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Wendy E. Braun – This Existence

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The Human Condition

Humanity, Writing, Poetry, Prose

An Open Letter to the World

Or rather, to The Pinpricks of Light that I see out there in the universe,

There is so much in the world that must change.How is it that we have lived on this planet for so many centuries and yet we do not see that greed is at the root of all of our issues? Why is the path of moderation so hard for us to follow? When did we first believe that the rights of others had a price?

No matter who are, where we come from, or what we believe in each of us is a flame. The heat we give off does not matter. The height and the width are of little consequence. In the end, we are all the same light burning. We think that because we live in the abode of the body that we are different. We believe that because our stories and experiences vary, that we have a single identity and existence. We think that when we take a match to a candle — in hopes of finding peace or a god who will listen — that our beliefs lock into a specific religion or philosophy.

But they are one; they meet right there in that flame. It does not matter if you pray within a temple, or a mosque, a church, or an ashram, or inside of your “own” self. It does not matter if you believe in a god or not when you realize that we are all the same flame, the same heat moving, shaping, calling out into the darkness of the universe. Yes, we call out to the flames that appear to be nothing more than pinpricks of light in the darkness. And yet we call out, each in our own way. And this simple act of devotion, the lighting of a candle that calls out to something or nothing, is the very thing that transcends our divides.

I imagine all of us believing or disbelieving in “something more” when the truth is that we already are “that something more.” We are the pinpricks in the darkness of the universe. We are the evidence of a complicated creation. We can be that something more instead of being evidence of such a cruel and complicated human existence. We can pause, we can still the flame, so that it does not flicker wildly in the winds of entropy that divide us. We can remember that at our core we the same.

Some of us are hungry for food, shelter, and love. Most of us crave healing. So please, let us stop and think of what we might do that will allow us to be kinder, more compassionate beings. Let us consider how we might realize that the father of chaos is Greed and the mother is Ego. I do not believe that our flame ignites from this place. I believe that we are the children of Love and Consciousness. Maybe we have just forgotten. Maybe we do not see our worth, and so we have forgotten to see the worth of others. Maybe we just need to remember what we are.

Sometimes people say that it is one thing to think with your heart and another to think with the mind. This too is a lie. When the heart and mind are united we remember that one is the wick and the other is the match.

  • What thoughts can we release that keeps from us showing compassion?
  • What beliefs restrict us from taking actions that support the civil liberties and freedoms of all?
  • What choices can we make and actions can we take that will support each new flame that arrives with each new dawn? After all, all children are our children no matter where they are or who brought them in.

I do not understand all that is happening in the world. I try to understand why patterns of war have continued to play out of the centuries instead of patterns of peace and abundance. But I can’t and in the end, see little use for it. There can be no good greater than that which respects the rights, freedoms, and civil liberties of all.

Someday, we will remember that we are all children of Love and Peace, that we are one flame burning; because of this we will live and breathe a life that promotes healing, joy, and knowledge.

This is my greatest desire and dream for this world. I don’t know if anyone will bother with my words, but sometimes you just have to call out to the rest of the universe. I see the pinpricks of light and I am sure that they see me too.

Much love,

Wendy

 

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Dollies for Our Daughters

By: Wendy E. Braun

We give our daughters dolls with perfect noses and silken hair,
painted lips and wide hips, they suppose are meant for
late night dancing.

A purple haze over eyes so large with glancing glints
a hint of Nietzschen wisdom blossoming,
like raindrops caught on broken bottles
sleeping on sidewalks in the early morning.

They run their thumbs across baby breasts
that rise from fat too young to spawn the growing,
while drawing puce perfection across the masks
of the marred identities they’re etching.

Our daughters trace on larger lips to plump to a prince’s passion,
without understanding the prestige of purple
that will come from his pushing and pulling.

They wonder when legs might match Dolly’s
so long and lean not knowing what we are forgetting…
Skirts that short don’t allow for bending,
while parts that pop can’t be rejoined
in an easy mending.

Eyelids that glance just so with a glint
of youthful sophistication,
lead to lost shoes, and city streets,
and backseat broken dreamings.

Our daughters cry when the waist is less than nimble
and the reflection fails to match that symbol wrapped in cellophane,
where afflictions are boxed and free from pain.

We give our daughters molded lies
and hope for something more,
while they paint on scant smiles
purchased on clearance
by a boy at the secondhand store.

ON A PERSONAL NOTE: I work with children and have watched many of them mature over the years. Although I know that the day will come when they will struggle with a societal persuasion of beauty, I can’t but feel rather heartbroken when a ten-year-old wants to wish away the “fat” on her hips. There are some things that we forget over time, but even now I can still recall when I was teased for the chest that wasn’t, the baby faced reflection and longed to be the girl that was noticeably maturing. In retrospect, it seems there wasn’t much worth wanting what I didn’t already have within me.

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Armageddon

By: Wendy E. Braun

He said,
“I wanted to see the end of the world.”
And I said,
“You can’t, because it hasn’t happened yet.”
He said,
“Don’t be smart.”

And I thought about that–
and then the stars,
and the way light travels
through the universe,
even when they have
lost their glow,
and then how
it all ends,
and when we end,
and if we do
it won’t be over
because
we will
still be
light
traveling
and matter–
floating.

