This has been said again and again, down through the ages. All the religious people have been saying this: "We come alone into this world, we go alone." All togetherness is illusory. The very idea of togetherness arises because we are alone, and the aloneness hurts. We want to drown our aloneness in relationship.... That's why we become so much involved in love. Try to see the point. Ordinarily you think you have fallen in love with a woman or with a man because she is beautiful, he is beautiful. That is not the truth. The truth is just the opposite: you have fallen in love because you cannot be alone. You were going to fall. You were going to avoid yourself somehow or other. And there are people who don't fall in love with women or men--then they fall in love with money. They start moving into money or into a power trip, they become politicians. That too is avoiding your aloneness. If you watch man, if you watch yourself deeply, you will be surprised--all your activities can be reduced to one single source. The source is that you are afraid of your aloneness. Everything else is just an excuse. The real cause is that you find yourself very alone.
Osho Take it Easy, Volume 2 Chapter 1
Commentary:
Some enchanted evening you're going to meet your soulmate, the perfect person who will meet all your needs and fulfill all your dreams. Right? Wrong! This fantasy that songwriters and poets are so fond of perpetuating has its roots in memories of the womb, where we were so secure and "at one" with our mothers; it's no wonder we have hankered to return to that place all our lives. But, to put it quite brutally, it is a childish dream. And it's amazing we hang on to it so stubbornly in the face of reality. Nobody, whether it's your current mate or some dreamed-of partner in the future, has any obligation to deliver your happiness on a platter--nor could they even if they wanted to. Real love comes not from trying to solve our neediness by depending on another, but by developing our own inner richness and maturity. Then we have so much love to give that we naturally draw lovers towards us.
It's morning as my eyes greet the first dim light of day. My mind slowly makes it's way from the fog of the previous night's stasis, to a level of just enough conscience thought in order to find my way into the shower so that I may begin my day ah new. But the thought of what this day is requires no introduction to this morn. For indeed I've been waiting a near eternity for this particular morning to begin. As I rise to my feet I stretch long and slow as muscles begin to come to life. Perhaps not with the ease they once did when my body was that of a younger man, but to life they come none the less. To the shower I go to help this process along. For today I will need all these muscles working for me, because today is a special day.
The hot steaming water feels good as it spreads all over my body, chasing the soap bubbles across my skin and down the drain, along with the lethargic state of mind I normally find myself in this time of day. I can feel the steam caressing through my sinuses, clearing my head and bringing my thoughts to life one by one. But there is only one main thought on my mind this morn. So the shower will have to come to an end just a little sooner once it has done it's job in awaking my remaining muscles. On the bathroom counter my cloths await me, just where I staged them the previous night in preparation for today. Black T-shirt, blue jeans, warm socks, all required attire for the day's activity.
Into the kitchen I follow my nose to the smell of fresh coffee. I pour my first cup and watch the amber liquid flow smoothly into the waiting ceramic. As it cools, the steam circles upward, quietly dissipating in the morning light, while I prepare the rest of my attire for the day. To the closet I go, where my winter coat is kept. But the coat will stay this day, my target this morning is on the top shelf. After retrieving them from where they have been carefully stored, I unrole the brown leather chaps that have been so patiently waiting these long winter months. Next, my helmet joins the trio, inside the gloves that are, like the rest, an intricate necessity. They will not only warm and protect my hands from the cold nip of the wind, but also will protect against the sudden impact of an insect. After a draw on my cup of jo, the taste of which no morning would be complete without, I sit in my chair to pull on the boots that have been patiently waiting with the rest of my leather on sombo. A little stiff from a winter of sitting in the closet, but that will soon pass. Once in the garage, I roll open the door and push 700 pounds of Milwaukee iron, highlighted with generous amounts of chrome, all of which glisten like the crown jewels themselves, into the driveway. Once in the open, I check my fuel level, tire pressure, and an assortment of other necessary items prior to bringing my sleeping old friend to life once again. Satisfied that all is well, I turn the petcock to "On," and the tank switch to "Ignition." With that, an assortment of lights tell me all is well. Once the final light extinguishes letting me know the machine has finished it's own checks and is ready as well, I depress the start button and feel my heart race and my blood surge while eighty-eight cubic inches of V-twin roars to life. Music in perfect harmony, s$x on two wheels, I love this sound best of all.
Back in the house to get ready, I find the leather that I have previously neatly laid out on the couch, and begin to don my riding attire. The leather chaps to protect my legs from rocks an insects impacting at 70 plus miles per hour. A hooded sweat shirt for warmth, since winter has not yet fully let go it's grip on the land. Over that, my brown leather jacket, together all feeling as though I was wearing them but yesterday. I return outside to my purring steed, now completely awakened and ready for the journey. On goes my helmet, which after 30 years of riding I've had good reason to always include as a necessity stemming from both my own experiences, and those of others. Some of which ride with me now in spirit alone...
One leg over the saddle, both hands on the grips, I settle into a custom fit all my own. After adjusting my mirrors for optimal viewing, with a gloved hand I pull in the clutch. A gentle nudge with my left toe, and the re-assuring "click" tells me we are ready. With a little finesse back out goes the clutch, and with a corresponding twist of the throttle, we're in motion my steed and I. Through city streets it's a gentle cruise, it's Saturday and the little town has not yet reason to be up and about just yet, so remains in slumber. Once to the highway, and after looking up and down the visible stretch of blacktop, I'm satisfied the road is all mine. With a crack of the throttle, a gentle lean to the right, and five short gears later, my sled and I are once again together in the wind!
