THE EGG

What if loneliness 

was an egg you kept 

inside, in the hollow 

between your belly 

and your chest?

Could you imagine

yourself there

inside that egg,

in its embryo

cradled, held

but not knowing 

you are?

What if you were

just there at rest, 

at peace in a kind 

of wakeful slumber, 

being fed, nourished, 

by the fluids flowing 

into you and 

all about you?

Wouldn’t you have

all you that needed there?

Can you imagine it as 

a fertile place, 

a place of not 

knowing,

of growing, 

of dreaming,

where the ways 

of the world couldn’t

touch you?

What if loneliness

were like this?

Maybe we’d visit

more often and stay 

a while, until

we felt ready 

to return to the world, 

ready to chip our way 

through our safe 

haven, ready to 

begin again,

knowing nothing

of what had brought us 

to the hollow

in the first place?

Wouldn’t we be like a new born,

like a thing with feathers

soon to remember

what it means to fly?

BENEATH THE CRACKS

Do you see the cracks

in your clay?

Do you see them

like the Thai monk did

once upon a time

when his monastery was

tasked with moving 

the ancient statue 

from one temple 

to another?

Will you stay up

all night

with a torch

under a tarp

with a hammer and chisel

like the monk did

chipping into

those cracks

long into the night

until surnrise

as layer after layer

drops off?

And like that rising sun

will you see 

a luster 

beaming through

as the clay falls away?

Will you be amazed

like the monk was

to find that what had been 

hidden there all along

underneath all that clay

for lifetimes

for centuries

was a magnificent

golden Buddha?

When all your clay

is at your feet

will you recognize 

yourself as that

luminous, majestic figure

as the true you

the one who

has been there

patiently, quietly waiting

to one day be discovered?

WHEN ONE THING FALLS...

Somewhere
there's

a broken

blossom

on the ground

No one knows 

how it 

got there

No one

ever will

But because

it fell

the world

fell apart

and with it

went a child

The young one

became a castaway

Even now 

all these years 

later

the child

is still trying

to find

its way

back home

When it does

it will be

carrying

the broken blossom

in it's ripened

blooming heart

TIME OUT

There's a child
behind its 

bedroom door.

They've locked

themselves in.

On purpose.

They've had

enough.

They're giving

themselves

their own 

time out

from the parent 

knocking 

at their door.

"I'm not 

coming out.

You can't

make me.

I'll come out

when I'm ready"

Do you know

this child?

Which side

of the door

are you on?

Who are you

standing with?

LEAVING

I am

like this 

leaf.

Feeling

the season.

Exposed.

Almost

on fire.

Thin

skinned.

Spread

thin.

All veins.

Nearly 

translucent.

Turning

inward.

Getting 

ready.

To 

let go.

THE DOOR

What is this thing we call a door?
It appears, we open it, walk through,
close it, all in one stride. In an instant
we are on the other side of something.
Just by crossing its threshold we leave
what’s behind behind and step into
what lies ahead, be it a simple errand
or a grand adventure. What if letting go
were like this: swift and easy, an open
and shut case. It’s not. Rarely do we 
cross its threshold quickly, the metal 

strip singing beneath our dancing feet. 

Letting go is not a simple transition. 
Its threshold is more like a long corridor, 
a jetway, you might say, leading to a plane
that's not yet arrived, that’s been delayed 
once or several times. And so there we are 
waiting at the gate, wondering when we will 
depart and if we’ll ever reach our destination.
When the plane finally does come and we’ve 
passed through the cabin door, are seated, 
then soon in air and likely later in mid-flight, 

over who knows what terrain, only then do we 

discover there are no bags at our feet, or in 

the bin above, or even in the cargo hold. To our 

great surprise we realize we are somehow 

now traveling luggage-free.

SCHOOLED

Let the living wonder

within you

be mesmerized

by the minnows

shoaling their silver

beneath the wooden

planked pier. 

Watch them make 

pattern after pattern 

from their schooled light.

Let their movement,

their shimmering beauty

pull you into the limpid lake

as if into a dream.

Stay under and in it

until you become

the movement, the beauty,

and the light.

When lifted up and out

of the undulating waters,

may you emerge not drenched 

and nearly drowned

as some might have feared,

but alert and alive,

pure and proud,

almost transluscent

before the sun—

showing the world

what it looks like

to be a boy

and a body cleansed,

naked of shame.