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Posts Tagged ‘freedom’

Let Be Wild

Posted in musings, nature, ordinary madness, photography, poetry in motion, politics, prose, random, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on November 22, 2017| 6 Comments »

Trees; an affront to imposed rigidity and structural predictability,
contrasting the angles raised of long blocks that contain them,
(parks- a slight, conceding effort;)
defying street boundaries;
interrupting, inconvenienced by countless collections of 90 degrees;
spreading roots with great effort, nonetheless.

oa
To be well and free against the opposing absolute and certainty of man-made resolve, in an immediate world of molds and intended order.
In a time where plans are steadfast; where chance is made scant;
lessened; unappreciated, threatened by homogeneity.
I will sing the songs that rise up from beneath my feet, that the pavement has not permeated. I will sing the songs that are not mine to keep.
I will sing what comes forth, be I know not from where.
Songs to soften, with hopes of bringing broader breath to asphyxiated systems surrounded in soil.
Songs to ease the rattle of drilling for more more more when all is what we’ve already, collectively got.
Songs to hug at the earth burdened by those who appreciate her not, yet tug tug and tug relentless at her spine, yes.
Everyday. Back breaking acts in detached formation. Embroiled in entitled ideals.

When did people learn that nature was to be conquered and what happened to their songs?
With trees so tall to walk beside, how can they not feel a hum?

oaaoaaa

 

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If You Please: A Mini Questionnaire

Posted in creativity, inspiration, love, musings, photography, random, Sexy fresh, travel, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 7, 2014| 20 Comments »

Can I ask you some questions? Would you be so kind as to take a moment to reflect for me? It’s about you. It’s for me… well, for now. But I have ideas OF COURSE. So if you prefer, you can answer anonymously. You can even have my personal email: thelighteningcan@gmail.com and I will respect your privacy when I reiterate. Though, I don’t think you’ll be feeling too exposed when you get right down to it.
I want to know 3 things.

  1. What makes you unique?
  2. What makes you special?
  3. What makes you fortunate?

I have answered these questions with my own brain to provide a template of depth I hope to find, verses some topical answer. Answer in one part, two parts, three parts… whatever. Get loose with it!

Baby L (me)

  1. What makes you unique?

a. Often- I’ll see people that seemed deeply embroiled in a heavy make out session, all intertwined and public. Then upon further inspection it turns out that it is in fact just one, solitary obese person.
b. A new vocabulary word that I have never used before will be on the tip of my brain upon wake, awaiting its debut in my conversations perhaps.
c. I dream about water bodies in some capacity every night.

  1. What makes you special?

I care deeply for justice and work towards it in some way almost every day. I have wired my life around it.

  1. What makes you fortunate?

a. I am fortunate because I have creative, tireless brain that when on the right trajectory has the capacity to produce beeeaaauuuty! And crazy drive. I am constantly getting new, cool ideas for art on a larger scale. I’ve always been dipped in some form of self-expression.
b. Also, I have parents that have been supportive of my zany ways that differ so strongly from their approach at life. We love each other.
c. I have a beautiful house and beautiful friends.
d. I’ve been granted with an overall positive disposition.
e. I consider myself pretty self-aware and am always striving to be my best self.
f. I got rhythm for days and I ain’t afraid of no dancefloor!

So there it is. Spice it up/ break it down. I’m listening. Sock it to me (((please!!)))!

play this

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How I Once Got My Groove Back in My 20’s, the Ocean’s Pull, & Don’t Mess with Gangs

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 25, 2014| 15 Comments »

It was one of those break ups that leaves you a bag of bones. An empty vessel of a person, where all you get to be is mash up of organs working lethargically & only because they have to, long & stretched paled skin, sad mush brain, empty tired eyes, charred flaccid  heart… The kind of sadness remediable by one thing and one thing only. One golden word: vacation.

So, Mexico, eh? $400 some odd bucks to get myself from the dreary rainy season that wrapped itself with prodding, icy fingers around and throughout the town that my ex and I shared that felt frighteningly small? Oh God- yes, please.

