TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN... THE ONE TO WHOM ALL PEOPLE PRAY... the nameless one... the unspoken one... the source... the silence between breaths, the hub of the wheel... and every single spoke... and eventually what some people refer to as death.
I give thanks. I take shelter in you whose center is everywhere, circumference nowhere. I bow in the wind of your passing, sing from the center of your song, find my way back to your heart which is no different than mine, we being one and the same, made of the same stuff.
I sing your praises every time I breathe and even when I don't, stunned by the beauty of it all, great tears and laughter welling up from within, my home, my manger, the pearl inside the oyster of this world.
Here for such a short time, wandering in a field of wildflowers and delight, I am humbled once again by yet another chance to dance footless and free beyond the trance I lovingly call my life. Soul mate to myself, bum in a roadside temple, vagrant, fool, stunned by the kind words of strangers, I return to the moment -- THIS ONE -- in full glory.
Such a gift this life is1 Such a grace! And all we have to do is receive it, heart open, arms outstretched, the bow of this moment only needing to be be tugged a little bit until the whole thing opens up -- all of it, every moment Christmas morning, every day our birth.
Call it whatever you want or never speak again -- it really doesn't matter. In the end (or is it the beginning?) there is nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to get, nothing to lose.
Such is the great game of life. We seek and we search, but there is really no need. All of this coming and going, all of this hunting and pecking, all this drama of becoming enlightened or clear or high or better than we already are is really just the fun house mirror of our lives.
Everything we search for we already have. Everything we think we need was already given to us a long, long time ago.
Dudes and dudinas: This! Is! It! Right here. Right now.
The pilgrimage is much shorter than we think, the path only the one from head to heart, where we are touched, clutching nothing, when blood becomes ink and we discover there is nothing left to say, but say it anyway.
Why not? Why not make a joyful noise? Why not sing, praise, dance, write, serve, heal, pause, move, give someone our coat or our hand, laugh, cry, praise, bow, fly.
We are all here for such a short while. Let's do it with love.
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October 01, 2021Radiant Being of Light
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April 22, 2020Give Everything You Have
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July 30, 2019The Holiest of Prayers
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June 18, 2019You Are the Water
Day Three of Amaroo video
TimelessToday
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March 17, 2019The Ecstatic Wound of Longing
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November 14, 2018SILENCED
Now that I have seen what creates me
I no longer need to die
or speak of moonrisen eyes of others
gone wild for me.
Amazed, I stand alone now
at the sight of the one
who lightens the stones
and tunes my ear to the sound of my own heart
no longer locked behind bones.
Outside,
leaves are turning the color of old men's teeth
and I blush at the thought
of ever being alone with you.
How can I explain?
Driftwood here I have become,
carried to a shore beyond my sight
where you forever wait --
cave of undiscovered gold,
pure earth,
first ray of sun,
moonbeam in the slow night of my arrival.
Excerpted from Full Moon at Sunrise
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November 07, 2018Longing Wells Up from Within
TimelessToday
Heart of the Matter
Words of Peace Global
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August 21, 2018Off the Coast of Love
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March 10, 2018Where in the World Can I Go?
NOTE: I found this poem and at least 50 more, in a box in the back of a closet in my house, parked there more than 20 years ago. The poetry? Written at least 40 years ago, gathering dust. But no more...
Heart of the Matter
TimelessToday
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February 03, 2018The Beautiful Sadness of Longing
THE BEAUTIFUL SADNESS OF LONGING
There is a beautiful kind of sadness, one most people think they shouldn't feel, that needs to be celebrated. Or, if not celebrated, then at least welcomed like the evening's last beggar at your door.
This sadness is divine, the experience of what most people consider to be an absence, but, in reality, is the presence of the divine longing for the Beloved.
It would be easy to conclude that this feeling is a disconnection from joy, an unfortunate amnesia that would make an easy target for well-meaning givers of advice to quote from their favorite scripture,
but I am not talking about this garden variety of sadness. I am talking about another kind -- a holy melancholy that sculpts, deepens, and refines from within.
Like the dusk that follows day, it is not devoid of light -- only another shade of light. Yes, it is darker, but so what? Isn't it the darkness that allows the stars to shine?
When a human being is in the presence of their Beloved, it is easy to feel joy. Like leaving home in the middle of a storm, it is easy to get wet there. But when the Beloved departs (ah, the paradox, the late night debates -- does the Beloved ever depart?), an uncomfortable feeling arises.
The moon is full, but you are empty -- thirsty for something to fill you again, but the only thing to drink is a bucket of tears and you cannot find the handle. Off in the distance you hear the sound of a cello. Is it sad or beautiful?
Drawn by the music, you follow, feeling your way, singing silent songs of praise and wondering if what you hear is the sound of your own voice or your name being called.
You know and have always known, that the Beloved has left the world behind as a gift. But you do not want the gift. You want the Giver.
Video production: Fernando Garcia
Music: Stuart Hoffman
Poetry: Mitch Ditkoff
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January 18, 2018When You Walk Into the Room
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November 11, 2017Moon Volcanic Leaper
Mosaic: Evelyne Pouget
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August 11, 2017Centrifugal
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June 25, 2017One Breath at a Time
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April 29, 2017Beneath the Hot Sun
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October 01, 2016The Great Mystery
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August 22, 2016When the Rain Begins
Exquisite new song and slide show by Stuart Hoffman and Jennifer Edwards. Vocals by Stephen Rivera.
Stuart's YouTube channel
Soaked
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