A Sense of Humor Doesn’t Age

It’s a thing you only gently notice in your twenties, but by the time your thirties come around and you see your first few gray hairs, in places you would rather them not be, you are sure of it, “Yup, I’m aging.” Though this fact has been true the moment your cells began dividing in your mother’s womb, something about seeing the wrinkles slowly appear, and your patience for certain things slowly disappear, solidifies this one fact: this body will not live forever. It can be a challenge to love something that you feel is betraying you through the inevitable passing of time, that we often see as an enemy, instead of a most cherished friend. Though, a gift these beautiful loaned bodies shall remain. From within them we declare so loudly what we don’t have time for, in hope for some reflection’s echo of agreement that makes us feel a little less alone in our defiance, the fear of embracing our death, on the horizon of a child’s eyes. In the last moments, the truth is, we have time even for the most annoying thing.

But who wants to grow hair out the ears!? I mean seriously. And where does the long nose hair really end. Why must speech slow down like knees? And why do I need glasses now? For the longest while I just thought, you know, “something was in my eye.” You want to know what was in my eye, a prescription, but I couldn’t read it. Life is one big catch 22, and rightfully so, it is how it makes you reach for and remember community, the people you age with and need. This knowing that 100 years from now, none of us will be here, makes you search for others that “get it” the older you get. What to do with this feeling of having a longer story than the younger ones want to listen to? Cherished eternal elder of elders, can you teach me?

In April of this year, our EIC community lost a very special soul that “got it,” and though suffering through each stage of cancer as we painfully watched, she made time to share long stories, and she made time to laugh full and deep. Sometimes all we would have to do is look at each other, and the comedy of whatever the situation was, was instantly communicated. And isn’t that what community is, that someone once a stranger, can become long lost family you can share wordless laughter and love with. That though temporary, life gives us these gems of memory to hold on to, these reasons to enjoy each breath we take. Reasons to reconnect with those we’ve stayed away from for far too long. It is as if we like to pretend that we are in these incarnations forever, and that delicious delusion, eases the gentle prick of each seconds permanent passing. We know we are leaving. We must make the time to see each other.

Blessed are those who notice the moments when time slows down for a window of miracle to be made manifest. Being allowed to say goodbye at the right moment, is a miracle. As she lay on her death bed, we sang a healing icaro together in the hospital one last time, we laughed together, the final laugh, the laugh that hides tears, but is still so sweet. I kissed her gently on her head, and whispered I love you in her ear. As I looked back one last time before heading to the airport to catch my flight back to Peru, I knew it was my last time seeing my friend alive. From that moment I have learned a few things, humor can never have a terminal illness, and like the beautiful soul light of my dear friend, mother to our medicine circles, a sense of humor doesn’t die.

This post was written in loving memory of Karina Rivera. Thank you for becoming a guardian, a guiding spirit, an ancestor. Thank you for being a most wonderful friend. The soothing sound of your joyous laughter, fills my heart today.

With Love,
Kevon

Womankind 

josephine_child_of_the_universe_42937-1600x1200

Scrambling to find the maps hidden in medicine songs we sing in tongues unfamiliar. Earth quaking beneath feat, as if history wants to shake lose the lost notion of itself. Something buried wants to be remembered by us all, and screams through the rumbling, the crumbling of all that seemed so permanent. Firmament sparkling dew drops so few, yet in each one my face a reflection of you. A point on Indra’s Web trying to learn how to read the wind again, a global back turned to spirit fueling hurricaned ends. Canned goods and donations that won’t ever make it to every starving hand, and the band plays a beat to an old familiar tune, until all hears the music of love’s everlasting boon.
Speakers more portable than hearts, and violence more aimed than darts. Landfills filled with more food than carts, and the disenfranchised everywhere homeless in every single part.

And we hurry to remember how to read the sky, before all the generations of lessons slowly fade and fly, as if to some secret place that can no longer be reached, except by rubber bullets, war, and teeth. Peace we say peace, humanity has yet to learn, it seems we have more power than any of us earned. To turn an ecosystem swiftly against itself, we’ve pickeled hearts in jars and put them up on the shelf, so that we may know the contents of blood from microscopic view, and still be left in wondrous awe knowing not what connects me to you.

Can you please play the music that comforts unspeakable woe, wire case ancient reminders to rekindle conscious flow, cosmic net catching light from galactic edge, trimming and expanding mind to make perfectly shaped hedge, but not like foodless and fruitless lawns all across the world, but the kind that kisses vanity until its confusion untwirls, from every single third eye covered so deep in bind, so that where it sees a cage becomes seed of limitless mind.

And how is it that tomorrow still comes when hope is all but gone, and where does forbearance come from when one fiber short of strong, and who can we count on when the walk is just too long, and who orchestrated such beauty played on my inner ear as song.

Something so unspeakable, but see here she shines, it’s the arrival of the Divine Feminine to free womankind.

Midwife of Secrets

Words are written
all the way inside
on the back corner
of my heart.

It’s not even,
off-balance it is,
not written,
to confuse you.

You will wonder
just why it was carved
that particular way
on such ageless stone.

