Push Hard


It’s not the dazzling voice that makes a singer. Or clever stories that make a writer. It’s having a dream and wanting to live it so greatly that one would rather move with it and “fail” than succeed in another realm. You so have what it takes,
The Universe

What’s your dream? Share it with others. Speak it. Live it. Be a yes for openings because each yes is a directional step creating momentum and experience toward our dreams.

We create our world every time we open our mouths. Pay attention to what you are we speaking for and what you are standing for. If you are not sure look around at the people and experiences surrounding you. Are they supporting who you are and what you are committed to? Surround yourselves with people who will help you reach your goals. Push hard and know that as long as you are in action you are moving in the direction you are speaking. It starts with a step.

You got this!

Your conversations expand

ImageHow do you talk about your partners to others? How about your friends? Your family? Do you talk about the things that don’t work about them or do you share the things you love about them? Do you ask them about their day? What they love about their life? Their hopes and dreams? Their fears? Do you hold them in your heart and listen them for their possibility or their failure? We expand others in our world to the degree of our speaking. Go ahead and speak someone some possibility. It’ll change their life…and yours.

An Early Morning Cafe’

An Early Morning Cafe’

At the summit of the Trade Center
107 stories into urban ether
the Windows of the World Cafe
served pate’ and poached salmon
to diners staring down
into the caverns of Manhattan,
but early in the September morning,
the sommelier and maitre d’
still asleep in their far-away flats,
only the sous-chef and banquet staff
had arrived to peel the shrimp,
trim the artichokes, and wash
the leaves of the escarole.
Simple work in silence with your mates
in an empty early morning cafe’
is a pleasure: jokes, mild complaining,
a hummed tune or two,
sneaking a cigarette in a quiet alcove,
stories of luck in last night’s poker,
when suddenly a berserk machine
decides to murder a building with fire.
Like a badly shot elephant,
the hundred and six stories holding up
your peeling knife and lettuce drier
wobbled and shook for a little while.
Smoke belched out from blown-out eye sockets
but when the flames began melting the bones,
it all tumbled down on top of itself in
a smoking gray heap, the shrimp,
the artichokes, the escarole, fifty thousand
bottles of elegant wine, joining
in a sticky red downpour:
type A, type O, Chateau Lafitte, Rothschild.
Pouilly Fuisse ’79, type AB ’49,
and you yourself unless you leapt
out one of the windows of the world
to try with your imaginary wings
to finish the flight to the city of angels.
Humans so riddled with hate they transmogrified
from men to bombs to smash the girders
under your cafe’, though they’d never met you at all,
to murder you for the glory of God
with your apron still smeared with shrimp guts.
It was always thus. Try killing an abstraction
by murdering a building from the air,
but all you kill is Bob and Edna
and Sallie and Rodrigo and Mei-Mei.
A building is only a set of artificial legs
to hold up human beings in the air,
and an airplane only a sheet of folded paper.
But 50,000 bottles of good wine
and ten gallons of fresh gulf shrimp,
and Bob and Edna and all the rest.
Now that is something real!
If you think you’ve bagged the one truth
and that truth wants final sacrifice,
then you have stepped outside the human race,
and your plane will not land in heaven
wherever you think it might be.
Heaven in an early morning cafe’.
Wherever you are.

Bill Holm Playing the Black Piano
© Milkweed Press, 2004

The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

“He told Yogi Krishnan of his hunger for wealth and obsession with work. He revealed, with great emotion, his inner turmoil and the crisis of spirit he had experienced when the once bright light of his life began to flicker in the winds of an out-of-balance lifestyle.”

“I too have walked this path,my friend. I too have felt the pain you have felt. Yet I have learned that everything happens for a reason, ” offered Yogi Krishnan sympathetically. “Every event has a purpose and every setback its lesson. I have realized that failure, whether of the personal , professional or even spiritual kind, is essential to personal expansion. It brings inner growth and a whole host of psychic rewards. Never regret your past. Rather, embrace it as the teacher that it is.”   -excerpt from “The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari” by Robin Sharma

and what about death PART II (which is REALLY pre-Part I)

……and here is where it all started. From the book “The Art of Racing in the Rain” by Garth Stein. This excerpt from Enzo, the dog, after getting hit by a car while crossing a street.

“He died that day because his body had served its purpose. His soul had done what it came to do, learned what it came to learn, and then was free to leave. And I knew, as Denny sped me toward the doctor who would fix me, that if I had already accomplished what I set out to accomplish here on earth, if I had already learned what I was meant to learn, I would have been killed instantly by that car.

But I was not killed. Because I was not finished. I still had work to do.”

and what about death? (Part I)

I’ve been studying metaphysics for quite some time. I love it when I come across a book, so profoundly simple in it’s explanation of life and death. We humans like to make things so hard for ourselves. Perhaps that’s the necessary path to discover ourselves for ourselves–it is in fact–or it wouldn’t be our experience. Through death there is life, and life, whether we acknowledge it or not, is a series of events and experiences along the way to our own inevitable deaths. This invitation hanging out there for each of us. Looming like a one way ticket to an undisclosed location. We can look away for a time, deny and distract, but eventually we are face to face, looking it in the eye.

I used to be afraid of hospitals. The stale smell of them, the idea of them, the pain and uncertainty that creeps through the hallways. The smell of death crawling out of the rooms where vacant stares gripped my guts and reminded me that I too could be those eyes staring from the bed, pleading for someone to take me out to anywhere….anywhere but there.

I successfully avoided hospitals, never a stitch or broken arm as a kid to pull me there, until my best friend (and I by her side), at 25 years of age, spent a week in a coma there before dying. I was no longer a hospital…or death… virgin. Soon after, I watched many friends die from AIDS over the next several years, and a hospital was a common place to be. Watching your friends die in their 20’s and 30’s has a profound effect on how you perceive death—and life. I am no longer afraid of it. In fact, I am more afraid of life at times truth be told.

And as I experience more deaths as I live life and meet people along my way, I see more and more how small we really are in the all of it. The universe is a wide wonder, all of us making up the whole like drops of water in an ocean, and I am no longer full of myself. I am the I that is WE, nothing more, nothing less. I enjoy the sunshine on my face like the flower that stretches to the sky, taking no thought in it’s existence. Joining in wonderful manifestation of Being…..delighting in the Uni-verse–the explosion of life that creates itself everyday, regardless the human things we do to twart it.

NEXT POST: An excerpt regarding death from the book The Art of Racing in the Rain” by Garth Stein.