A Buddhist Prayer of Forgiveness

  “If I have harmed anyone in any way either knowingly or unknowingly through my own confusions I ask their forgiveness. If anyone has harmed me in any way either knowingly or unknowingly through their own confusions I forgive them. And if there is a situation I am not yet ready to forgive I forgive myself for that. For all the ways that I harm myself, negate, doubt, belittle myself, judge or be unkind to myself through my own confusions I forgive myself.”

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In Beauty May I Walk

In beauty may I walk; All day long may I walk; Through the returning seasons may I walk. Beautifully will I possess again Beautifully birds Beautifully butterflies… On the trail marked with pollen may I walk; With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk; With dew around my feet may I walk. With beauty before me may I walk With beauty behind me may I walk With beauty above me may I walk With beauty all around me, may I walk. In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, lively; In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty,…

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“Come As You Are” by Carol Orsborn

You have only one sacred duty: to make your spirit available to others. You do this by sharing what you already are in this and every moment. If you are loving, you share your loving. If you are suffering, you share your suffering. If you are healing, you share your healing.   Why waste precious energy arguing with God about what it is that is yours to share right now, worrying how your broken bit could possibly be of use.   Trust that however unlikely it may seem, without your piece, the universe would be incomplete.   Carol Orsborn, Nothing…

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Watercolours and Titus Groan

Yesterday, a friend presented me with a pack of 140 lb. Fluid, Cold Press Watercolour Paper. This also included a delicate brush with a purple granite-like handle, which reads ‘Oscoda Prado Synthetic Barcelona.’ She topped this gift off with an invitation to use her watercolours. It is funny about the arts and I.  My gene pool boasts of artists, writers, musicians, singers, and even electronics experts.  Strange. Well, not really. We all had good brains, a facility for language, and a love of reading. I am one of them. Of course, you know that, especially if you have followed me…

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Inner Critic: Consider Yourself Evicted

Out out, damned critic! Did you really think I would let this go on? Forever? You cracking your whip when you like, forcing me to dance like a puppet. You had to know. That I would not keep you around forever. That I would expel you as fast as humanly possible for me. Yes. It took me awhile but I got here. I had a load of crap to wade through but I am on to you now. Dissecting my every thought. Feeling. Action. Ready to pounce on me as a cat does a toy mouse. Making me writhe under…

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How Do You Change When You Are Writing? Part II

How do I change when I am writing? I become a person who knows with certainty that I am visible. My deeply rooted self-hatred takes a bit of a back seat when I witness myself. By word swapping, I force myself to see Terry as I would an undiscovered friend. Any lovable soul, scarred by betrayal (including by self), powerlessness, hurt, isolation and little hope. Unwittingly, I make friends with people who find some thread of commonality with me. Our worlds are often radically different but that does not stop us. Writers discover and thread themselves together in deep, lasting…

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How Do You Change When You Are Writing?

How do I change when I am writing? With great difficulty. It depends on three vital points. Where am I writing? While on the Skytrain with hundreds of bodies—a few religiously unwashed–pressing against me, cutting off my air. Do I sit between a staunchly stoic older couple in a tiny Aquabus, which heaves against the water en route to Granville Island? Perhaps I am in a meeting in the matchbox-sized grey Quaker church opposite my place. How am I writing? The options are my phone, laptop, a pen, or using my best friend’s phone with the voice activated android assistant….

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Lean Into Me

As I stand small in my own forest, on the shaky feet of an infirm body, I close my eyes, pretending I am one of them. I hear the rustle of leaves, like a quiet shifting of papers on my desk, a pleasant sound to me. In that, I imagine they’re saying, “She’s okay, mate.” My body quakes but I still stand. My legs are like jelly. I wish for the power to maintain my balance, while I hear ‘Lean In’ whispered on the breeze. I do. Birds sing a familiar melody and I inhale deeply. I look around with…

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‘You Do Have a Leash … ‘ Harold Pinter.

  “You do have a leash, finally, as a writer. You’re holding a dog. You let the dog run about. But you finally can pull him back. Finally, I’m in control. But the great excitement is to see what happens if you let the whole thing go. And the dog or the character really runs about, bites everyone in sight, jumps up trees, falls into lakes, gets wet, and you let that happen. That’s the excitement of writing plays–to allow the thing to be free but still hold the final leash.” HAROLD PINTER, The Progressive, Mar. 2001  

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