“That little one never made it”

Who we are

Adyashanti shares an interesting story.  I am paraphrasing from memory, but this is the gist:  A spiritual seeker tells him–I want what you have.  Adya appears puzzled.  What do I have?  The spiritual seeker says–I want to be enlightened, to be awake, to be realized.  I want what you got.  Adya replies something like–oh no, I never got anything.  That young man never got anything.  That little one never made it at all.

This story comes back to me at times.  Like this morning.  Sitting here on the couch, thoughts appear in the background.  They keep referring to a “me”, to a Kathy.  They continue to reference a solid separate person with certain characteristics.  The foreground of consciousness watches them appear and disappear, appear and disappear.

I sometimes want to explain to my friends and blog readers here on line.  To tell them what happened, what shifted, how the outgoing blogger and social media participant dissolved–poof!–now you see her, now you don’t.

I want to make up a story telling you where the person went. “This is what happened,” I will say, craftily spinning a tale, pretending that there is an actual person who can come and go, arise and fall, create stories and fall silent.

But the stories can’t really be told without fabricating more creative non-truths.  I can’t tell you anything about me without shape-shifting into a me.  (Which is perfectly OK if that’s what the Universe wants to do in this ever-changing moment.)

Sometimes, like this morning, there’s a nostalgia which arises for the person.  Oh, that little one, that one, where is she?  I almost want to create her this morning out of sticks and stones and a rib from Adam and some grinning amusement from Eve.  To craft story after story to make a solid character who acts predictably in certain ways, who is dependable as the heroine or villain of the tale.  Or who loves acting unpredictably!

(And some days she returns–oh here I am, darling!  Let’s play today.  What character do you want to be?)

But it doesn’t seem possible right now.  It’s as if the old characters have fallen away into the snowy woods, a snowman melted away, the archetypes empty icicles gleaming in the weak January sun.

Matthew of Biblical fame says it this way:  For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it.

The fullness that remains when one dies while still alive! Wow!  What appears in place of the stories is truly amazing in the most ordinary way.  Fingers typing, can you imagine?  The wood stove humming?  Thoughts and stories appearing? To enjoy encounters with people more than before, but without needing anything in return?  All without reference to a central character, a separate person?

Perhaps it was Adyashanti who said that you may lose the separate self but what you gain is the whole world. The whole darn world!  Can you imagine that?


Simply not here



The flowing appearances of life are impermanent.

They arise briefly (sometimes for a millennium in the appearance of a white-capped mountain) and then they disappear.

One moment we’re cuddling our fuzzy-headed cooing infant; the next moment she’s walking down the aisle in a wedding gown.

One moment we’re throwing a football with Dad; the next he’s dozing in an overstuffed chair meeting death’s gaze.

A frozen snow-capped apple hangs precariously from a winter branch.  Wind arises; apple drops to the earth. Last year’s fawn eats it.  So precious; so fleeting.

Everything that appears disappears.  We tend to forget this in our desire to keep life stable and secure.

Our friends come and go.  Our interests rise, peak and wane. A thunderstorm shatters the heavens; sunshine drenches the meadows.  Breath rises and falls.  We try to grasp these flowing appearances in our hand, but they’re so often gone, gone, gone…

It’s time for this little blog, Simply Here, to melt back into the nothing & everything that birthed her.

Words can be the most fragile of fleeting appearances, can’t they?

Thank you for reading these past five or six years.  May you be blessed by what never changes, never disappears, never births.  May each of us learn the truth of what we are, if Life nudges us in this directionless direction.

Much love…

Fondly, yet another mask of your very own self



Whose shoes?

Whose shoes?

I never feel like I’m blogging here at Simply Here.  This is simply sharing.  There is no sense of obligation, no sense of social networking, no sense of having to reciprocate.

It’s more like writing in a journal.  Here is what’s arising now.  No need to take photographs.  No need to write daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly.  It’s free space.  No need to fuss about who’s reading, statistics, comments.  No need to attract an audience.

This is between me and the Universe, no separation.  Whoever pauses to read is here–not because of a person–but because she or he senses infinite possibilities of realization beyond the personal.

If someone asks “Are you blogging?” the first thought that arises is, “No.”   It’s only later that it occurs some people might think this is blogging.  Talk about paradox.

A little something personal

The “I” keeps wanting to say something.  Raising its hand, begging to speak.

So speak, dear “I”.  What do you want to reveal now?

I feel a need to explain myself to long-time readers.  To tell them what’s happening lately.  To explain why this blog seems to be changing.  Why I’ve turned off the commenting possibility.  Why I’m only rarely commenting on other blogs. Why I’m rarely on Facebook. Why the Kathy you think you might know seems to be changing… How this blog is becoming merely a portal of expression.  How it is being offered in joy more often, without wanting readers–except those with a curiosity or passion or love of non-dual awareness.  How simply writing, without any need for an audience, without any sense of obligation to engage in the blogging community, brings forth a bursting feeling of freedom and love and openness that feels like heaven.

