What Does Perfect Rest Look Like?
How Do You Become Perfectly Rested Instead of Consistently Bested? A writing prompt. If I was perfectly rested I’d be someone entirely different I suppose. I’d be brimming with energetic positivity to the chagrin of all my close family who already think I’m waaaaaaayyy to positively energetic for their taste. But it would come even more naturally, more easily, more energetically from a place of wholeness and harmony instead of insistence and insanity. I’d be healthier, which really means wealthier. I’d be engaged, without even having to think about it, in deep cellular repair. I’d be healing instead of reeling I’d be more feeling instead of dealing with the twists and turns of other peoples whims and wants and their inner debutants. I’d be the queen of the ball because I’d be so rested I’d know more clearly that I already have it all. I’d be the icing on the cake because I’d have overflowing reserves from which to take I’d be the master of my domain who’d no longer check his phone for the time when he’s stuck in the rain. I’d actually realize sooner how the rain doesn’t even make me feel stuck, but often feels like a stroke of luck because it reminds me to rest to breath in all those kicked up negative ions and feel my best. If I was perfectly rested would I ever get tired? Or would it be a conscious choice of aligned integrity as to when, each night, I finally retired? Would I have more hormones and neurotransmitters so my brain re-wired toward peace and enlightenment and that mystical freedom of knowing separation is an illusion and interconnectedness is the truth. Would I have more energy to figure out life’s mysteries, and be less pulled back my fatigue into long gone histories? Would I be able to crack more quickly all of life’s puzzles, all of my circumstantial riddles? Would I feel more free to dilly-dally, lolly-gag, enjoy the one step back for every two steps forward and play more freely in all of life’s middles? Like the creamy center of a frosting filled donut. Yes, somehow, I think I would. But how, then, do I become this perfectly rested version of myself? Does it start with putting all things non-urgent, non-necessary and unaligned on the proverbial shelf? While unrested, do I even have the energy to imagine a rested me? Would my imagination become stronger so I could create my dreaming and scheming ideal life for even longer? I suppose the rested version of me gets built like everything else, slowly and brick by brick… Or wait, is that just the problem that it doesn’t get built, but it gets unbuilt, by dismantling guilt and duty and culture and expectations and all the other bricks life has piled on me. Is unmaking the wall, brick by brick, the final trick? It only takes seconds to destroy what it has taken years to build. How can I destroy old habits that keep me on the hamster wheel? Perhaps it’s as simple as hopping off, laying down, shutting my eyes and deciding to just give it all a rest. That might be as perfect as it gets.
The Next Day Newspaper
WRITING PROMPT: What would you do if you get a newspaper delivered to your door every morning and then one day it is the next day’s newspaper, and it tells you what happened today? Here is a little story I wrote based on the prompt above in my Life Coaches Writer’s Group. Enjoy. The skies were gray, just how Buster liked it, on this perfectly temperate, sunless and silvery morning. The birds weren’t singing but more like just throwing out half-hearted bars of their favorite choruses while Buster yawned awake and meandered to his front stoop, like he did every day, to peruse the morning paper and find out what the powers that be wanted everyone to think today. He didn’t believe the news, he fancied himself too smart for that, but he liked to keep tabs on what he calls “the official narrative” because it was a good predictor of everyone’s mood for the day, or week, or month, depending on how doomy and gloomy the powers that be wanted to make life seem that morning. What was today’s latest outrage going to be? What was the most divisive spin the media could put on the suffering of others? How were they going to attempt to make us hate people different from us today? Or hate ourselves? Or hate the elite? Well, the elite he didn’t mind hating, but everyone else, no dice. Buster knew he came from love, would return to love and was made of love, so he saw right through the hate-stoking, fear-mongering, rage-provoking headlines. But he needed something entertaining to read with him morning cup of organic cinnamon tea so he had a subscription to the brainwashing rags, on both sides. He picked up his Wall Street Journal and his New York Times and when he read the headlines his jaw dropped. First, they agreed on something for the first time in who knows how long. And secondly, these were tomorrow’s papers. They predicted, unfathomably, the utter destruction of New England, where he was now standing. Was this a joke? Buster didn’t know what to think? How would he have received tomorrow’s papers today? And how would they both be in agreement on anything? And what the hell happened to New England? He read on, the irony not lost on him that even the future looked gloomy to the mainstream media. They were the kings and queens of the theme song that goes “there’s nothing to look forward to, so you should just give us your money and pack it in.” Had someone in the mail room made a mistake on the date? Or the content? Or had someone at the CIA made a mistake on tipping the hand of the powers that be who want nothing more than to cause destruction because it causes fear because it causes obedience because it causes the consolidation of power we’ve become so used to that we swim in it, unknowingly, like a fish swims in water, or a bird flies on wind. Johnson or Jeff was definitely going to get fired for this. If New England also goes up in a blaze of fire Buster would be fine. First, he didn’t believe the papers got it right, because they almost never do. And if they did, he’d go out drinking cinnamon tea, knowing full well the small pleasures are all that really matter anyway.
