Thursday, February 11, 2010

I am not a Buddha Sitting on a Lotus Flower

I am not a Buddha sitting on a lotus flower swimming in the quiet reverie of Dharma. I stumble sometimes with my own disillusionments. There are days when I doubt the compass of the sun while I trip over my own direction. Here I am flawed and imperfect. I’ll never be queen ballerina but I dance anyway. My breasts are real and swell and shrink with the salt water tides. I thrive for spontaneity while avoiding impulsivity because there is a difference. I do not rise from my bed for the same reason every day. Sometimes I make up the reasons as I go. Coffee is a great fall back when I know no other reason to wake up. I believe though there are a thousand ways to love, how I love is as selective as who I love. Though I participate in universal love, it takes practice and the ability to step outside the plumped up feathers of self-identity. I am the fool who tries to practice. I sometimes fear Western culture is the genocide of our minds. I am pragmatic with reason and passionate with emotion, but I try to not let my heart justify manipulation nor allow the mind stagnation. I like being in the middle of the road on age – because I am closer to the person I thought I'd be in college. It is true, 30 is the new twenty. There is room here to breathe. My friends are as vast as my interest. I know that even at my “age” what I know hasn’t been learned by everyone yet. Age is irrelevant to experience and not all experiences are weighted the same on this learning curve. I admit I’m behind. I’d rather take on a mountain then take on a mistress/adultery. I’d prefer lots of sex over the convent of living. I’d like to wait with healthy sensuality then leap at everything my heart desires because sometimes it wants old habits disguised in a love. I practice masturbation as catharsis. I sometimes spend way too long arguing with the hierophant in my head. I read sutras but sometimes don’t understand them. I remembered ‘Dukkha’ means suffering solely because the phenotics of the word reminds me of poop.

2 comments:

the walking man said...

In not seeing yourself Buddha you become that which you do not see.

I always wonder at them who rigidly conform to anything and then call themselves knowledgeable. When it is in knowing that there is still, and always will be something more that is not known that we allow our selves to simply breathe.

I may not be Buddha but I can be the lotus root buried in the muck at the bottom of the pond and be comfortable for the flower well above my being.

And that, GoGo, is my masturbatory thought of the day.

GoGo said...
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