So a plane. And then some wayward nights spent in a few different places. Increasing fun. Throw in some new travel friends. Sprinkle some hitchhiking adventures in. Put me on a beach with my home girl in the middle of a stashy surf hub, full of sun-kissed surfer-boy babes and feed me a couple of drinks and you got yourself a real good story on ze boiler.

caracol

I shook my ass. I let my hair down. Real Julia Roberts kinda stuff. I was holding that. If I had to wear a neon sign reflecting my mind-heart-soul state- surely it would have flicker-buzzed that tricky, multi layered word: Healing. And with the all-too-common recklessness that accompanies a proper heartbreak, I got mine.

And I met Ernesto. His tall shadow across the sand taking over my memory. His flash of black curls. Big, knowing hands. Sexy swagger. Of calculated movement. Eyes open. He had game & was connected. He was street. He was bad. So good bad. He was in a gang… I did not realize what this meant. Either way he was very yummy. I liked him, though I was on vacation- don’t forget. So naturally I dispersed my time in many different ways…

And so Ben. Another local. A lone-wolf surfer. Compact body carved by the ocean. A total romantic. Dark & deep… In a rival gang. Who knew? And I thought he yummy too.

And so haay rebound. And so you go girl n’ shit. Allathat. And ride that wave until it crashes & lord watch for the shore.

My time with Ben turned out to be probably just four intense days together before he was convinced that he was in a painful kind of love with me, which I found quickly terrifying. He went off the deep end when I cut him off, the little bit of what we had. I’m not qualified to diagnose, but still maintain that homie was certifiably crazy, & I pity the woman who may very well be stuck with him somehow at this point of life. Needless to say I spent long days after avoiding him, which was no easy task, as there were only a handful of places where the nightlife action was. I just wasn’t ready to leave.

Truth of the matter is that either of the hes’ are not what or whom I think of when I think of the week & change spent in this spot. This little beach town- a town that healed me, gave me love, restored my spine, provided amazing times, helped me develop a shining (over) appreciation for tequila… I think not of that so much. I think of one night where the boomerang effect hit me smack in the face.

zapateca

It was another night music & friends & Ernesto. Another night of avoiding poor Ben. Another night with the perfect salty air enveloping me and putting me in tropical trance… The way that breeze skimmed across my skin… I found myself on a rooftop bar where people were dancing & drinking. This is where memory & accuracy begin to get muddy. I remember free flowing, generous mezcal shots. I remember feeling annoyed that I had to keep running away from someone who wanted to work out nothing workable. I remember needing a cigarette & asking some local guy if I could have one. I thoughtlessly asked him for one in Spanish but instead of responding to me saying a simple yes or no, he chose the unscripted option of inquiring aggressively in English about where I was from. When I responded, slightly taken aback- about being from the states, he got up in my face, pointing his stranger hand right up in to my nose, to say the following: “You are from the United States and you are asking ME for a cigarette?!” And then, whilst furiously shaking: “FUCK YOUUU. FUCK YOUUUUU.” And on and on and on, with this weird stupid finger in my face, fuck youing me to pieces, backing me up until I was smashed up against the side of the building, with his terrible, angry, misdirected, spittle-maker-face against mine. And I blacked out. And did I hit him? Push? Did he push me? I’m not sure because don’t give me tequila & yell at me for your hang ups. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the floor but getting pulled back by two or Ernesto’s boys, while others from his crew swoop in on this guy and remorselessly remove him from my sight, pushing him down the stairs, taking him out the building, far out of my sight or anything I would ever know more of.

I remember yelling because I was shocked & drunk. Yelling because I was bugged out & confused. Yelling yelling yelling in English because I’m more used to speaking English now. Who knows what was conveyed, & I was being held back by these guys, & then there is sad, crazy head Ben with his boys, in my face- from where anyway? And now would there be a rumble? Ben- telling me to calm down and trying to hug me & drunk drunk drunk me, no memory.

