Each morning you wake and begin your inner story about the day ahead. Much of this story is a repetition of the thousands of stories you have spu in your life. What if you could birth a new story, completely untouched by your old stories? Would it take you somewhere you have not been before? The beautiful thing about you is that you are a storyteller. The challenging part is that we are not immune to our old stories or those others tell.
Bless you for being a storyteller. May your heart’s desires write the fresh new script for your mind to direct and your behaviour to act out. May the performance be so moving that you decide to write a new play each morning. The seats are sure to be filled with patrons like Healing, Wonder, Discovery, and Renewal. The sellout streak will never end. And friends will wonder how they can get a phenomenal life like yours.
From Fresh Peace: Daily Blossoming of the Soul by Jaiya John
She wanted Peace. So she played beautiful music, painted beautiful expressions. It was not enough. She went on long walks. Gave away possessions. Smiled more. Stopped multitasking. Not enough. She bought more reverent clothing. Read spiritual books. Spoke spiritual words. Not enough. She changed her relationships. Attended classes. Cut her hair. Improved her diet. Attended worship. Found a new job. Travelled. Came back. All of it, not enough.
Then, one day, she looked inside herself, the place she had run from all her life. She found two Truths: the concentrated ego of suffering and fear, and the simmering ember of Peace. Realizing that Peace was a seed already inside her, she decided to try something new. She decided to Love more. Herself. Others. All things. In every moment. She opened. The ocean inside came out. The ocean outside came in. She dissolved in two oceans. Became immeasurable Lightness. She found Peace.
Love is the sunlight that awakens the seed of Peace.
Bhaktapur. Kathmandu. Lamjung. Shermatang. Lean closer. Can you hear the soul of Nepal? It whispers. Cries. Prays: Our heart lies buried in the rubble, in stones turned to sand. Oh, humanity, come to our time of fire! Lift every stone. Lay your hands upon our valley. Dig with us. Dig as we retrieve our country. Our dal bhat of memories that have always filled our bellies and strengthened our resolve. Dig, as we retrieve our families. Our stories now loose in the Himalayan wind. When the ground shook, it took. Our breath. Our floor. Our ceiling. Now the sky is everywhere it is not supposed to be. Where have our rooftops gone? Even mighty Everest has sloughed its skin. In the dust, we search for kin. For friend. For then. The way it was. Now, our mothers cry sacred lakes of tears. Fathers wield their hurt in spears that have no landing place. What is this blistering of our souls? In the holiness of our bones we ask, who will rebuild our temples? Our shrines? Our holy places? The gardens where we gathered? Now we hear our valley whisper through the dust: Grace will bring up what has been laid low. Sure as the silence of the leopard stalking in snow. But we are frightened. Where is Shanti, our willow of Peace? What will become of our Samjhana, our tribal memory? The world is upside down. Reality unzipped itself, surrendered its tectonic shelf. Our dud chia has soured, become butter tea. Strange fruit hangs from the banyan tree. Gather. That’s what we must do. What we must be. Gather in tea houses. In streets and fields. On glacier tongues and river sheets. Earth has opened, pouring us into each other. Now we are, in this seasoning of our grief, a great ladle of Tibetan stew. We Namasté on the same ground that swallowed us. We bow down to what has fallen down. Look up at what will make us rise again. We are splinters dreaming of being a tree. A valley whistling bansuri flute song, harvesting wind. Wind Horse bucks and snorts and grazes, near. We smell its musk, and fathom: We again shall drink from the brook of Peace. We perform sky burial ten thousand times. Sky buries us in Mercy, fills with great flocks of prayer flags, migrating to our truest temples and shrines: the one beating of our Nepali heart. We will need time to sleep. We need pani, pure water, in this time of the great earth monsoon. Oh, Holiness, break through the rock and pull us into light! Sing us songs of safety. Cradle us through the night. Someone wake the pahelo sun, our children need their hope. Put the world back together. We want to walk on solid ground. Our valleys run with sorrow, and yet our children… our children expect to eat and drink and bathe and breathe tomorrow. They are the vines to which we must hold. Their gossamer eyes tell the sacredness of Hope. Of grace on the bellies of prayer wheels. Of grace on the lips of singing bowls. Ek. Dui. Tien. We begin our count from scratch again. Pokhara. Banepa. Gorkha. Lalitpur. Helambu. We breathe with you.
April 28, 2015
I FIND MY SACRED LAKE
I find my Sacred Lake. I call my ancestral tribe of sacred servants: All you healers, mystics, medicine women and men, teachers, nurses, doctors, shamans, holy ones, warriors. All of you who pour out your blood on the fragile grass of lives, who surrender your comforts for the chance to comfort a soul in despair. Together, this healing prayer, we share:
I care… to be human… I won’t let this mantra leave me. I won’t let this moment take me, break me. I am ember waiting to be flame, waiting to warm these shivering masses. Oh Grace, ignite me again.
My heart is so many things: a lake rippling in the breeze, panting for shore, for safety, security, mine, theirs. My heart a dream of how beautiful this world can be. My heart the suffering of vulnerable ones huddled on the Trail of Tears. My heart an open valley, the lushness growing there, families gathered, verified, dignified.