Where Am I Being Judgmental?
This week’s prompt in my group of life coach writers was to ask ourselves where we notice judgement and what happens if we get curious about it? We had 12 minutes on the clock to write about it and this is what I wrote: I notice judgement in my own life when people are being dumb. Hey, I know that sounds judgmental but that’s the prompt so clam down. Because sometimes people are so dumb. But I’m not talking about IQ dumb, or grades dumb, I’m talking about critical thinking dumb, believing the government propaganda dumb. If everyone you know wants the world to get better, and they do, then why is the world falling apart? The official narrative is that it’s human incompetence and accidental intermittent corruption, as if corruption were the same as being clumsy. “oops, sorry, I spilled all that garbage into the ocean, let me just get a napkin.” Or “pardon me, I didn’t mean to drop that many bombs on that many innocent people, my mistake.” Well, no. And frankly to believe societies are crumbling because of incompetence is, in my view, the height of stupidity. There is a design. A corrupt and well planned design, in motion for decades and working itself out now in our towns, our governments and our news media, but under the thinly disguised costume of compounding random events. Whoops, we have a misogynist in office. Whoops, now we have a dementia patient. Well, golly, how did that happen? By design you dumb fuck. By carefully planned, nasty, dark, evil design. And I get it, you don’t want to look at it like that because, scary. I understand, but if all you do is doubt the obvious and thrust your head in the sand Then you become useless and can’t lend a hand Or help us return to the land You are just a spectator adding to the bland and the quicksand. We need to wake up. We need to admit there are nefarious plotters who want us all dead and are planning world events to make it so. We need to just get our heads around that. If we don’t admit this to ourselves their plans succeed. If we do get our heads around it their plans backfire Because we awaken a holy fire and start to inspire and aspire and a new design can transpire. But if we believe this is all happening by chance, just happenstance then we are going to be made to dance, like an exhausted silly bear, getting so much wear and tear that we say jokingly “let’s just leave and go to France.” But it’s no better there. This corrupt design is global And the only thing left that’s noble Is deciding to see it. To understand that human nature is bent toward wholeness so if society is crumbling it is not incompetence or individual choices, it is corruption, designed and planned, with all kinds of truth being banned. There is a hope in this awful darkness of deliberately designed destruction Because it is all a pageant, a production And if we can start to learn how to discern we can make a U-turn And the fires of transformation can burn instead of forests and children and middle eastern cities. So I judge dummies who think individual choices are to blame for the designs of an elite few as they culminate and isolate and humiliate and alienate. But again, it’s not too late. We can smarten up, get hip, and right this intentionally sinking ship. The trick is to use this masterminded suffering to wake us up, to change us, to make us smart so we can listen with our heart The news is lies. The government is lies The body is truth, so become a sleuth, Even if your new, dangerous, extreme opinion is called uncouth Because by banding together we can change the weather, and not like the elite globalist wack-jobs do with technology, but with the energy of our gleaming hearts, wise souls and sound, right critical thought. So I judge dumb, and I feel numb, because despite what I’ve just written I also still, very much don’t know shit about shit at all.
