When peace comes to you, hold it in.
Your mind is not always full of peace; it tends to come and go
but when it comes, hold it in.
Because if you have hold of a thing like peace,
your whole body will thank you.
and hope seems to grow.
If you learn anything from me it’s this: when peace comes to you, hold it in.
Let me speak of some places I’ve seen it.
On a midnight walk through a lighted city.
Above the tree line on a mountain’s peak.
Next to a sobbing patient in a mental hospital.
And even in such a simple place as my desk.
That’s what we’re longing for isn’t it?
A deep breath after a long day.
Ease. And I don’t mean a simple existence, just ease.
A weightlessness our shoulders seem to recognize.
A freedom our lungs enjoy.
So here’s to the pursuit.
And here’s to the finding.
To unashamed ease.
To life full of freedom.
So when peace come to you,
when it finds you,
hold it in.
You hung up the phone
and I could tell you were angry.
You used words like “bullheaded”
to describe me.
Well, maybe I am,
but it’s because of you.
I could have called you back.
I stared at the phone, contemplating.
“Family’s got to stick together,”
and I used to be a lonely son.
Maybe I would have, had I known
you’d be gone forever.
Sorry I’m not so sorry.
Loved the good times and hated
Guess this is how it goes for people
like us and I’ll keep pretending the last
time we spoke, we said somethin’ nice.
But you and I both know better.
Lonely, some quietly wander in the hall of stars
with time pressing against their temples. Their
heads ache and feet are heavy from trodding
through gaps and chasms of undiscovered
universes. Their quest is knowledge and it is
insatiable. They have never known love, or at
least, never understood why some of us crawl and
beg for it. The hall, being made of stars, is bent, angled
downward, fractured and kaleidoscopic. It is similar, in
appearance, to a thought being born in the channels of
a brilliant mind.
I tried to love one of these souls and got pretty close, but
after months of tiresome attempts at affection, I grew
weary and they, of course, grew cold. I have come to the
conclusion that trying to draw conclusions with people
such as this, is well, impossible.
I only hope someone will be there when it happens. That someone with arms outstretched, will catch their body when it gives way and their brain cracks from the burden of carrying the solution. In the end we must pity them. For we are moving forward with hope and they are being left behind mired in fear.
We are all in the same predicament.
We worry that we are not enough. That
heros are made of better men than us.
We’re all clinging to some lie. “You are
nothing. You’re insignificant. You will pass
away and no one will notice.”
I have held complete strangers in my arms.
Watched them weep and rock back and forth,
wondering if someone would do the same for me.
I think they would. I think we would all be surprised
by the kindness of supposed strangers. Mothers and
fathers. Sister and brothers. We all belong to each other.
“How do we get through it?”
With kindness. With grace. With forgiveness. And most of all,
we get through it with love.
Love unending. Love that you can reach out and touch.
The kind of love that surpasses all understanding.
I really meant it. Do you believe me?
The kind that shines in dark places. The kind that seeps into
every crack in every surface. Love unchanging. Love that doesn’t
simply comfort, but weeps alongside.
When you see someone drowning, you can shout directions from
the shore. Or you can wade into the muck, throw your arms around their
writhing body and try to save them.
I want to be a man that wades into the muck. And while it’s risky, while it
costs something, I think we all want that too. There’s no more room for
armchair activists. Too many have filled the sidelines.
There are no better men. No better wives. No better friends.
It’s us. Stop looking around. “But how do we get through it?”
We get through it with love.
I hopped a train to get to you.
Problem is, I don’t know who
you are. Maybe you’re some
midnight malady. Maybe you’re
a daybreak too late. But then
again, maybe I’m too late.
Enough of that talk. Silence now.
All I need is this sweet winter
silence. I collected a barrell full
of railroad spikes. I’ll trade it for
a a pint of whiskey, some food,
a few dollars and a leather-bound
book. For to write it all down.
There I go whistling by. Like some
misplaced memory. You’re always on
my mind. Like the time. I hope you’ve
kept all your collections. I want to wade
through them. I want to find the barn
and sift through mountains of dust.
I want to know every inch of you.
I am like a snow-swept pine
and you are the coal that keeps
this train running. I provide the
oxygen and you the fire.
This train isn’t going fast enough.
Not fast enough to catch you.
I yell as loud as I can to hurry up,
but no one hears me. The drone of the
locomotive billows and my words are
nothing more than whispers.
Then the train stops.
And I’m in some unknown town with
a barrel of iron and rust, praying.
You are always one town away.
Sink to the bottom of a glass.
Then sink back down
this time further.
Sink into oblivion.
Fall all the way down.
Mix a drink
then mix another.
Rub your eyelids.
Taste the top of your mouth.
Touch your tongue to your teeth.
Seethe and release.
Come empty handed.
Feel the vibrations.
The bass on your legs.
Sink to the bottom of a glass.
Then sink back down.
This time further.