I know I ran. I ran I ran I did not stop until I had to because I contained breath no more. I had run to the beach, ignoring peoples warnings against going alone to at night for various unheard, far-from-convenience-reasons, but reckless & still somewhat broken, I did not care. I needed ocean solace. I ran onto the sand & I melted. I cried cried cried cried. For more than that night or the moments of shit roof. I cried out of frustration for Ben; cried for loss of my boyfriend & how the fracture was my irreparable fault; cried for fear of/for that merciless seeming roof guy who was so angry at me who was nobody to him, & how much bitterness one must carry to hate strangers. Plump drunk dehydrating tears, bent over, standing in a loosey goosey forward fold, until I felt a sudden excruciating pain grip my legs & run up the length of my body faster than lightening. Tsunami faster. I felt like I was dry brush on fire, the flames licking me, twist biting at my skin- everything terrible. Fire ants. I had chosen my melt down spot to be perfectly situated atop a hill of fire ants. Hysterical now, in retrospect. Just perfect. But holy did they hurt so unbelievably bad. With out thought or alternative I found myself bolting-same-time-stripping soon-to-be-diving into black night ocean.

By morning the bites no longer bothered me. At least my memory does not hold that. I don’t even remember how I saw Ernesto, but I know that when I did see him, did ask him about what happened to the man from the roof, his eyes serious & fast- told me never to ask about him again. Impenetrable. I remember feeling Latino 90210 town on steroids. Tired. Drama lama ding dong.

I was done. Full. I’d had enough. My heart had been restored. I’d filled in the gaps between my vitals. The blood coursing through me- purified a la beach mode, despite the maybe murder… Ready to go home.

viva mexico

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Whiskey Tourette’s

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on December 10, 2013| 6 Comments »

I want to choke on my own words. Wavering and stuttering: not an option.
I want the full. The full frontal. The wham-bam.
I want crash course.

Come to me, speak to me, remind me of my contents. The fierce part.
And my sacred ability to express my scars, and wonder-wander constellations of light year stars, byproducts of being too-late too-long at bars, slow-blinker-for-ever-shit-drivers in cars…
I’ll take it.
Drunk ramblings.

Distracted in the door jam I’m waiting for the some revival jolt.
So kick my legs out and have me begging for a way to say what  my mouth hasn’t known yet.

A person can walk around feeling freed of emotions like shaker salt peppering them out liberally, honestly. You can even spread your feeble gosple, no? But it turns out that determination can’t be told between apples and oranges with out a palpable type result. Just when you thought the truth was self evident. Damn it, George.

Tell me how can you speak so frivolously about your heart mind? How can your cards show like that? Like low low low.
Was I taught to hide? There’s so much work to do. To mend oration. And delight in bent diction.
My words they tumbled but sang dust-wind as they did so, and it seems that’s all was heard, and now I understand the song well better.
Laugh; be mad; be merry.

Be alivest!
Turn lights on, convulse, define.

Daytime mimicry moderation
and
faux sun.
Pale. Silly, bright you. Glow.
Shine fully for so I don’t slip banana-peel-optimism, sweet-tooth-cheer, cavity, crack me with your smile. I’ll take it all. Reverse purge.
Curses, blessings, mundane prayer power.–
The calmest mind gets to rest and you know that’s not why I am here.

pud

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Aho

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 17, 2012| 12 Comments »

Today I stomped the ground in careless play, noticed the reverb of hollow from below. Pounding above a bomb shelter, a tunnel, a tomb? Above all in absent awareness…

…Calling for a dig exceeds my jurisdiction but if I had the power, the earth would be pocketed in curiosity, and restored rapidly in vigilant remorse, for better or for worse.

I recall clearly as a child, a teacher telling class that the Native Americans we so romantically studied lived where our houses were. My house. A top ancient secrets. Those powerful beings who understood the tangibility of seasons, ran through crisp, blue corn fields, made with callused fingers- beads of dried piñon berries, lived nobly herding flocks, believing in coyote medicine…

I had the presence of mind to know that their reign extended beyond the small stretches of my yard. Most likely to at least the perimeter of my block, or ”la manzana”, as my pops called it. I came home that day to scour the ground and blacken my baby nails in dreamy hopes of turquoise treasures, dulled arrowhead, bird bones. Nothing ever came of these missions. Time would give way to something shiny, some tinsel or so, leading my excavation, my excursion- to press on in whispered hope.

bow arrow

During the time of year where the leaves find themselves tossing in tiny tornadoes, and the cold makes scarlet our cheeks, I will be greeted by the painfully beautiful scent of burning cedar. Instantly I transport to the vast expanse of my time living on the rez with the Dinéh people, an event that was lead by the hand of my earlier fascination and curiosity.

