you will never arrive over there
because you are
here
now
always
in truth
more light than dark
bothness
enough
wanting
more
plentiful

there is no need
to split ambitions,
my love
it’s all the same
and it’s all precise
and it’s everywhere
you find yourself

be fiercely tender
and still
grow wild

E3 Live Blue Green Algae: this is like jumper cables for your brain. I buy it frozen from my local health food store, I de-thaw half the bottle at a time and use about 3 tablespoons of it in my smoothie. I can feel my brain grin–from ear to ear…ar ar ar — ear to ear, brain, get it…anyway…When I’m on the road or don’t do a smoothie, I pop three or four of the capsules. Green dream.

Tom Ford Fragrance: I haven’t ventured out of essential oils for years, the synthetic stuff ain’t my cut. But Tom…oh Tom, I’m so glad you swing both ways.

Speaking of hot men…

Ray LaMontange: This raspy-voiced minstrel loves his women. And you gotta love that in a man.

The iPad2: can’t believe I waited so long to get the iPad2. It’s a cafe-friendly piece of freeing technology.

Rapportive: a free lil’ app for Gmail users that “shows you everything about your contacts right inside your in-box.”

OmmWriter: this is Zen wallpaper for writing in peace. No desktop icons or formatting rulers to distract you from making art. Ahhh.

Pheylonian Beeswax candles: I just placed my yearly order. The very, very best.

Rob Mee’s article on TimFerris.com: What’s Your Start-up’s “Bus Count”? 7 Myths of Entrepreneurship and Programming, is a grounded perspective on what makes for good work and output, as told from the perspective of software development. Wise stuff that applies to every creative process.

These fantastic books for kids
: The Boy Who Grew Flowers, by Jennifer Wojtowicz
: Weslandia, by Paul Fleischman
: Everest, Books 1, 2, 3, by Gordon Korman. We’re plowing through this fantastic story of nobility and adventure. “Mama, are you crying again?” Sniff.
: Schooled, by Gordon Korman

And this poem, from my friend Samantha, who is writing one poem a day for a year. (As we all should.)

THE PRESENT

The present
paper thin
be careful
it is dissolving
as you read this
new moments
erupt under your feet
fill each one
with awareness
witness
your heart beats
can you believe it
your body coaxes
you onward
constantly
utter faith
that you will
spend the offering
of life
wisely.

Summer Love
xo

engage every cell in fiercely wishing:
to be seen. to be graduated. adored. valued. validated. met.

the moment holds it all. give it then and there.
even if it didn’t work before, or you’re not sure what will come out of you to make for something new. (you can’t be sure)

blow off the past.

ask for what you want.

unzip the casing of your personality and let that inner layer feel the air. smart warm life.
do it in front of another being.

this is terrifying relief:
to merge
out in front
melting edges
contributing
punctuations of ecstasy
everyday happiness deepening

we know.

pulse open. open. open.

you will get hurt. shattered — guaranteed.
a glance will cut. denial will bruise, rejection will fracture.
you’ll cry. clenched. you’ll be infuriated. you may choose to walk away — agonized.
leave. quit. swing back. shoot a dart of defense.
you’ll regret it — more or less.

if you stay there, closed down ’round your core, then you’ll never leave the house feeling like yourself.
you’ll pad your soul with stuff destined for landfills.
piles of dislike and complaints will heave between you and bliss.
(bliss is possible. we know.)
itchy. tight. foggy. this happens when the heart is veiled.
nothing will ever be quite right, day after day.

pulse back open.
do it to be it.
lean toward.
worship your precious impulses.
focus to expansion.
this once.

open
up
any
way
.

. . . . . . .

My friend Sam is writing a poem a day for a year. I think I’ll follow suit. In private. Go to BentLily.com to get inspired.

Substance. Mindfulness. Deep play. Meaning-making.

Patti Digh.

(Insert a very humble bow, a Namaste, my hands folded in respect, and a “Woot! Woot! Patti’s the bomb.” Ommmm Patti.)

1. What is the question that you are currently living?
The question I live every morning is the one that started me on my current journey: What would I be doing today if I only had 37 days to live? It’s a question—and a time frame—that provides immediate perspective to my life. And it’s a tough question some days, because we are filled with “have to’s” and “should’s”. We learn those patterns at such a young age… I’m learning to really understand at a deep level that I am always, ALWAYS, in choice. I may not choose my circumstance, but I certainly choose how I am in that circumstance. That single-handedly eliminates my abdication of personal responsibility—and that, frankly, sucks some days when I’d rather blame things on others.