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Millions of Moons

By: Wendy E. Braun

Watching,
tracking the patterns,
thoughts like moons
aligning in orbits

Something to be
had in
watching
silently.

Again, yes there it is
the collapsing of
one thought
into another like
dying planets dwarfed.

So many stars,
and millions of moons.

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By: Wendy E. Braun

If on a winter’s night a traveler, like you
should come along and wake me from my slumber
or cause one greater then I had hoped
I will slam the door so promptly that it
will bump spring into being,
as to dissolve the “if” into
non-existence, so that he
who travels finds himself on
a train practicing dharma with a bum,
but not a bum but rather another
traveling man with wisdom
and desire for an open road
that extends out and into something
so other, something quite other than this
— then this and so on to the roads of Albuquerque
where the running spirits of the Pueblos dance
in the dreams of the cabbies whose cost is too high.

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Reflections About Living, A Translation

By: Wendy E. Braun

*This following poem is a work that originated from a translation, in which I compounded my drafts of the original translations into a single poem. The original poem, About Living, was written in Turkish by Nazim Hikmet.

This world will have grown cold,
will have stopped,
among the stars,
between the stars,
just and only a star,
like the others,
one of the smallest
in the sea of blue velvet,
just a golden glimmer,
a shimmer,
a speck I mean,
I mean this, this that is our universe.

This world will grow cold one day,
will stop one day,
turning into a glacier,
a heap of ice even,
or a cloud, dead
not even empty like a walnut
dipped into darkness,
rounded and boundless,
it will roll into
the deep density of infinite space.

Already you must mourn
the pangs from where
the pain is drawn,
you must feel the pit
swell of sorrow, already
you must love this world
so much
if you are to say
“I have lived.”

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When Ash was Falling in Dawson City

By: Wendy E. Braun

I.
When the burning began
along the Yukon
and we had to wash the boat,

“Dust and only dust” she said,
as the ash fell like snow
and the forest continued to burn.

II.
Perhaps, when only dust remains
we’ll find the bones
of the mastodons, and a tusk

But for now the forest falls
around four bare feet, and a pair of extra shoes
hers and mine without direction.


*”Dust and only dust” belongs to my dear poet friend, Candace Butler

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Lingering Fingers

By: Wendy E. Braun

If you were a copper penny,
I’d imprint you on my skin
between two fingers,
your face and your back.

If you were the receipt,
crumpled into my coat pocket,
I’d smooth out your edges,
etching thoughts into the margins of your white space.

If you were a letter in an envelope,
or engraved on a rotting stump,
I’d investigate your lines and the effects
of times decay and hold you to my breast.

If I were my ugly sweater and you loved me,
with all of the faded colors from the thrift store sun,
I’d gladly shed it, or assume the form of a coveted thread,
tie me around that blessed finger and forget me knot.

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Clear Vision for a Quarter

Image

I never wear them, the weight of the frames on the bridge of my nose leaves a deep blue indent that refuses to reconstruct itself into a normal skin tone for, at the very least, 25 minutes. When I think of the cost, even with the family and friends discount, the clarity of the view is still flawed by the wickedly hipster-esque brown arches that capture the clarity.

If clarity could be constructed for a quarter what would the world look like?

It appears (all puns intended) that the term “urban renewal” is blanketing the country like a circus on steroids. Wrecking balls swing like the knife throwing traipse artists, while cannon ball girls stand proudly against the rubble. But it isn’t the bricks and mortar that lies in heaps waiting to be carted away, it is the people, trash people, because we treat them like trash, ignore them like trash, like a problem that is so discardable.

We build, we renovate and look down from our newly remodeled pedestals and pounder such a meek existence. We assume that our facades are more real and full constructed, that we’ve made better choices, so we bow our heads and thank providence for our affluence.

But what in life is truly “choice?”

Often when I think about the many unexpected events that occur daily, I realize that it is not my choices, but how I choose to respond to life’s occurrences that creates a larger impact on my personal experience and how others experience me. We are all familiar with the aspects of call and response, and yet we assume that we have been the first to create the call. What I would like to propose is that the call was made thousands, if not millions of years ago, and that we will forever be in response to it. In this we release some aspects of control, gain humility, and hopefully become more accountable for our actions.

I’ll give you a quarter, and you’ll respond.

Yesterday, I found myself waiting on the back of a motorcycle, at an extremely busy intersection. There was a man standing on the corner with a sign, because he was hungry. We spoke for a while, he asked for a smoke, but I don’t, so I couldn’t help. Later, I went to an event where food and drinks were passed through forgetful hands. Of the many stories that were shared that night not one was as sincere or as true that of the man who stands on the corner waiting for a light, some change, and some food.

If change is to occur let it be distributed equally and with awareness.

I’d like to setup a stand, like the one I had as a child, pushing pink lemonade on a dead end street. I’d have two jars, one for renewal and one for healing. But perhaps, I would need a scale so that I could be sure that what was given was equal in measure.

I often wonder how it is that we can renew buildings, so much money for stone, but where is the money to heal the heart and the people who need it the most?

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