What I’d Say At My Own Funeral
WRITING PROMPT: Write a eulogy for yourself, being as honest as you can. What do you have to say for yourself? If Brian were here right now he’d make light of this tragedy. He’d tell you all it’s okay to grieve but to get back to living as soon as possible because he’s gone and grateful and his life was fine and dandy and y’all don’t need to make such a fuss anymore. He’d also get his feelings hurt if you didn’t grieve just a little bit. So, yeah, suffer, mourn, make him feel good, and then get on with your lives, because that will make him feel great. Brian was an optimist through and through. If he’s been able to speak at the moment of his death he’d have said “I’m looking forward to finally seeing what this death thing is all about.” He lived curiously and fearlessly. That’s what he’d want me to say, but the truth is more nuanced for sure. Brian was often crippled by fear, paralyzed as he analyzed what he perceived to the micro-expressions of others that almost certainly meant he had offended them, or was just plain offensive as a whole. Brian’s message from beyond the grave is that this life is not meant to seem so grave, and so be brave and go after what you crave, so in the end you can rave about the life you lived instead of the money you saved. Brian feared regret so he experimented with every thing he could find Drugs that made him forget Money and pride he lost in a bet Unrequited loves he could never quite get And yet He lived fully. He loved completely. And he laughed unashamedly and way too loudly indoors. He scrubbed floors. And paid whores. And had sores And settled scores But in the end he realized what he wanted was right inside, in his core Brian will not go unremembered because he is unforgettable. He is relentlessly himself even when pretending to be something he’s not. How doe that work? Well, you’d have to ask Brian, but indeed, he pulled it off. He greatest trick in life is making y’all believe he was a separate human from all of you. You all perform that same trick but forget you’re magicians. Brian made friends with his inner wizard and let a little magic leak right out into the world. Your inner wizard is just as powerful. Instead of wandering, use your wand. Instead of squandering, enjoy the pond. Instead of floundering we can learn to respond. Brian will be missed. He will be missed because each of us felt more seen when he looked into our eyes. He made us feel understood in a world where misunderstanding is the rule of the day. He made us feel accepted when prejudice is the water we swim in. He made us feel revered in a world where the sacred is seen as ridiculous or at least expendable. Brian ran toward a bomb threat, was held up at gun point, arrested and jailed. He had an adventure. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. But it was exactly what happened and it was exactly what he needed. May your life’s adventure be as much of a roller coaster. So when you get off the ride you’re a little dizzy, feeling loved, with the lingering taste of fried dough and cotton candy on your tongue. But also you’re grateful it’s over and you are firmly rooted again on the ground. At the source. May he rest in peace.
How Is The Emergence of Spring Like Your Deepest Desires?
The emergence of spring is about blossoming and my deepest desire is to come into full bloom. To flourish and then to nourish The emergence of spring is about warmth and growth and expansion and my deepest desire is to be held warmly, to grow continuously and to expand infinitely Expand into what exactly? Well, that I’m still working on. But I know it includes the external trappings like being a published author and getting my own talk show and having more money in the bank than I can count or spend in ten lifetimes. Those are the pretty and colorful flower pedals that show the world I’m blossoming and beautiful. But it also includes the internal things like peace and stillness and confidence. I want to know tranquility instead of numbing with the cultural tranquilizers of Netflix and marijuana and endless scrolls into the lives of mere strangers This focus outward comes with dangers I want to know serenity instead of making scenes I want to know divinity instead of creating divisions I want to know integrity instead of insisting on ideologies Because each one comes with its own pathologies And then I end up separate from my inner sense of truth and end up needing to give apologies before regret messes with my biologies The emergence of spring bring with it singing and soaring And that’s like my deepest desires to be in harmony with natures roaring And make melodies out of the mundane instead of calling it all so boring Who says we should leave all that to the birdsI’d like my own inner songs to be heard. The emergence of spring is like my deepest desires because its perennial, it never fails to come back around and my core dreams never seem to leave me even when they cycle away for undefined mental winters time and again. The mental winters can feel like soul splinters but when the thaw takes hold and the sun breaks the cold I feel an energy inside me saying its time to break the mold and go back to my dreams And maybe just maybe get that mother-fucking manuscript sold.
WRITING PROMPT: I Wish I Had (blank) Yesterday!