Far enough in
each comes to see
where I run out of paper
becomes the beating

of another’s barren cave.
The birth of a new poem.
Write it.

Kevon Simpson 2017 ©

Creamsicle

Orange has new meaning these days
tears that melt off of detained faces
they are not crying, they are changing states
a piece of the dream is moving across borders
from solid to liquid like science class
its just chemistry and math
you know
Nothing racist or personal,
and “we are all one anyway”
they say this loudly
in a way that makes them
forget the eyes of that child
The one who said
“I swear to God we have nothing to eat.”

Kevon Simpson 2017 ©

Thank You HIV

Can you say it with me? “Thank you H.I.V” It’s a tough one I know. For now I can only say it with the emotions in my heart, on the tip of overflow. For now, saying that doesn’t make complete sense. It’s so much easier to just be angry – to fall into the vibration of the victim. People have asked me, or implied, “Have you come to terms with the dangerous things you did to catch it?” Without knowing anything about my life. What did I do? Enjoy a body I was meant to enjoy, while looking for love in all the wrong places? Has no one else ever done that? Do you really think it is your perfect behavior that protects you? We will all, age, get sick, and die. That is life. This is just my version of life, in this body, and part of the reason why I have this virus, is because I can get others to understand the weight of it with the use of my words. For there are many with it, who can not communicate it THIS way.
 
See my strength as I walk with this, and pull from it the strength you need to make it through your tough spots as well. I promise, I don’t mean to giggle at some of the problems people come to me with. All hearts hurt the same. It is about rising above the blame. It is about deciding to shift out of the vibration that kills your will to survive. During my dietas at Spiritual Dimensions in Padrecocha, Iquitos, Peru, the most difficult part of my process was seeing the soul contract I have with this virus. In some sessions I was able to see the cellular structure of it with Ayahuasca, how it operates in the physical body and shifts the emotions. In another session, in a plane of love, light, and messages from beyond duality, beyond ideas of good or bad, I saw the dance of the virus and my soul before taking this body. I am still trying to make sense of it. Hard as it is to accept at times, this is in divine order.
 
And so I say Thank You H.I.V for helping give me an experience of a lifetime, for without you being in my blood the dream of a lifetime would not have existed, because my other struggles were not enough to make my people want to help on that level. Not the homelessness, not the skin, not the sexuality, not the posts almost everyday despite it all, not almost getting killed in my own home two years ago, and certainly not the suicidal thoughts in the weight of it all. Do you really think that I am always smiling?
 
So thank you H.I.V for snapping the compassion out of the heart of my community so deeply. So that I can stand in all that I am, and for the first time in life, not feel the energy of jealousy or envy being sent my way in waves. These abilities, these gifts, this light, is the only way I can carry these burdens – yes plural – and make you really believe I am walking on privileged lucky air. No one looks at me like “Why does he have so much?” anymore.
 
Indeed it is a relief.
 
#ayahuasca
#integration
#kevoninspires
#hiv

Morning Meditation Message 24

“Awakening is natural, delusion is not.”Pocket Buddha

To understand what is being said, we must first inspect our thought regarding what delusion is and how it manifests as subtle self defeating experiences in our lives. Subtle experiences that build up over time into an avalanche. The power of our perception is a live and breathing thing. In order for one to suppress a wound or feel the need to do so, a perceived negative interpretation of events has to take over both heart and mind over time. And so each time we successfully hide the pain from our conscious non-judgmental awareness, we give birth to the havoc delusion can create drop by drop. Face what is, be with what is, learn from what is, to grow beyond what is.

The challenge is remembering that by stepping into these 3 dimensional bodies, we at times allow ourselves to forget that awakening is a natural part of who we are and our experiences here. The fear of feeling, stifles growth on the multidimensional levels of ones being, and this is shown in the repeated experience of the nightmare, for not even in sleep can we find good rest should we decide to continue forgetting who we are.

You know, it’s a world full of people waiting for their lives to be perfect so they can finally be of service in some grand way, and as we await the rising of the already perfectness of what is – within the now moment – to make it through the doors of our perception, refugees, family, and friends, scream for help and many ignore it because having compassion and taking action requires touching the hidden wound inside oneself. It requires touching the pain we pretend is not there. It requires the melting of the “I have everything under control” persona. It requires the choice to turn off your own forgetting, and to welcome within your heart the choice to remember.

Believing that you have absolute control over everything in even your own life, is the ultimate delusion. Everything under control? So, what is it that is breathing when you forget? The naturalness of what you are; life awakening to itself.

Namaste.

Cuando Los Arboles Canta

Kaleidoscopic outpouring of truth sparkling jewel,
jingling a fine fixing fiery flow of forgotten fun,
reverse twist purged open to speak in parables not uttered,
in a quiet room beckoning deeper silence still,
though billing the moment the cost of the thrill.

Where dose a song go when it leaves?
Slipping, each blinked eye lid’s memory cleaves,
the midwife of melody vines her head from the trees,
but where does an icaro go when it leaves?
Mind like drum as quiet trapping snare,
how is it that we hear music beyond silent air?

We sense where she rests, and come to meet her again,
but where does melody go to be born and call herself friend?

