you do not have to be good
YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE GOOD
You do not have to walk a hundred miles
on your knees
across the desert
repenting
You only have to let the soft
warm
animal
in you
love what is loves.
YOU ONLY HAVE TO LET THE
SOFT WARM
ANIMAL
IN YOU
LOVE WHAT IT LOVES
From the first part of Mary Oliver's wild geese poem.
See it all down, down down around the bottom part of the front
page of my mother site,
of the name BecomeMoreAmazing.com
and there's more
to the poem
and to
the liberations
because
we have a wild filthy animal
and that's got to be free
to love and go wild and get dirty
and we have a lazy and silly animal
and that's got to be allowed to nap forever some days,
and go around laughing it its own and others' shadows,
or eyebrows, or tonuges
or words
and pretentions
the soft
the wild
the silly
animal just is what it is
shitting in the forest
peeing in the flower beds
farting here
belching there
fucking in the meadow on the beach on the trailhead
in the thicket, the thinet, the middet
fucking and hugging
and falling down
naked, and rubbing flesh to flesh all
night
just
for the mammalian YES of it
we have a brain
ah,
yes,
that too, the animal that can think
we can think for the pure joy
of it
and best smartest kindest
to think to improve the lot
of any messes we or our fellow forgetters
get into
the soft warm wild funky filthy smart dumb crazy brilliant
animal
in us
the wild child
the restless native without property boundaries,
who owns the earth and the rivers because no one
owns them
the child that can pee wherever it wants to pee
the animal who love making is
dictated by the lunging yes
that is
always
always
always there
and when we wake up to
it
life
is full
and then
the clock strikes twelves or two or six and we think
the slave has to be who we are
it doesn't
the animal can tone it in
a bit
play the civilized game
and it's only a game
and there's a deeper game
without a name
without words
a rolling in the mud, hugging the wrong person,
loving everyone game
gasp,
is today the right day to play it?
is shall we wait,
till the ducks and dead and stuffed and frozen
and all in a line?
a rhetorical question if I ever saw one.
ha!
the wild world is
there
inside us,
every night
waiting to wake up
and sometimes it does
in our dreams
in our sex
the best sex in my life
i realized this weekend was
outdoors
under the stars,
or on a hill overlooking an orchard
or on a cliff, overlooking the ocean
sex is nature
nature is sex
and there's as sweet practice,
usually done indoors
and it reconnects us to the wild,
to the real,
to nature
to orgasm
orgasm was the word I didn't have on the list
of the title
we
forget
how essential this miracle of everything getting
full
full
full
as all else drops away
we forget that it is nature's reminder of samadi
of death before death
of freedom
and here's the practice:
15 minutes
on the floor or bed, but a special nest
of pillows for head and kneess
she:
takes off her pants, and that's all
he:
takes off nothing,
and sits to her right,
his left leg straddling her,
right leg under her right
she:
her legs butterflied
they:
use a timer
he:
strokes the upper left had quandrant of
her clitoris,
or whatever part has the most zing
and she
does nothing but receive
it's not the ocean
it's not the starry night
it's not a 400 year old redwood,
but it's a secret door to that world
a 15 minute door
not to be missed
try it
(and what about the indigenous people:
down to 4% of original numbers
the same as old growth trees,
down to 4% of original land area:
there is a wild world,
almost exstinguished
and it needs to be saved
and we need to save the
wild world in ourselves
the practice above
OMing,
starts to roll back the rolling back
try it and
see/
actually:
try it and realize
and feel
and sense life make sense
below all the words,
which is exactly where redwoods and oceans and flower live
and real love, too
which is the same topic
and more)
good
her former husband
the tug of love underneath yanking
and not connecting
died for her
died with her
teased and refused to be helped
so he would die
in her arms
in her heart
he loved her so much
and forgot
and they both didn't know how
to re tie the tie that didn't bind
and he died of a broken heart
not really
he died of a heart free,
free to give her the freedom to love
every moment because it is
not yet death
and when that comes
it's one more moment to love
and maybe she'll teach that
or maybe she'll just teach that you
are always married to the one you
love
and why waste a minute moment second
forgetting it,
even if you aren't together
the love is there
the child is there
the poems are there
Gilgamesh
that used to be recited by Gurdjieff's father,
from memory, passed down for generations,
before the scrolls were discovered
that poems says:
it can be rough
and the rough is life
and it stirs
no matter how fucking hard
that's life
and the child lives
and the love lives
and this moment lives
and this poem isn't good enough
for how beautiful she was
and that's good enough, too
it's all love,
all love
all love
