Ouch

So hard.  Afraid to let the words come, but I think I just will let the words come.  And it's hard.  The feelings are down below where the words swirl.  Falling apart.  Falling apart.  Holding together and falling apart.  Tired and afraid.  What is cowardice?

Right-hand vajra-fist itching for the tip of the ink-dipped stroke-brush.  Heart feeling like a sponge full of tears.  I am hesitant to squeeze.  I remember Nayyirah Waheed, "i am a silk field of vulnerability."



Cheerful low-key beats palpate my spongeheart.  Do tears wring like freedom?

Yesterday, I was one of two people facilitating the Denver Shambhala community meeting.  I've been reflecting on why I feel so exhausted afterwards.  I don't think it's just the community meeting.  It's days and days of feeling.  I remember a recounted anecdote: Trungpa Rinpoche saying to Allen Ginsberg, "Don't you trust your own mind?"  Don't I trust my own heart?   Trust my own heart with what?  With keeping anyone from getting hurt?


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