Tu voz era una galaxia,
quando los arboles canta,
mi corazon canta,
no es una idea profundo,
es una idea mas facil.
Amor canta en todos las lenguas.
Tus sentimientos es musica de las estrellas.

Escucha.

-Kevon Simpson 2016©

Morning Meditation Message 16

We’ve forgotten how to be on top of one another, which was once an integral part of our survival as a species. We migrated with little room for sleep, everything we owned on our backs, and now we can’t even sit on the crowded train together. We have lost our way, traveled miles away from the truth. What is the truth? The fact that we need each other. The fact that you choose lonely and really want love is masochistic. Stop killing yourself. Love calls all the missing pieces, reminding each that it is important. The language is love, light, and sound. It is what you feel, what you see, and what you hear. A little noise is not going to hurt you, and a little touch is not going to hurt you. When was the last time you abruptly bumped into yourself and wanted to be with you – that sweet frightening beauty that you are? It is time to remember that you are one with it all. Stop being annoyed by the small things in the mess you have created of your own life. It is okay, we have all made a mess of our lives, and the planet. Together we remember, together we take action. Step one is to remember by waking up, step two is to clean, step three is to ask for help. Change the order if you must. The formula is non-linear. This is all happening too fast to cry. Too fast to cry. Too fast to cry.

Morning Meditation Message 13

This one is for the men, and the ideas we have about men that no longer inspire positive behavior. I am around women very often and I get to hear what they think about men – and what is not said, I get to see in the way that they treat us. Women have been hurt by men in countless ways, but the deep hate and bitterness some women feel towards men is counterproductive to creating true equality. Man and woman aside, seeking revenge, however subconscious the action may be, will always create the perpetuation of an undesired state of emotion and action. The circle of abuse begins to reinforce itself, with a lack of communication and forgiveness as its fuel. I have seen some amazing things, groups about how to deal with men, how to change ideas about men, with no men invited or involved. Here is how ridiculous that is. Men have done that in trying to understand women, and boy do we all know the outcome of that – we have understood even less about the beautiful beings that give birth to all of us.

I would suggest learning from the mistakes of men and doing something different, enough with this subtle “eye for an eye” way of doing things. Imagine a class that is all about oranges, how to bake with them, make juice with them, face cream with them, body wash with them – only the teacher never brings in any oranges. Does that make any sense? No. Why? Because the lessons unfold within the actual interaction with the very thing you are trying to learn, otherwise it is quite simply a limited observation, limited once again by each individuals perception that has been fed by their expectations or lack thereof. So, how is it that we are meeting to talk about having more understanding towards each other, while leaving the other out? What the other thinks, is vitally important. While I’m on the topic, in the same way that women don’t like to be objectified, it is not fair to do that to men. To sum us up to our genitals and to leave us to lift things, is not all that we are here for. Some women are so caught up in their pain that they can’t even recognize a good man when he shows up, because sometimes, the good man can’t even recognize his own self. Why? Because all around him since childhood are people who remind him of his expected ineptitude in clear ways. We are individuals, but we are also social, and we learn from each other even when we think that we aren’t. So if you hear your whole life “Men are dogs,” “Men are stupid and have no idea what they’re doing,” and all the other things that are said as a general categorization of all men – why then are women surprised at the bark and leave. Everyone is responsible for each other, and we are co-creating this world. We have to change the way we think about each other in order to see something truly different unfold. Step one, lets stop leaving each other out of the conversation. With less baggage, the plane of love flies higher.

Differences Spoken

1.
I find myself writing a spokenword piece
And calling myself a poet, but the reality is
All words are spoken, if only in the mind
Misfired and ejected no longer sustaining self
Shouting words to make someone else cry instead

Such fresh picked cruelty, fermented fruit
The intoxication makes it worth it some nights
When I see my younger self in another
Fingers trembling as icicles in the wind
Falling to crash, a sound, they will forget by morning

At times I would win the smoke and mirrors
Mitote reflections, the pages slaughtering shadow
Such blinding it must take to cast one so tall
There is something about the pressure
Of winning, that chokes creativity
My small and kind was almost killed

2.
“You talk like a girl,
Start acting like a boy!”

3.
Is this a world of not enough
Or are we just hardened
And bruised by the tough
That come to kill
All plush things
To crack the bill
And pluck the wings

4.
I continued walking with my friend
Have you ever been spit on from an overpass
For wearing clothes you liked to wear?

5.
He shot him so fast that we marched for peace
I can’t tell which is more tired, this action, or my heart
Cops don’t even have to leave their cars to die
These days, wearing the uniform is enough
Like wearing minority skin has always been.

6.
What a cruel point to make.

7.
Maybe this is all just one big funeral
For God, or the ideas of, that have failed
The idealist in me wants to believe
That poems are prayers that can save something
Certainly not the world, at least, it documents history
At best, it inspires action through tender love
In between hugging and kissing we toss a bucket on the fire
Far too much work to be done, for any one thing
To actually work.

8.
“Trust me man, if you spoke a bit louder, you would win!”
When all the world is screaming, what we miss most,
is a soft, kind, and quiet voice.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015
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