Kabir Kadre
Kabir Kadre
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Drum, drum, drum…

Kabir Kadre|3 months, 9 days ago

Drum, drum, drum, goes the beat of time and space against my flesh and little mind. Drum, drum, drum, the dreams unsettled, sleep fragile…

Drum, drum, drum goes the wonder. What to share? What to persevere in silence? When and how to ask for help? Where the place for prayer and heart surrender? Drum, drum, drum…

It’s a bit past 11 now, I’ve done time healing wounds, enjoyed some oatmeal in the garden with a cup of coffee and coconut milk in conversation with Faith, just encouraging the exquisiteness and breadth of her offerings to the world.

After enjoying the butterflies both within and without the garden we directed our attention to the quarterly pond filter maintenance project and I pointed out a few things, locations, switches, tools, and we moved inside to find the manuals and videos.

Faith is an incredible expression of discipline and hard work and once the instructional videos began to roll, a wave of ease and clarity wash over her, wetting the room with certainty and concentration.

Smiling, I turned my attention to the office, sorted the morning email and correspondence, and turned my attention here to this drum, drum, drum of the story…

I woke with an uneasy mind today. I really am walking forward right now on paths stones of faith. In so many ways and so very personally, there is very little substance visible to hold me up in this journey, time of viability is measured in mere months at the most, and even those practicalities entail great sacrifice of opportunity with little to no increased certainty of reward.

I think about this journal sometimes, and the loved ones who read it. Always, and so distinctly in this collective time of fragility, I wish to nourish and strengthen the souls and hearts of those I might touch. That weighs most heavily on me when my own frailties or inequities threatened to weigh on the hearts of others.

I’m deciding I think this morning to take a buyer beware approach to these journals. I can account for my own heart, it’s surrender and determination towards love in the world, my own sense of commitment to build and offer and engage and share what I can in each moment.

That I think is really the greatest source of uneasiness is a sense of letting down those that love me by stumbling and offering less in that weakness. Often times the story read in words describing a lack of funds, a lack of care, a fracture in health, a friendship broken, can lend a sense of catastrophe, and yet…

It’s a perfect blue sky today, the one third stenciled moon in white lace resting high overhead. The temperature, 80° with a gentle breeze. Green trees, birds, wind chimes chanting their mantra of song, the little rubber mallet, drum, drum, drum.

Lydia will come to interview later today around one, and the nurse just for regular check ins at 2 PM. Otherwise I will be turning my attention to the MettaCare manual project lovingly titled, Pathway Map.

In conversation yesterday evening, Faith reflected for me the course of my own life and how from a certain perspective I have been right up against the question of how can we care more fully as individuals, as families, as communities, and as a species. This further contextualized the work I am doing today.

It feels like drum, drum, drum and yet I return always to the idea, to the recognition, of how much goes uncared for and unloved on this relative plane of ours.

There is spoken of a point of self-realization wherein one’s self and all of manifest reality is seen for its divine perfection. Within this realization it is said comes also the longing to help all beings awaken to this, their true nature as sublime brushstrokes in the divine perfection.

I trust in this tale and work to open my eyes to see this great beauty. Until that realization dawns however, I find that however great my faith, however deep my gratitude, however full my love, when I remember for one moment that there is abuse, neglect, waste, poverty of any kind, my own great joy is tarnished, in fact wholly broken, shattered on the rocks of that truth. I welcome this.

I will retire now from this work of writing for the day, and begin to apply myself in other work. Perhaps these words serve something in me, in the world today, or in the future or perhaps not, such is the suffering in this discipline of commitment. I will attempt now to turn my attentions to matters more practical, intending nonetheless to nurture and bring through that as well some essence of the poetic in the process.


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