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Wendy E. Braun – This Existence

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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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Drafting: Sandalwood Saints

-I am working through the drafting process on this one. When I write, I like to work through a few drafts, playing with perspective, tone, and structure. Right now this poem is going through a bit of a fragmented phase. In this version, I am trying to maintain the lyrical qualities while discerning the places in which something more needs to occur.

Rise to drink the elixir of  Kailas before the first rays of dawn forever alter it.

Chant from texts and divine a time before the printed page demanded a certain weight, and divinity rose from the universe within.

Bathe in oils of amber and the sandalwood saints who wax awakenings of ascended masters.

Then walk to your own precipice with each step offer a mantra of awareness.

***

She rises in the early hours to drink of Kailas before the red of dawn forever alters it.

She chants from texts in a tongue divining a time before the printed page, demanded a certain weight, and transcendence arose from the universe within.

Alone, she bathes in oils of amber and the sandalwood saints wearing awakenings of ascended masters.

Walking to her precipice, a pause and then with each step she offers a mantra of awareness.

 

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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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Stolen Line

By: Wendy E. Braun

I was walking by the pond on my way to town.

Mind you, it was not some lovely Midwestern pond,

with willow trees, and frogs resting in the muddied grasses.
I know nothing of ponds like that, that is

outside of stories that belong to people

who never mind waiting for the breeze,

or so I’m told.

No, I know of ponds, and rivers and oceans

that can only be cleansed through memories,
memories comprised of lost shoes

and double dog dares, and uneven ground

and salvaged railroad ties meant to buffer a spill.

This pond is stitched with memory,

as I walk by and think what a strange quality
to attribute to water, but still each thread has its
boundary or is one, the eye its channel.

So this pond, which is hardly more than a puddle
is wrapped up with my father fighting a flood
from the neighbor’s yard, and a railroad tie

trying to protect my new swing set from the onset,
while grandpa just laughs and I sail my toy boat.

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Although, time has passed

and seasons have come and gone,

like railway cars

whose late passenger stands

staring – wondering if it was in fact

a blown fuse that

stopped the clock and caused

the burnt toast –

he stands

on the same old porch,

surveying the need for yearly repairs,

while fingering a new cigarette

as the smoke swirls against his face

as his thoughts rise around

the what was,

the what never was,

the will she,

might she,

does she still, and

I think to myself

how thankful

I am that he

does not,

will not,

could not know

a damn thing –

something like smoke.

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Risk

If there is one relatable experience that intertwines us, it is the familiar rocky cliff, where we stand in a smokey fog, haunted by the shadowy chasm existing between “the here and now” and the “what is to come.” Our gaze, the closer we are to the edge, falls steadily downward taking note of the jagged edges and the dense darkness that seems to rise up out of the distant ravine. Sometimes we lift our eyes and take note of a weather-worn bridge with greying and rotted wooden planks – held together by fraying horsehair ropes. In this stance, fear resides paralyzing movement, until the outside forces bare in as great gusts of wind pushing us onward – or at least on to our knees sending us crawling back and away to some sort of safety in what is known. Should we choose to stand, we are met with the risk of an unsteady bridge, and a need to be extremely sure-footed.

I think, sometimes, that as we age we become more afraid of the risks. Failure seems to have greater consequences, while comfort increasingly seems like “just trying to get by.”

My father always said that “you should live without regrets.” While I don’t believe that this is remotely possible, as I for one am entirely and happily flawed, I do think that there is a sense of knowing and discovery that comes about through this mindset. Somewhere along the line, regret and risk wove themselves together in my mind. On the whole, I would say that the risks I have taken have outweighed the regret (with the exception of love, but maybe I just “haven’t met the right one yet,” as my cousins would say). Still, the point remains that as life goes on the complications of saying “YES” compound.

When did it become so easy to say “no?” Who taught us to live inside ourselves? How is it that life experiences can hinder us from actually living?

Every day is in some way a risk. The unexpected will arise, and the risk will take shape in how we choose to respond the occurrence. And, while I know these things, I still find myself with a downward gaze, as the sounds of a strong north wind can be heard barreling towards me. The question is not whether I will cross, but rather will I make it to the other side? And, maybe the bridge is sturdy and strong, and I am fooled by the fog. But it can be so hard to shake this feeling when you cannot be sure of your own footing.

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