I breathe in and hold.

Smoke, providing a background where images dance and bob. Broken relics of poetry and dry dirt. Old woman of long braid and woven skirt. Counting sheep. Snapping sage brush. Being followed by a pack of loyal, rag tag dogs with each step. Awaking before dawn with purpose to ensure warmth by lighting the fire…
With that smell I am carried, and not a moment too soon.
I am living simply. I am living at peace. I am living with full intention. The red earth stretches for days and I revel in wonder about what tales are beneath.

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Here

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 15, 2012| 2 Comments »

Purest form is a mind stark white.

An empty canvas unrushed to dress.

A now now now now now frame that doesn’t desist.

A soft focused eyeful with steady and attended pulmonary response.

Where everything is from the same, original cell~

Once and still somehow.

It’s advanced harmonics at play.

And the breeze blow the trees in unison,

while figurative branches burst to bloom.

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Mist & Musk

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on March 28, 2012| 13 Comments »

If you listen right, you can hear dreams crackling loud. It’s just an unexpected source is all.

The air is coated with paradise soft burning scents in exotic spice and bittersweet mandarin.

Somewhere not too far- a sultan and sea goddess enact a love scene. Enraptured.

Deserted beach shores glisten where giant blue whales share exchanges several meters off shore, hidden by the protective reflection of the new moon.

Their song mesmerizes hardened sailors, who’s whiskey bites and swishes forth and back.

Mermaids whisper promises:                                                                                                                                                        

You can run with me on dry land, my dearest darling                                                                                                                  

Just come swim with me here, now                                                                                                                                                      

The water is divine                                                                                                                                                                                 

Can’t you see the emeralds of my eyes? My ruby lips? My long black hair…

Mar dwelling bird’s wings rise and lift. Effortless.

Gone with the wind

Riding on the current

Trusting in the flow

The sun and moon are polarized- held to scale at equal, opposing ends of the sea.

Someone somewhere so taken by the beauty of the moment asks no one in particular if such a sight can be too strong and pure to be true?

Can something so simple as a vision be developed enough to lie? And if so, why would it?

Tropical trees tremble and shake- slower than sleepy sloths traversing inky, brimming, green~ where leave’s brushing sounds like~
yes      yes      yes

Bled and scraped by coral are so many knees, intensified from salt intrusion. Stinging. Penetrant.

Little, sinewy, brown boys play games at sunset, invading underwater castles. Small whittled swords. Would you dare challenge?

Every wise pirate has their golden mean.

Imaginations so vivid, owners of sheer will; one day to manifest and walk with their father’s stride; sleek, proud, agile.

The fathers who visit taboo isles of allure with mistresses of the night, debauchery, and tall tales each bigger than the last.

Stepping out in habit to hail the dark, enveloping blue, and scathing the cruise ships for all riches.

Surrender to a life of survival.

Never to fully embody rest, so fantasy must suffice. Sleep fills those pores

Cooling, fanned with palm fronds

Soaked in Kava, preserved in plant medice

Dancing drunkenly, always with one wild eye opened…

Until all the treasure has been knocked up from beneath the sand.

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Spanish Town

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on December 20, 2011| 7 Comments »

I want to live where the wild Ginger grows.

I want to set up shop amongst the racket of howler monkeys that shriek at the warm, sleepy, star dusted dawn. Everyday. Reliably.

I want to look down at the ground and kick at fat grubs with my barefoot feet, and feel the virile earth give just a bit; just enough to let some air out and give the worms some work to do for no good reason in particular.

I desire the smell in the air of mysterious and magnificent, unnamed tropical flowers that are very red and robust,  screaming pinks, bold charming candied yellows. I want to pluck them for my tea after humming a new tune of gratitude that I just made up because the inspiration is so damn thick that it is simply oozing- wet and juicy all over the place, where I stand drenched in the generous gifts of rhythmic cobalt full magenta golden song and hot spellbinding aqua haunting ocher poetry. 

A place where art is never dormant. The spark of creation ignites and burns burns burns, creating an absolute ruckus of overturned firey beauty.

Where I just can’t get any sleep and no- not because I am unrested but because the jungle hums and churns and I know to listen, as I am actively learning secrets of the ancients and what it is like, and what it takes to live housed and homed in the middle of la selva.

