Losing a part of myself in the sunrise;
The cresting warmth against the moody cliffs,
Hugs the snow-capped peaks;
So high they could shake the hand of God,
I sink into the forgetfulness of urban life,
As I fall in love with places,
That I’ve never been.
Culling grey skies of winter sets a chilling warmth;
Soft as a silk handkerchief against the skin,
I feel the vibrations of the cunning solstice,
Nothing too vain I suppose…
Clustered in her independence,
Her rocky edges holds the artist’s heart,
A sea of change in her Gaudi atmosphere,
Small bites along her back,
Charms the weary seamen to her shores,
Barna they call her,
The vibrations of a thousand guitar strings,
Hums the embrace of an American’s heart.
I thought of you in Barcelona,
And thought of nothing,
I think she healed me,
But who knows….
Subway windows fogged with containment,
Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,
I am no more darker than light;
Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,
A man who was the sum of his missing parts,
Becomes an adolescent art project,
A halt settles on a counter melody,
A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,
This is beauty I reckon:
Where a disheveled desk holds the great
mysteries of life,
They say Bach is played for God,
And we are so lucky to receive an echo.
When I first began my mindfulness journey it was one of confusion and frustration. I was thinking, “you want me to sit here and just breathe and try not let my thoughts overwhelm me!?” That was my simplistic view of what Mindfulness was at the time. As a child I’ve had diagnosed ADD, which meant my mind raced and wandered all the time. The combination of childhood trauma also added a layer of difficulty when it comes to regulating my thoughts and emotions. I thought it was normal having these anxiety infused thoughts racing through my head every second. Since I could remember I had an anxiety about death. At any moment I thought I was going to die. It haunted me daily. I didn’t think this was abnormal, it was just the way it was. My mind was a labyrinth of different catastrophic thoughts and situations. Reflecting, it’s a miracle that I could function as highly as I could.
What mindfulness taught me was to observe my thoughts as thoughts. I could be curious with them, play around with them, observed how they began and ended, but most importantly I didn’t have to act on them nor did I have to believe these thoughts were reality. It allowed me to be an observer of my thoughts and feelings and not a participant. It gave me space. Space to evaluate, and act when it was necessary to act. I wasn’t driven so much by emotional impulse, but by observation and mindfulness.
The destiny of skies and objective ties,
My wrist have grown weaker by all means,
Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,
To horizons that fade with every tinge,
As a man’s skin hardens,
I clasp my hands in religious fervor,
As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,
Am I a man in spite of my weakness,
Or is that my respite?
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus,
If my gait stood strong like a Trojan horse,
Deceptive, but a well planned opulence,
Lured by the sirens of my own perfection.
Before puberty, the squeak of my voice
Haunted me tirelessly and unafraid,
Longing to escape the burden of boyhood,
Masked by the tyranny of expectations,
Cursed by a conscious vanity:
When would I become a man?
My frailness became it’s own enemy,
Locked in a chasm of regret and allure,
Running towards validation,
Like a good infantryman towards gunfire,
The blaze of contempt for my own manhood,
Reduced me to a giant without the strength, might, or height,
As the sirens of conformity,
Drifted me to the shores of complacency.
As winter has gone on for far too long,
And the spring winds foreign from rusted chimes,
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus.