We are One

We are One

Faces

Gaze upon new faces,

Some that are familiar

Some that were forgotten

Others, we have found again, different somehow

Though not-a-single-one-to be-considered foreign—

Subject to the same hand that feeds,

Borne of the same God that bleeds and bled life into us all aren’t we

The trees in fields

Behind the over-ah-tired suits in conference centers

Doing loop de loops in vacant parking lots

Between the lines of passages from classics found in high school classrooms,

Always headed somewhere,

On a plane, over the sea

Don’t these new faces say the same things we

Have all taken as truth

At one point or another in time

Some moment in un-ticking space

((The same place we verbally deface

And chastise as a suffocating chamber

Of many mortal dangers)

Filled with the collective divergences of memory and present)

Sparks a universal truth like a shooting star across the sky

Colliding and converging with particles of openness

Turning and transforming into wisdom

Reframing this prism,

(That is only fine artwork,

A replica of something we all think is real)

Crystallizing infinitesimal possibility,

No longer concealing our potential as a race behind a one dimensional veil of unawareness.

We Are Exactly Who We Tell Ourselves We Are

When we tell ourselves we are not good enough we are instantly right. We have bought into what we perceive others are saying, with their words or actions. Our perceptions of their renderings of us put us back on our heels. The emotions we feel push us down. Our self-judgments knock us out, cold.

What we consistently tell ourselves ends up being all that matters in this life. Action is routinely tied to perpetual thought. As Rust Cohle of True Detective concludes with point blank certainty, in terms of the human race: “Look, as sentient meat, however illusory our identities are, we craft those identities by making value judgments. Everybody judges all the time. Now, you got a problem with that, you’re living wrong.” I am with myself every single day, 24/7. So are you. I am solely at the mercy of myself. As are you. As we sidle and straddle, filter through and flock to, different energies, good and bad, the tendency is to self-judge. There is the energy of the environment in the absence of humanity. There is also the environment we humans co-create and inhabit, arguably dominate. Nowadays, this environment is nearly everywhere. Nowhere is humanity unheard. Though, there are some that may argue, this isn’t humanity. Either way, we are all affected by it. Every type of people is a person. Even the grotesquely inhumane are in some truthful way representative of all latent humanity. This is perhaps the best evidence of a greater dimension; otherwise we would all fall prey to absolute evil. Nonetheless, we are good and we are bad. It is who we choose to listen to that determines how we choose to act. The one dimensional existence is full of lots of neat, fancy thoughts and notions, standing atop tall buildings looking down on anyone that is not them. The voices of these people are primarily full of shit. We all have been on top of these tall buildings before. We have all been below the ground, unfit for breathing the same air as our fellow humans. We have all been full of shit. Even when we all walk side by side, our sense of self is rarely on par with what others think of us. In short, we are thinking way too much about what others think of us. What will they say? What will they think and not say? What would I say or think if the roles were reversed? This last question is telling. Asking is in short, an admission of guilt.

We all judge. I won’t deny that I do. I will state matter-of-factly, if and when I judge, it is rarely malicious. None of our thoughts are ever absolute. There is always redemption. I observe and notice and sometimes infer. An inference about a person is a judgment. We take sensory information and perceive that something about that person, based on what we have seen through firsthand experiences and interactions with that person is true. It is how the human mind functions. When we gather new information, we formulate new thoughts. A judgment is not a conclusion. Conclusions are final and high-stakes, condemning and damning. Most judgments we make are forgotten by the end of the day. Yet there is a tendency to hold onto self-judgments, as if they were written in stone. I am lazy. Tell ourselves enough and we will sink into the sofa every single day and sleepwalk through tomorrow. I am not smart enough. Tell ourselves enough and we will settle for something less than what we truly want. I have bad genetics, I will always be overweight. Tell ourselves enough and we will enlarge and atrophy, at the same time. Sigh. I can’t show my true self because no one wants to see me for who I really am. This is never the case! The world would be such a much better place if we were all less afraid to be ourselves. We all need to just go for it, hand in hand.

I can forgive someone one thousand times over if they have good intentions and a good heart. However, I have trouble forgiving myself. I have trouble accepting failure as something less than final judgment. I have concluded, the following: We aren’t really living if we aren’t failing, in the conventional sense. Life is paradoxical: it is static movement. There are so many factors, nuances, and change in a fraction of time that our unique, individual experience is ultimately impossible to track. The graphing model is “anything goes,” within a range of personal response that has much to do with individual personality traits and tendencies established in our earliest years. Though we may very well hold onto the same mannerisms and quirky behavior long ago structured, that makeup a part of who we are, we can do something to redirect the energy encircling our insecurities, stifling the negative thought patterns that are merely illusionary intertwinement. Dead in their tracks, these negative thought cycles no longer exist. Our insecurities are now just insecurities. In the absence of fear, these insecurities no longer hold any real power over us. They no longer reverberate throughout the spaces of our mind. They no longer control our actions. We are free. To live fully.

We become graffiti, or caution tape, a faint outline of our true being when we habitually ignore that whisper from a higher plane that tell us: Get up. You are good enough. Failure is necessary. Judgments are mortal.  Fears are formed out of a singular primary fear that we are somehow imperfect. And yet, we fail to see that imperfect is an imperfect word, as are all words, and therefore each and every label we ascribe to ourselves or place on others. After all, they are all human constructs. We are all perfect, our true selves are all perfectly spherical. This is our destiny, and to question is normal. We need to be careful though, not to ascertain; for it is in vain. There is a higher plane a piece of each of us is a part of. But where do we come from?