Little green snakes will slither clear and not slip into my favorite shoes.

A place permeated with the scent of  fresh tortillas. Todo fresco. Tierra local. Harvest practices relied upon for generations. Methods of sowing and reaping on dial with the waxing and waning of the solar system  itself. Stone ground and pounded with experience, hardened hands, hardy laughter, crows feet on faces for days.

I want to bathe in tepid waters of mineral pools, cleansing my mornings in mud and waterfalls. I will run my fingers through my hair and let the little pieces of leaves and sticks stick around like they picked me on purpose.

Let me live in Spanish town. Some where, somehow, someday. Where colors are brilliant, where the plants dance along, where old stories are revered and passed on, where we feel exuberant and incredibly alive because home is where the carazon es.

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For Jim: A Tribute

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on December 8, 2011| 8 Comments »

Amidst the raspy cattails and lobbing murky water is where I find you when I want to.

That night that we ran like hell, away from the world that we imagined to be watching, wanting to stop our mischief.

Where we scaled the rusted, cutting fence, making it over the barbed wire, thanks to Chris’s sweatshirt, unscathed some how. Always unscathed. Jumped down with out caution or fear holding us as we entered our familiar domain.

Encircled by resilient wild reeds, fat and abundant river rats, crackling speckled brown nesting birds, and decomposing, unnamed garbage.

The smell never mattered much because that was home and it was what we knew, and we grew up to laugh at it; holding our noses and running until we were inside, gasping for air, cracking up and seeing who made it to the interior last.

Those times while you had that janky-ass car with the doors that wouldn’t latch, and you would do donuts in it at the drop of a hat, making me crazy, forcing us to grab onto the front seats for dear life, leaving tracks on the pavement.

Looking back it’s like we were just living on our toes in those days.

Truly young, wild, and free.

But I’ll tell you Jim, you made a humbled believer out of me. And I’ve seldom told a soul because I would rather be unheard then unbelieved.

That night in the marsh where we all danced along the board walks, muddy, messy water on either side. Residue from Oil City seeping into the planks, making out traverse slippery and sleek. And we found that busted up 4 or 5 foot Graffix with the Joker base. And it was broken, but you swore to repair it. (Somehow it would wind up in my room, leaving me with the challenging responsibility of sneaky disposal.) And we made all sorts of wierd sounds that night because we finally felt alone.

And we settled in to watch the sky.

Finally.

And I’de never seen a NY sky so clear before.

Each cloud so disctinct, holding it’s very own proud shape.

And they took on thier figures before our eyes, entertaining us for what seemed like encapsulated hours.

And I saw Snoopy of all things. And we all watched and marveled, because Snoopy it was and there was simply no disputing.

And Kalinda saw something that is long forgotten, and Chris another… and it was all so crisp and vivid.

We watched together as Snoopy’s ear detached from the cloud parade and floated away as we all howled for him because the image was just so real. We could hardly believe it. Hard to believe. Grateful to witness.

And then you spotted, and I’ll never forget, the Grim Reaper. And you saw it first. And no one could dispute.

And we all self-assessed, inwardly, checking, after all, we weren’t tripping or fucked up beyond plain old weed and alcohol. Pills may have been present in our systems, but definitely no hallucinogens.

And in the night, clear as day, there it was.

And you got quiet.

It was eery but I don’t remember thinking that it was a sign.

I don’t remember anything else after that.

My memory draws a still, flat lined blank. Quiet and blind. Maybe with a soft subtle static to it. Until the day that I heard the news.

Perhaps a month after?

You had been killed. You were murdered. In Long Beach. At that bagel store in the East end. Crawling on your elbows through a ceiling shaft. In your early twenties.

A coke deal gone bad.

And all your hustle and your good intentions, all your far out, stoney epiphanies, your unstoppable language creation and invented and catchy phrases~ poof. Like a thunder clap into the air and back amongst the sky that first claimed you. And you were dismantled from this world as I could understand it.

You and your troubled ways; brawny and street wise with a sordid past and a secret tender heart that we knew so well.

You came to me last night during a peak of inspiration. I feel it is time to release you. I will never forget you and where you almost went.