I want to tell my friends:  don’t come here to meet Kathy.  She’s gone.  Or she’s playing hide-n-seek.  She’s not really here.  She’s just channeling the Universe.  She might journal daily here or never again.  Don’t read if you’re looking for her.  Only pause at Simply Here’s doorstep if something valuable resonates.  If you’re frustrated, turn away. This is not for you right now.  Turn away and find what sings you alive.

Continue reading

The divine play of “my” two blogs

The same. Oneness. No difference. It’s all consciousness arising.

What is the difference between this here little baby blog “Simply Here” and my mother ship blog “Lake Superior Spirit“?

This blog hints at the Absolute, which can not be uttered.

This blog sings in moonlight to something inexpressible within us, something which contains and shimmers as the All.

This blog IS the mother ship.

This blog challenges duality to a dual and giggles, because the All never duals itself.  It IS everything heard and seen and imagined.

This blog can never express the Absolute–the everything–and yet plays at expression.

What is Lake Superior Spirit?

A celebration of the relative.  A celebration of one momentary focus of the Absolute, a blip, a personality, a pretend-being playing that it’s not the divine Absolute.

This blog speaks a language called Absolute-ease which does not exist.

That blog speaks a language called Relative-ease which pretends it exists.

They often seem to contradict each other, but that’s only a joke the Absolute plays on the relative.

There IS no duality.

That is the joke.

That’s divine play laughing and laughing and itself–because there is only itself, no matter how much you attempt to break the “Self” into parts.

Join me in Divine Play?

The last burning desire

I will be a writer. I carry this for proof.

May I share a little personal story here with you few readers?

Perhaps you may understand why I struck match into flame two weeks ago and burned to ash the little piece of paper written by my 12-year-old self.  The young girl carefully folded this paper, tinier and tinier, and yes, even tinier, and placed it inside the confirmation heart locket in March, 1970.

She wore the locket close to her heart as she veered toward teenage mascara, parties, angst and a first kiss.

She wore the confirmation locket with that secret fierce desire–I WILL be a writer.  I carry this for proof--as she typed steadily, daily, allowing stories and poems to wind up through the ethers into her manual typewriter.

Teenage days blossomed into other desires, including dreams of this boy and that boy and what about that boy? and the locket disappeared into the depths of the dresser drawer, half-forgotten.

Yet the locket followed the newly married college graduate up into the woods, up north past the five-mile bridge, up into the land of boulders and trees and howling lake winds.

Writing appeared, yes, always, scribbles in journals in between baby at the breast and shoveling snow.  Poems danced.  Stories sang.  A book or three birthed, but lay gathering dust on the shelf.  Words comforted.  But a writer?  A real writer?  She didn’t feel one, but did it matter any more?

Four or five years ago the now-grown woman discovered blogging and began to write, write, write profusely.  She wrote with a passion attempting perhaps to appease the little girl who wanted.  it.  so.  much.

Words spilled like grapes from harvest bowls of creativity.

Words sprouted like dandelions, sometimes worshiped, sometimes mowed in weedy despair.

Words taught, grimaced, moaned, fell on their syllabled knees.

Paragraphs punctuated, tossed, turned, went crazy, oo la la!

Stories told everything, or pretended to tell everything, and poems hinted at Eternity, or pretended they divined Eternity, because who among us fathoms the infinite?

Two weeks ago I finally, reverentially, lovingly, gathered the little golden tarnished locket from oh-so-many-years ago and clutched it in an older hand, a different hand, a hand wrinkled with stories, and whispered, “Are you satisfied yet?  You’ve had oh-so-many readers of your words, are you satisfied yet?  What do you need to be satisfied, to call yourself a writer, to let it go?”

Because, dear reader, I do not want to be a writer any more.

The little girl with her dreams–she doesn’t exist any more.

What do I want, you ask?

I want to be the Empty Locket.

Nothing.  Completely empty.  The heart wide open, unclasped.

Air.  Not even air.

And in that emptiness we perhaps glimpse we’re everything:  we’re the locket, the confirmation date 3-26-70, the childhood fervor, the scrawl on paper, the desire, oh the desire, the years of diapers and skating shows and Excel spreadsheets, the million and a half words, the readers, the eternal gratitude, the match, the flame, the burning, the ash, the emptiness, oh, the fullness of it all, the sacred unspeakable word-less fullness.

I don’t want to be a writer, dear heart.

I want the entire world, the open clasp of it, the endless song, words appearing or departing as they desire–as THEY desire–not me, the breath of God, the poetry of Rumi, the love of Jesus, the meditating yogi, the crying child, the hungry, the drum of a woodpecker, oh, no, let’s limit it no longer.

Everything, everything, you child of the universe–that’s what you are.

Don’t wear yourself in a too-small heart.  Open it and be the destiny you dreamed before birth compartmentalized and confirmed you.  All of it, heart, simply all of it.

One magnificent reader



One little viewer

paused here this morning


Simply Here

to simply

be here.


One little viewer.

My heart delights

imagining that one.

It doesn’t want more than one,

doesn’t desire endless readers, only

that single elusive

shining magnificent light:

One reader.

That’s all who ever reads our blogs