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What is the source of the circumstances of my life?

What percentage is based on my decisions and character verses the sea of challenges I swim in as a component of being alive?

Nature, environment, decisions, intent, … the list of potential driving forces is long. Or is it? Could it be that I am more in control of myself and the world around me than I give myself credit? Perhaps the culprit is me?

I propose that the produce of my intention is the driving force of my life. We swim in a sea of challenges not directly caused by us but which can interject themselves into our existence because we are within the sea (tidal and contamination issues) or our present location brings us into intersection (relative location issues) with them. But these situations and challenges are not the driving force of who I am. My intention defines me and the depth of my hearts desires create the world around me.

Finding the door to one’s thoughts

The greatest of struggles is always how to communicate what is very obvious to me to someone outside my frame of mind. The doorways of access are hard to develop since there is a large, maybe unmanagable, risk to the soft underbelly of my ego. I have one you know. One that seems to draw a sense of comfort from the safty of distance. The protagonist of my life.


In a dream I built a road from my life to
A road to bring you to me.
I paved it with white gold and hibiscus
And I made a moon to light your way.
In a dream you came to me,
Hours of warm, starlit pleasures.
I called you to me with open arms and wide
And I spoke your name so you would
But morning came like each tomorrow,
And once again you were gone.
There was no chill or sadness left
Just a calm and cloudless warming

Morning Song



White silken drapes dancing, following a breezes lead

Reaching out inviting with flicking glances

Thin orange fingers of light skipping across brown tile

Birds speaking farewells to dark shadows

Morning awakes slowly like a cool mist


Safe within the arms of a familiar friend

Surrounded by the warmth of two bodies

Listening to rain drops on windowpanes

Red and ruddy faces aglow

Evening fades reluctantly


Candles searching for their last flicker

Wine glasses standing guard, untouched

Lips still pressed against velvet flesh

Passion’s trusting sanctuary

Moment eternal

Desert Rain

 The man moved with slow deliberate steps born of many walks under heavy loads. A good man as some in the small settlement would say.

“One who knows his duty and does it without complaint,” the old widow was always saying. For Jamil was often her source of food and shelter.

“Jamil is wise in the old ways,” Shem the baker would say as he slapped and pounded the grayish brown mass before him. “He knows what must be done,” he would add between blows.

This day the man’s steps are even more deliberate, more purposeful as he wound his way across the fields, like a singular ship moving in a brown sea.

“It is a good day,” he thought as the gentle evening breeze brought a refreshing touch of the coming rain. The rain was needed for the land.

The land before him stood unchanged and unchangeable. It was a dry and arid land that drank the rain in thirsty gulps always asking for more.

“The harvest will suffer if you delay any longer old friend,” the man said. Calling as his father and his father’s father before him. Speaking to the wind for mercy. Down through countless generations, a precession lost in memory. Father to son it had been taught and each had made this journey to the rain mound.

The mound now stood before him in the fading light. A seemingly nondescript outcropping of stone. Weathered by the years. Sculptured by the hand of fate and the ever-present sandy blast of the wind.

Jamil climbed the familiar path upward toward the outcropping. Only his hands exposed to the night. Bony fingers extending from a massive hand to bush away the thick thorny underbrush. Muscular hands scarred by the battle for harvest. Hands that still betrayed the strength and vigor that remained from his youth.

“Now is the time old friend,” Jamil’s voice sang to the wind. With a simple purposeful motion, he drew the hood of his cloak from his head revealing a black mass of hair covered with fingers of frosty gray.

Deep from within the man a voice rang out, clear as the night sky.