A Borrowed Body Loving Other Borrowed Bodies

There is no constant that holds my body together. Or yours. I believe I am a body and inside the body there are important functions happening, but I also believe it is this belief that keep me intact. Or trapped.

I have begun meditating in love toward people. Both people I outright love and people I don’t quite love. In fact, I don’t quite like them. Let’s be honest.

My body lies on a bed and my mind meditates on love, then grows a little plant of love on the top of its head (my head) and the plant, in turn, gives off light. First a soft, slow, trudging light. Then it begins to fill more of the room until I push it out the window and into the night. I meditate all the way to the person’s room.

Most of the time, since I don’t like the person, I’ve never been in their room. So it’s improvised. And you know what I am shocked–my out-of-body-plant-light is shocked– to witness their tenderness, vulnerability.

Not often at late-dark-thirty at night do you not see someone’s humanity while sneaking your light meditating eye into their house. Someone is crying. Someone is yelling at their lover. Someone is drinking too much wine. Someone is tossing and turning. I am not a body. Neither are they. And nothing holds me together. Especially this sadness and anger and disappointment. This inadequacy I feel at being a less than perfect human being, especially for accepting the person(s) I do not like’s resentment, jealousy, anger.

We are all tiny children running around looking at stones to kick. How to bury our wounds. Some–most–of us end up in a garden of our own watermelon misery, selling the fruit to others. What I mean is, my body is not all there is, nor is yours. And light we return to. Where there is no dark or bedrooms or need for meditation.

Someone see me in the middle of the night. All this loud confusion at being human with light plants growing off the top of my head in a body I borrowed.

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3 Responses to A Borrowed Body Loving Other Borrowed Bodies

  1. Z says:

    Imagine, for a moment, that your light finds someone in their room late at night doing whatever it is they do late at night. Piddling, my mom used to call it. Just messing around. Doing small things that would be left out of even long descriptive paragraphs in boring old novels. Or watching the latest installment of American Idol. Or maybe it’s reruns of 24. Or maybe someone spends their evenings cultivating love for a special flower. These are things others are often not invited to see, though they would not necessarily be unwelcome. In life, these sorts of things fill our days leaving precious little time for much else. Yelling at a lover takes time away from flying kites, volunteer work, cooking breakfast, working out, fixing that broken light bulb on the porch, getting your car inspected, doing your taxes, and all the other things that are on your to-do list. Watching American Idol takes away from your laundry time. Have you ever gotten the feeling that the connection your light makes with someone is the same as the interpersonal connections with which you’re already familiar? What about people with whom you have little or no familiarity?

    Have you tried entering the bedroom of your lost descendent? It might be difficult to do, emotionally speaking, but the value of such a thing could turn out to be immeasurably large. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that what’s done is done, but we can play with what will be, insomuch as the behind-the-scenes player(s) allow. Like it or not, you have a relationship with your lost descendent, and you cannot go on with life with a false story of the past. Maybe nobody else will know, but you will always know. I’m not trying to help you and I’m not trying to make you feel better, you’ve got professionals for that. I’m curious, that’s all. I refuse to judge you based on your actions, and will not look dimly or favorably upon you based on your response or lack thereof.

    What happens when you explore the love of your lost descendent?

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  2. SkittlesBud says:

    Well now, you are always free to put on your meditative “plant light” and see what I am doing. Now, personally I’d rather you just come to San Francisco and see for yourself. However, if you know anything about the Haight, where I live in San Fransciso, people cultivate plants for a living around around here. And while they typically don’t put them on their heads, they certainly do light them up.

    Anyway, a loving plant medititative poet will fit in my neighborhood quite nicely. This was the birthplace of the Summer of Love, after all. And if your lighted plant medititave poet-Godess still wants to float around my place, you’re quite right that you might see me drinking too much wine. Of course, once you see who the vintage is, your loving plant light will probably start getting thirsty itself and think “Hey now, this seems really like a good place to meditate — so give me glass Cooper!”

    Anyway, I digress….

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