I don’t know what I wish I had yesterday Sometimes I just wish I had yesterday back Or last year, or my 30’s, or my entire broken childhood And sometimes I don’t want any of that back at all. I’d rather look forward, stand tall And not waste my energy on trying to recall But avoiding the past can cause our passion engine to sieze unto our life is stalled The past is part of who we are, and it’s never truly that far away, So even though it’s yesterday It colors today, in every way, What we say How or even if we play If we see things vibrant, or rosy, or dank, dark and grey If we forgive or try to make others pay If we mediate or if we pray I wish I had clarity yesterday I wish I had courage yesterday I wish I had pizza yesterday, I wait I did that. I wish I had trusted myself And taken my dreams and passions back off the shelf They say if wishes and buts were clusters of nuts we’d all have a bowl of granola Which just goes to show ya That wishing and resisting Is like fishing and insisting on certain outcomes And when they don’t happen we shake our fists at the sky screaming “how come?” But who is supposed to answer that for us? Is that God listening, or the sunshine, or the universe, or source energy or aliens, angels, or space monkeys In the absence of a response from above we become junkies Looking for the next dogma or ideology to become flunkies Because belonging to a group gives us the illusion of certainty Or sureness, or rightness, or safety I’m not saying there is no God. I’m asking how we get to know God. Do we need to be on our knees, or read tea leaves, or aim to please? Or can we go within, to our deep core, our inner knowing at our center, And find, unexpectedly that’s where we can enter Into the mystery of life, a divine relationship with our own broken selves is where healing cascades from and where it returns to. So yeah, I wish I had understood all that yesterday. But the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, they say, and the second best time is now. So I wish I had a sapling and soil yesterday, so today I could plant my tree.
WRITING PROMPT: “It Takes Too Long…”
It takes to long to make home made bread And it takes too long to overcome existential dread It takes too long to make dreams come true And it seems to go by too fast whenever they do It takes too long to find the perfect mate But it also takes too long to get the check on every bad date Sometimes I think I’ll fuck anything and other times I think I’ll wait It takes too long to let my own voice be heard Which is why I always tend to come in third It takes too long to do things the way you should And it seems impossible that I’ll ever by fully understood It takes too long to start from scratch But it feels so wrong to let life snatch All my hope about a better tomorrow So I throw up my hands and surrender to sorrow And think about the peace I could one day borrow If I can’t have any that’s my very own that is. It takes too long to save up a down payment Or to fully awaken from our cultural enslavement It’s been taking too long for our next phase of evolution Which is why we’re on the brink of revolution May the light of the divine show itself as our solution Its taking too long for the ice caps to melt Or is that just a gloomy story we’ve all been dealt It’s taking to long to find my happy chewy center The place where I feel safe and few can enter Sometimes I think I’ve glimpsed it, the hedgy labrynth almost clearing But in one anxious breath it vanishes, without anybody hearing And as I search for it again I can almost sense it nearing And that responsiveness is what I find so magical and endearing.
WRITING PROMPT: When I am aligned with my higher self…
When I am aligned with my higher self I am non-verbal. I am uncontainable by language I am enough I am complete I am perfection I am realized realization realizing itself newly for the first time in just this exact way at this exact time I am a prism, crystalline awareness, flawless, Hard as diamond and malleable as marshmallow fluff I am present I am flowing, exuberant. Enthusiastic or not, and if not, I’m gentle about it, full of grace and understanding. I am okay I am full I am well I am better than well When I am aligned with my higher self I am surrendered Strapped in Adding what little skill I can as I lean into the wind and thunderous rain A race car driver in a race car twisting around in a tornado At some point you just have to let go, let the seatbelt fulfill its destiny doing what it was designed to do, letting the tornado do what it was designed to do…and knowing that if I survive this state of surrender, or die and am resurrected anew I am, from that moment forward going to do, fearlessly, what I have been designed to do… Now where did I put those design plans again? I wonder if I truly aligned with my higher self if I’m after anything anymore. Perhaps when I’m fully aligned I’ll have traded in seeking for finding, asking for receiving and knocking for invitations to enter. Perhaps when it feels internally like any door to any opportunity can fling open at anytime with a kindly little knock then outer reality will reflect this expansiveness. And paradoxically, I will be expanded internally by then and the need for outer reality to change to match will no longer exist, though this mirror reality in which we live and move and have our being will shift anyway. It will have to. I am learning to master the art of desire…so desire gives me pleasure instead of pain, a sense of hope instead of overwhelm, a sense of possibility where there used to be unworthiness. So wishes don’t become burdens and the inner judge doesn’t use my dreams like daggers. Mastering the art of how to desire, without burning to death in the raging fire is the task to which I now aspire. Buddha, I’m going to nirvana and beyond….if that’s not too presumptuous.