Elephant Journal Publication

Please read and share.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/02/it-is-light-joseph-treubig/

Father

Pass away moment

Returns in memory form-

Foam drips down,  bubbles from a carwash

I give to my loved one’s transportation-

Transporting-

Transcending time,

Holding so much more, life that I adore

In her belly before

This memory came knocking at the door
Outside of you in blacktop basketball shoes shooting jumpers-

You were the news, everyday they don’t report-

You were the news, the stability and support

Every family needs-

Actions unheeded, the quiet one

Going about his business

Fulfilling his duties of fatherhood and husband

Good deed after good deed

Godspeed, day and night

Emotions out of sight if not for the occasional outburst-

We were okay with it, in a way it reaffirmed that you cared

About how we fared

Out in the cold air,

Filling our hearts with love

Giving sis and I a good start, and we’ve never grown apart-

These are the memories stored away I won’t ever part with, of you and mom

Unconditionally giving,

We all go on living, extending this family

That grows with tender loving care,

Nurtured and nourished, as it always was

And will be.

Freedoms

Freedoms

 

The leaves of tall, mortal trees

(Part of the landscape of every free nation,

(Part of the immortal seed)

Tumble helplessly,

Withered, bitten and stained

Like good, decent men—

Loyal to the roots

Loyal to the birth of mortality, our humanity

Loyal to the foundation and structure constructed

By men who came before, standing large and proud

Though none higher than our mortal trees

(Part of the singular deity),

Bearing many different kinds of sweet, juicy fruit in our time,

And for tens of thousands of generations coming before,

History tells us.

If man were lucky

He might touch,

Nest, nurture and grow for himself

A roundish piece of ripened unique, maybe a few—

Taste.

But will man ever ask himself if this is worth going to war for?

Does man ever ask himself what is worth going to war for?

We are all instinctual animalistic things.

What do I preserve?

What do I protect?

Who do I serve?

Questions go unasked. 

Am I more than this influx of adrenaline?

That which I have named,

That which I have observed.

We are all freed men, those standing under unwavering flags of “justice,”

Yet all we do is fight amongst ourselves.

And every season men die faster

Then leaves already falling

Come to rest at the feet of grieving widowers—

Many words on the lips of men and women.

Go.

Unspoken.

Like those in captivity having no voice,

For we must be their voice,

And yet we turn a blind eye—

It is no wonder,

For we stumble in search of our own

Clumsily interrupting the peaceful silence of dark.

We cannot see clearly the very truth,

That this is no dilemma, free against free—

It is illusion, a perpetual, worldwide, drama-plagued hypocrisy

That will rot and die with the unified enactment of a single vision:

Uniting all of man

With freedom,

Ending suspicion.

Or else each tree will fall.

There is almighty fruit of this generation

That can spell the end for us all.

Now and Long Before Our Time That is Now

It’s starts with a poem,
Sung before the stretches of lands
And all other plans for seascape and life, daylight and night
Crawl into focus under brushstrokes of right intention—
Slowly birthing innocence beneath the hurried scrawls of adulthood signature on
Every dotted line
That account for all things material,
Atonement for the debts of bets lost or won, chances taken or not
Other avenues of existence
Possibility, potential
Thoughts and ideas minds might otherwise dwell on and use
To formulate worry out of past folly and mortal foible
Losing sense of the present, gifting life to the nonexistent
Giving up rights to speak, scurry
Once we have learned to listen to the good sense of our souls
And behold the power inside the chambers of heavy hearts held hostage—
Golden gates open, everything else fades
Worries dissipate, embracing fate fully
Left with nothing to do but honor what is true.

It is Light

It is light. She knew not what she would write. Sitting down. She began to let life speak for itself. It is the light guiding her from birth up to this moment, the only point worth making. The freedom is light guiding he who finds there is no meaning and that he can finally go and be no one. It is light in the darkest room beneath two thin sheets where there lie a body cold, shivering, surrounded by loved ones under one roof and those outside that sleep tenderly in the night, it is light under two eye lids shut that touch the cold and the warmth both, truly, and know the second can never end; not even death has that much power. It is light that leads her light steps, heavy hurt real, honoring heart, continuing to follow the energy of soul, a path she has committed to in full. It is light, the acknowledgement of weakness. It is light, a child’s cry for her mother at night, part of each’s path. This is the mortal life beside the immortal evolution. All that hear, listen for and honor the light know these sounds well. Light does have a sound. It can be a big seashell up to your ear whooshing openness, widening eyes to cascading memories of child life by the sea. Taken away, the sound lingers still, though the body might sway, the mind, consider. It is inside of every one of us. Certainly. Certainty. Constant. The shell is just one more reminder. There is no such thing as “for no good reason” when you honor the light. It is light, not the answer, after all; there is only your true path and the off road. What is reason, after all? It is not something that guides. It is something we use. It is light shining through the crackled ground illuminating the imbalance in the soles of my feet; someplace my mind has led me to. I wouldn’t define it by labeling it good or bad. Perhaps, that is a start. Light has a warm feel, likewise, in the coldest moments. Truth is the closest word I know to describe the light I know little of, yet feel. It is light pulsing, radiating through the chambers of my chest, touching this arrhythmic heart. It is light eroding the mind’s need to define signals. It is light that disproves anything tangible, ideological, reasonable, and/or realizable as something worthy of consideration. Anything chased after is illusion, a cloaked shadow of false promises. One must only follow the light. Pursuits in line with truth naturally emerge; some will bear fruit. Things obtained along the path of light are not successes. Things lost along the path of light do not signify failure. It is light, ironically that is the only signal. We are not to assess the worthiness of our pursuits. We are not to define our lives, our thoughts, or our brethren. We are to connect to the light that is everywhere, by letting light in, and most importantly, by honoring the light inborn. It is light, the voice of our souls, to be followed. It is our duty to let the light from a higher truth shine brightest on this mortal plane.