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Lisa, Queen of Everything, Owns the Alphabet

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on November 2, 2011| 3 Comments »

It’s simple. Getting aquatinted with the multi-facitude of ourselves. Facitude because yes, Webster is still evolving and it is our immediate responsibility to see that they (dictionary marauders) stays on their toes. Creating new words is a healthy little pass time. And so, with out further ado, I introduce a sideways little exercise that is useable to spark the flow of our own understanding of our own selfs. Alphabetize the truth; the sweet, the dirty, the random that lies with in you….because, why not?

A. Ambition: Aspiring philanthropist. One day I will drop money from tops of buildings, but not coins, no… No one will be hurt. Stay tuned. One day, I tell you.

B. Bad habit: I have an ill weekness for brownies (B!) and it’s been 50+ days since I have been off of processed sugar (rad), but tell you what, come PMS time- I would eat your 1st born if it was dipped in chocolate. Stay away!

C. Closest Call: Did you know that you have to be careful in rivers because they too can kill you?  The Trinity river in N. California taught me a major lesson in humility. I was born part fish, being in ”Diaper Dippers” and the likes, and growing up a hop, skip, and jump away from the ocean. I had no fear of water before this day. Caught in a current, dragged and smashed agains the rocks, choking. Long story. Very scary. But I made it (:

D. Damnation: If I were called to Hell it would most likely be because the very 1st reaction that I had when a Squirrel Monkey at the local pet store in my home town was in my arms took a shit on me- was to wipe it down the poor lady next to me’s apron. But she worked there! But yeah, I did that. And I just think wiping excrement on someone else as a first reaction makes one a bad person in one way or another. Right? Or, possibly because I fake phone conversations when walking past Green Peace canvassers’, despite the fact that I truly am so grateful for what they do! * I’m sure there are worse things that I do…. to be revisited.

E. Education: Working on my Masters in Education, baby! In my second year of two. Loves it!

F. For Fun: Movement, easily. Dancing is the best thing EVER. Walking, biking, climbing, and yoga are my bffs.

G. Guilty Pleasure: Easy- I’m a sucker for a good abandoned house. I don’t want to steal anything! I just want to see. So sue me! But really, please don’t.

H. Hometown: Oceanside, N.Y. 11572. A town away from the ocean, and 28 miles East of NYC.

I. Inner Child: Alive and well, thank you. Still like to be held and when people read to me. And playing limbo and dress up.

J. Jonesing for: A 4-6 month trip out of the country. Want. Need. Ah. Beach me please.

K. Kryptonite: Idle hands. It’s an ugly descent.

L. Luck: Overall decently optimistic disposition.

M. Maybe: I carry maybe with me. Grey is a common color that I find these days. Black and white used to reign, but I attribute the appreciation for Grey (metaphorically speaking, dig?) to growing up and seeing the world from different sides.

N. Nerding out: One of my favorite things to catch is misuse of quotations. I have a collection…

O. Obsession: Collecting new music. Can’t. Get. Enough. Hungry.

P. Peace in a Strange Place: I feel safe and secure by myself at night, no matter where in the city I am if everything is covered in fresh snow.

Q. Quote: “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” -Lao Tzu.    “Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s bad, just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s good.” -Me.

R. Resist: Stagnation and apathy.

S. Strangers: Have soft skin when I sit close to them on the bus and pretend I don’t know our arms are touching. Is that weird? Is that a bud of a fetish?

T. Talent: Creative thinking, art, and dancing, since forever. Always had that flow. Shucks.

U. Umbilical Chord: 4 years ago when my parents left the house I grew up in for… ahem… Texas, I realized that I was majorly attached to the home there. It was a constant, no matter where I was, how far, or how long away for. It felt much like losing a family member, but with an alien twist; You can not hug a wall good bye. My umbilical chord, then, was severed. I hadn’t even realized it had been attached until that point.

V. Vacation: South America por favor. Pronto!

W. Whisper: One of my favorite ways to hear my own name.

X. Xanax: Took a shower once after eating one. What a great shower.

Y. You: Really oughtta try this! It’s fun and flexible.

Z. Zen: I try to hold on to gratitude and recognize I have what I have asked for, good, bad, and indifferent; all teachers.

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