Let Us Go Then, You and I—
Not into the familiar alleys of delay,
Not into rooms already arranged
from compliance,
Where even the chairs anticipate our hesitation.
Let us not lay the evening out
As something to be examined, managed, or subdued.
Let us notice instead
How breath arrives without permission,
How light chooses its own angles,
How the body keeps rhythm
Long before the mind calls,
“Bring this meeting to order.”
“Either everything is a miracle,
Or nothing is.”
Spoke the white-haired genius, unkempt frock.
There is no halfway stance
That doesn’t quietly exhaust the soul.
I do not generate my life from effort.
I curate where my energy enters.
Effort belongs to passages that never open—
Paths that promise movement
But only rehearse arrival,
Routes that sound convincing,
Yet only circle the same well-picked carcass.
Effort is what happens
When energy is misplaced
And must now justify its presence
Through a repetitive race.
There is a price for living this way,
Life reduced to transactions,
Breath exchanged for approval,
Pulse bartered for belonging.
We inhabit drafts, not moments.
Faces prepared in advance.
Hair just so.
Questions arranged before the plate is cool enough to taste.
There will be time, we believe.
Always more time.
Time to adjust the mask.
Time to reconsider.
Time to approach and retreat
Until the impulse itself loses pulse.
We portion our days into small measures,
Never allowing the body
to interrupt the disorder
Nothing feels miraculous—
Not intimacy,
Not dusk,
Not the distant song of birds
that speak of another way
Not Because Life Is Barren,
Because fear of loss is in control
Keeps Us Adjacent,
Never Inside.
Do Not Pick the Fruit.
It Hangs to Low.
This is the gift of the anxious system.
Never to be unwrapped.
It renders life as something observed
From just outside the doorway.
You sense the warmth.
You hear the dim music swell.
You remain standing.
No dancing allowed.
And when longing is ensnared long enough,
It does not rest—
It proceeds to deteriorate.
Dreams do not vanish all at once.
They are tended by fear of life support,
Fed by effort instead of nourished,
Sustained by repetition instead of truth.
Hope gets so tight it fixates.
Desire collapses into compulsion.
The future shrinks to a single corridor
That insists: just a little more.
Only one more door.
A quiet requiem—
Not for failure,
But for a dream
Whose breath could only gasp no more.
Miracles do not select you.
They align with conditions.
They respond to coherence—
To energy no longer bleeding
With anticipation, defense, and rehearsal.
A rewrite of the nervous system’s code,
When the mind releases the moment from its pins,
When presence arrives without explanation.
I do not generate my life from effort.
I curate where my energy enters.
Not as retreat.
But as discernment.
It is declining invitations
requiring divine disappearance.
It is leaving behind spaces
where the body must contract to belong.
We learned to stand at the threshold,
To wait until summoned,
To internalize a sequence of numbers,
So to open what was never locked.
And when we call off the search—
Quietly, accurately—
Something shifts.
The haze thins.
The background noise fades.
The old question about daring
Loses its authority.
Do I dare eat my cake and have it too?
Life leans in.
Not as a promise.
As recognition.
Movement replaces strain.
Action replaces rehearsal.
Dancing replaces pushing a stalled car
up an endless incline—
The absurdity of Sisyphus
believing power was born from struggle.
The ancient shamans understood.
They did not chase power.
They did not bargain for reentry.
They mapped the inner state reflected in the cosmos
Wise is the one
who calls off the search for struggle’s sake
and reenters the real.
Today, they still inform the listener
of the inner garden mirrored about them—
never revoked,
never abandoned,
never exiled.
The gate never closed.
No combination lock to tumble.
And grandmother moon stands there still,
beaming with compassion,
of infinite patience.
Tea steeping.
Cream cake on the table.
No questions asked.
The body remembers.
It has been waiting with cosmic limitation.
The corridor lights illuminate one by one
As you anoint them with your walk,
Not because you planned the path,
But because you summoned your arrival.
The mirror softens.
The reflection returns your perfect light.
The search collapses into joy, happiness, and laughter.
I do not generate my life from effort.
I curate where my energy enters.
Let Us Go Then, You and I—
Not toward the question that overwhelms,
But toward the place
Where energy enters cleanly,
Where the temple is the body,
Where destiny replaces fate,
Where we no longer need to knock
And give ourselves permission to enter.
I do not generate my life from effort.
I curate where my energy enters.
A folded linen napkin, lotus style,
Dab the cream frosting from the lips.
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