WRITING PROMPT: I’ve Been Thinking
I’ve been thinking about the future. What I’m going to amount to, specifically. And as dreadfully cliche as this is going to predictably sound, I’ve been thinking about the past. What I was supposed to accomplish by now, and what I’ve lied about, stolen, manipulated and schemed my way into instead of living by faith. I’ve also been thinking about that alternate reality we all have where the past is shinier and the future certain and brightly lit by the flashbulbs of fame and the sunrises of serenity, with a breathtaking view of victory. Which means in the end I’ve been thinking about nothing constructive, nothing worthwhile, nothing useful, ironically, to my future. I’m not even thinking, I’m ruminating. That’s like thinking when it gets committed to an asylum. “Oh, yes, we had that thinking committed when it become prone to rumination,” some great aunt with dementia might mutter as they drove away to leave my over-thinking ass stuck in the bowels of my shit-for-brain mind. I’ve been thinking too much, clearly. And not too clearly I might add. I don’t want to think about what I’ve been thinking about anymore. I wonder what I haven’t been thinking about. I haven’t been thinking about how it could all go right. Or how it could all work out, how I could get the guy and do the twist and shout. Even writing this line feels like a propped up whimzy, because we all know true love is actually truly flimzy. I’ve been thinking its harder to have faith the older one gets in the ruts of their past thinking. Is thinking just like sinking, quicksand with no outstretched hand. Or like a shamed prostitute slinking away in the night Made of nothing but fright and wheat thins. The two minute warning is making me think I should brighten this up bit but we’re heading into darkness, less sunlight, and the abyss of a new England winter. So a clever ending just ain’t on the holiday menu tootse.
If I Were A Ghost…
IF I WERE A GHOST… Could I still be haunted? Could I still be daunted? And I would still get all jealous and sour when people flaunted their shiny objects and expensive trinkets? It’s hard to imagine, but I tend to think it’s quite possible that a ghostly existence comes with similar pitfalls and challenges and mental tournaments; because despite halloween with all it’s ornaments a ghost was once a person, in theory anyway. And the best part of being human is learning and yearning and feeling that ego death churning. We sometimes like to hide under sheets so we already have that in common with ghosts. Or get three sheets to the wind when things get too scary so we also have things in common with a whole family of ghosts. If the best part of being human is the depth of experience and the range of emotion then the best part of being ghostly might be a similar thing or quite another notion or even more depth and range, vaster than the ocean. If I were a ghost I’d glide through walls that as a human I seem to have to keep breaking down or pushing over. If I were a ghost I’d see right through to the heart of the matter and sometimes for fun make my humans jump with an unexpected clatter. I wonder if I’d be more all knowing, or more in the dark? I hope it’s the former and not the latter I’d like to think if I were a ghost I’d be a consummate host not so much haunting the joint as protecting it, guarding it, making it safe for those who live on after. I’d cozy up and watch from the highest rafter. If I were a ghost I’d never ghost you I’d be right by your side maybe causing shiver or chills or unexpected thrills but I’d always toast you. When the goblins or gouls came a knockin’ I’d tell ‘em this is my haunted house So keep on moving, keep on walkin’ there’s no room for any more stalkin’. So I’d be this invisible force slaying your demons and dragons, like a friendly Casper-y, hobbit-y Bilbo Baggins. Just dutifully following my new and glorious quest To look after my descendants So they can maybe taste transcendence And realize they have already passed the test And can finally and fully, in peace, rest. And I’d realize I’m not alone up here but supported by all my dead ancestors And we are all looking down, watching our cycle breakers Shake their money makers And shatter old mistakers Because though I’m a ghost I am with you and so are all the other ghosts that died long ago We are your sacred lineage And we watch you, support you, cheer for you Because we’ve been misunderstood, as you have. And we love Halloween because this thinning veil means we maybe, might just get to say hello again, and good bye, and in that haunting exchange realize that ‘hello’ and ‘good bye’ aren’t relevant anymore, because we are with each other always. Happy Halloween I love and trust you humanity. -Brian