Under me the purr of power caresses my entire body, starting with my thighs and arse. I watch as the sun just begins to peak over the distant mountains looking onto the highway to see a lone motorcycle cruising it's length. The land around me comes to life as I pass, a Red-Tailed hawk flies low over a field hunting it's breakfast as I pass by, seemingly unshaken by the sound of my pipes. The brisk morning air breaks over my body, invigorating my senses. The smell of the land filling my nostrils as it swirls within my helmet. I've waited all winter for this moment! Yes, the first ride of the season has begun...
buggerbender write:
Sorry for the length on that last one. Given the time of year, I thought it might fit in with how allot of my fellow bikers are feeling about now.
I just received this via email from a friend and it seemed to hit the mark with allot of the individual philosophies on this site, myself included. With that thought in mind, I thought I would share it with you all. I have no idea who wrote it, or when.
_____________________________________________ __________________________
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning... to the end.
He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years. (1934 - 1998)
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars... the house... the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged;
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile,
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash,
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
some of us aren't quite lucky enough to have such eloquence of word as yourself. i have a deep respect for that.
Perhaps not everyone, but after all isn't art a form of self expression? And writing is art. I've always believed that written expression, and the ability to put down on paper feelings, and emotions so that others can feel pain, sorrow, happiness, and quiet reflection is an art unto itself. Eloquence of style is uniquely individual to each and every writer, as are the brush strokes of each and every painter. A writer paints a picture within the minds of those who experience the words, while conveying emotions to the reader, similar to a painter's picture. Your words clearly come from the heart, and easily paint a picture of emotion, and quiet reflection. So grant me this one favor if you would be so kind. Never put down your pen, as I'm certain it still contains within it many more words all very eloquently arranged in order to paint many more pictures within the minds eye.
Steps, always steps. Here, there, everywhere steps! Is not life nothing more than simply yet another row of steps to which we all must climb? Some climb higher than others, while still yet others find ways to side-step life's pre-ordained little steps. There are those that have been accused of cheating fate by somehow being able to stay one step ahead of the game as it were. I suppose its sometimes good to simply face up to ones deepest fears and step up to the plate. While serving in the military I was forever being told I was out of step. I suppose I have always been one to step to the beat of a different drum...
Goodness, will you look at the time! I must step lively least I get stepped upon! So if you'll please pardon my sudden rudeness, I must be stepping out...
Look upon me for I am the night
Gaze unto my endless sky filled with countless shards of light
Stand in wonderment of my vastness, for I am older than time itself,
And I am limitless in my bounds
I am infinity itself
I am both poetry in motion, and contemplation in silence
I am death, and I am life,
I hold many secrets, yet I share many wonders
My movement is irrelevant, my motion but a blur, or a painting frozen in place
Look deep into my eyes and view creation itself
I was your mother, I will be your reaper
I judge not, I simply "do"
I am the night, as I am the day.
Your loyalty matters not to me, I have no need of followers
I was hear when you emerged from dust,
I will see you return to dust
Gaze unto me whilst you ponder your own destiny,
For I am the night...
The purr of machine beneath me,
the gathering roar of the wind before me.
I push in the clutch, pull back the stick, and I'm off to yet another level of self awareness, and a deeper essence of being..
Round a corner, then another, brake, swing, dive, accelerate, again, again, again!
My heart races faster, I feel the energy building inside, my thoughts begin to flash like lightning in a summer storm, ever building, ever faster.
We are one, we feel one another's mood, sharing the emotion of the moment.
Striate away, another gear, another level! Faster still!
Ours is a symbiotic relationship of man and machine in its purist form.
What ever it was that was clouding my thoughts, or making me angry before seems to steadily be disappearing in my rear view mirror, far behind me in my wake.
My machine and I, for this moment, we are one...
Step aside mortals, for we were both made for this moment!
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."
It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
All out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man -- one man -- can't keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It's thus he does it of a winter night.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say -
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one figure touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
She was just too young to be a mom.
I love her, hate her, want her at my prom.
And even though I'm all grown up and in this life embark,
I'm just a little boy inside who's still afraid of the dark.
Mom was just a kid when I was born.
Sweet 15 and not a bit worn.
No books for me, no bedtime story,
Just tales of monsters, bloody and gory.
I should've been held, should've been warm,
But was filled with fear, one that had no form.
She said they waited and watched from inside the walls
For bad little boys who for mommy calls.
Mom spent more time with her friends than me.
I heard words like pot, drugs and long island iced tea.
When I was four I went to live with my dad
And didn't get to see mom which made me sad.
When I was six I got to go on a plane
To see my mom for short trip to more pain.
She was on drugs again and I almost drowned
So grandpa took me back to my dad's home town.
I'm 15 now and doing fine,
Into sports and having a great time.
A girlfriend who's so sweet and not at all high strung,
We don't want to be teen parents, no not too young.
She was just too young to be a mom.
I love her, hate her, want her at my prom.
And even though I'm all grown up and in this life embark,
I'm just a lttle boy inside who's still afraid of the dark.
