VERONICA LEE

Meditation.
Morning.
Monday.

Open.
Wide.
Centered.

Tinnitus.
My right ear.
Drawing my attention.
In the quietude.

What do I need to hear?
Where am I not listening?

Meditation moves to mantra.
"I listen.
I hear what needs to be heard.
I listen deeply, with clarity."

Meditation.
Mind. 
Me.

I offer myself focus.
Or is this a distraction?
A need to keep the monkey mind busy?
No matter.

The ringing in the right.
The pulsating tiredness.
The dullness of eyelids.
Closed.

Meditation.
Meeting.
Moments.

My body breathing itself.
Easeful and present.
Barely discernible.
I want to stay here.
Allow for the stillness.
The beauty of being.

Meditation.
Meditation.
Meditation.

I've carved out an hour of permission.
A half hour of meditation.
A half hour for writing.
Interestingly, I find the writing the harder of the two today.
I want to return.

Meditation.
Mindfulness.
Mesmerizing.

A practice of freedom.
Yet with the sweetness of discipline.
Encompassing it all.
My body continues to breathe itself.
My spine enjoys its erectness.
Each pause.
I close my eyes to fall back into the silence.

Meditation.
Meaning.
Mysticism.

The pause.
The breath.
The listening despite the tinnitus.

What wants to be written?
What are the exact words?

I still the channel.
To feel.
To listen.
To understand.
Clarify and write.

Monday.
Morning.
Meditation.

Aligning the cosmos with my soul.
And making room for a few written words.

Right there. 
A spot at the top
of my crown. 
An ache.
The focus of a headache
and my full attention.
It melts slowly over my eyes,
to the outside edges,
that burn with forgotten tears.
Tears that can release
at a single thought.
Or maybe a flood of
thoughts that feel like one;
a collage of memories on 
a page of what was.

I was never a past-dweller,
but what was lingers 
all around me. Boxes of
semi-sorted photos,
arts and crafts the children
made, your half of our bed.

I rarely stretch to your side.
Who wants to get comfortable
with all that space?
Who wants to claim the center
as if it were wonderful and
permanent?

The girls are gone now.
Our babies, only 17 when 
you died, just turned 21.
In their own apartment.
Far too far for me to hop in
the car to see them, 
even without the clutching 
anxiety that now hovers 
when I drive to wherever feels
like "too far from home."

From this couch, where my
body is anchored and my 
headache throbs, everything 
feels like "too far from home."

I reach for my warm tea, 
the hint of sweetness streams
across my tongue in hopes
of soothing my soul.
It's here to remind me of the
sweet simplicity of a quiet
spring morning, perhaps to
soften the ache in my head.

It's a new day and, like time, 
it's merely an assistant to
what may form, to my body,
to memories.
And I meet myself at the 
crossroads of headache, 
memories and warm tea. 

Hold still.
You are holding
space for you.
Opening your heart;
your being.

In the stillness of opening
you are free.
Allow the freedom.
Allow the space.
Let got of any and
all expectation.
The space is enough...
not to be filled;
simply allowed.

No need to examine
the experience.
In examination, you
become an active energy 
in that space.

Soften. Rest.
Breathe and soften more.
Allow and soften.
Allow for emptiness
and clarity.
Sweep away thought
and expectation.

I see you.
Let me share what arises.
Holding space, with hearts open.
I am not looking for flaws.
Just listening, paying attention
to the patterns, sensations,
directions and words offered
to me by your soul.

You've asked, now I seek.
A scan, a witnessing,
remaining as neutral - yet as 
loving - as possible.
Then I translate it, as best
as I can, to words.

Feelings, beliefs, wounds and
transformations find their
way to my voice, pouring
over you with reverence.

That wound of yours?
Yes, it may be holding you
back, blocking you from your
full expression, but its
intention was to protect - 
preserve - your gifts.
Your open, loving heart that
needed a shield, keeping you
safe from harshness and blame.
Your foggy claircognizance, 
once sharp and attentive,
giving you some distance 
from knowing too much.

I see and speak to the 
whole of it - of you - trusting
in your remembrance of
your wholeness, your holiness.
With gentle awareness,
I reflect back to you that
which you already know,
but may have tucked away 
for some kind of safety.

It is okay to allow for witnessing,
to see your reflection
and observe what may not be
so easy to see without a mirror.
We all need mirrors.
Clean ones, ideally.

My work is not to heal or
fix or make you anything 
that you are not.
My work is to see you 
so clearly and lovingly
that it makes it safe to be
seen and accepted
just as you are.

And by recognizing those
gifts and the textured shields
that have obscured them
for preservation, I trust
that you will dissolve 
whatever you no longer need.
That you will rekindle your
own trust in all that you 
already are.
That you will reconnect
with your truth, your power
and your joy.

My intention is to hold space
for you to remember your
inherent worthiness and 
align with who you have 
come here to be.

There's no-thing I want you to know.
I simply am.
If I desire you knowing me
it comes as a longing.
A longing of acceptance
because something in me
doesn't fully accept myself.

Yes, I am my truth.
What I express, do, am
are all aspects of truth.
Even when I lie to myself.
How can it not be?

In no way can I not be truly me.
All the layers, the clouds,
the stories, the games - 
they are all aspects of
my truth, however
muddled or subtle.

I need not justify me.
I spend way too much time
in longing for different
or acceptance.
The either-or of
wanting peace.
Inner acceptance, outer change.
Inner change, outer acceptance.
Both battle for my will, my focus.
Both true and untrue.

There is no-thing I want you to know.
I'm tired of knowing.
The mind gets so fixated on its 
belief that it could ever truly 
know anything.
In fear of not-knowing, it seeks.
Grasps. Devouring so-called
facts, information and even wisdom.
But how can wisdom be harnessed?

Like me, isn't its truth ever-present
as Is, ever-changing from Is Not?
With Not being some kind of illusion?

There is no-thing I want you to know.
Or maybe I do want you to know no-thing.
It's the no-thing that is the closest
that my tiny semblance of wisdom 
knows as truth.

The empty. Ungraspable.

I revere that.
And in some way I trust 
that I am that.
And then no-thing allowed for something.
A perception, maybe.
And all these perceptions 
poured in, became multi-faceted
and real.
Creating me.
And then I longed.
Longed to be touched,
to be loved, to be seen,
to be known.
Because I believed I was -
I am - something.

And that something longed
for validation to make
itself more real than no-thing.
In fact, feared no-thing,
feared its own emptiness.
Always wanting something,

So, in truth, I affirm:
There is no-thing I want you to know.