In this brave new 37days world, “have to” is changed to “choose to,” and “should” is changed to “will.” In this world, “I’ll try to” becomes “I will” or “I won’t” and “I can’t” becomes “I choose not to.”

Living as if you are dying provides immediate, sudden, potent clarity.

2. What makes something poetic?

Everything, EVERYTHING is poetry. Everything is poetic. If you’re alive, you’re a poet. If you’re alive, you’re an artist. Life itself is a creative act. I see poetry everywhere—in the way a waiter hands me my vegan enchilada, in the way the train doors close at the Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport, in the reflected smile of a cab driver in his rear view mirror when I ask about his children whose pictures are so proudly displayed, in the pain we feel when we encounter deep, vast soul-numbing loss.

There’s a wonderful quote from Osho: “When I say be creative, I don’t mean you should all go and become great painters and great poets. I simply mean let your life be a painting, let your life be a poem.”

What makes something poetic is our belief in poetry, of a meaning far beyond the surface of the thing itself, of metaphor, of the dance we dance daily between content and form.

3. What split intentions have you unified?

Oh, honey. How much time do you have?

I’ll start with just one.

As my business partner, David Robinson, taught me from his work as a theater director teaching young actors: “You can’t play two intentions at the same time on stage.” So you can either warn Hamlet or work to get the audience to love you, but you can’t do both at the same time.

My greatest learning about this came in the form of my most recent book. It wasn’t written for publication. I didn’t try to tailor a query to fit what an editor was looking for. I didn’t engage an agent to sell the idea of it. I simply sat down and wrote for my two daughters, completely disengaged from the market, the product. It was the process that mattered: a writer writes.

My single, solitary intention was to leave behind my stories for my two daughters so that when I die—whenever that is—I will be leaving behind an important part of myself for them, something more important than a collection of grapefruit spoons. I felt great urgency about that, because we never know when we will die. I could be on Day 10 of my last 37 right now—and I would never know that.

The greatest gifts of my life emerged from that single intention—in the form of relationships—with my family, with readers around the globe. That work, more than anything else I’ve ever done, speaks to the power of a single intention. I was writing, head down. And I try every single day to get back to that.

4. What piece of advice have you been given that you apply the most frequently?

When our oldest daughter was little, a good friend suggested that we get down on our knees and actually “walk” around the house that way to see it from her eye level. It was an eye-opening journey. In my work as a social justice activist, and also as a writer and speaker, I get on my knees and walk around in someone else’s reality a lot. It’s important to try as much as possible to see what others are seeing, particularly if they are disagreeing with you, particularly if they are belittling or negating you. What drives them? What do they see in the world? What is their vantage point? Their access point? Getting people to where you are is a hell of a lot easier if you give them directions from where they are, and not from where you stand, all sure of yourself.

5. What book(s) are you always telling people to read?

The Time of Our Singing by Richard Powers. The man is, hands-down, a genius. His writing is brilliant, each sentence (each one) a combination of words so beautiful that it makes every writer jealous. He is a gracious, amazing man and this is the best book about race in the U.S. I’ve ever read.

6. I’m going to give you a word. Tell me what the first thing that comes to mind when you read it… Ready? The word is: DIGNITY.

Our dignity as human beings isn’t something defined by who we are in the world as individuals, but it’s defined only in community, by the quality of the engagement between us, by the quality of the space between us, by our ability to navigate those liminal spaces. Until we are ready and able to grant the same level of specificity to others as we grant ourselves, there is no dignity. Until we know that the homeless person in Pack Square and the hungry Haitian displaced from his home, and the refugee from Rwanda, and the white male CEO, and the shamed golf star are as fully complex and human as we are, there is no dignity, there is only privilege and judgment.

7. What do you know to be true, unquestionably beyond doubt, certain with every cell of your being, completely, passionately, righteously certain?

I know that when I am on my deathbed, I will be surrounded not by legions of people all over the world who may have come in contact with me or my work, but by a very small group of what I call my “human survival units.” Knowing who those people are is vital. Knowing that we are made up not of atoms, but of love and stories, is also vital. When we die, what’s left is love in the form of stories. I know that death ends a life, but not a relationship.

……

FIND PATTI

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And check out her latest post: How to Write (a book). A Wee Rant. Brill.