Read me grasping for the intangible.

I've been drawing imaginary lotuses in my mind lately as I am fond of sketching them on random scraps of paper too. There is a kind of mindfulness that takes place when one involves the hand to color and enhance the shape of the individual petals. Thoughts pop in and out. Little jagged lines happen because I push for perfection and colors blur over the edges and I despair for a moment before realizing that I'm just drawing lotuses on a scrap of paper.

The other day I found new thoughts sprouting like any other day but this time, I saw them as colors to a painter. They colored places and people. I found them most distinctly layered in old corners of abandoned places. They were vibrantly alive and decayed at the same time. They were thoughts of others upon thoughts of others, ad infinitum, making sense of things long after their owners were nothing but a mixture of dusts.

Have you ever felt a bubble of displeasure that burns in your center in the act of trying to understand, then falling short because there is a warrior in your head throwing daggers all around? You see where the daggers land; another space, another face. Points of view become congealed. The bubble breaks and a new distraction tags along. We're all caught up in touching surfaces.

There is something about sacred buildings that calls to me. Though not all are similarly appealing, I find the attraction cuts through to basically this: They are (ideally) places where intentions of being loving, kind and compassionate get brewed. Just like a pot of yummy tea, I make at home.

Do you remember what's it's like to release yourself from the buoyancy of your mother's womb? Most of us let out a cry, letting in bits of the new world into our delicate new machinery. Life, activated. Programmed to a default template depending on your place of birth, entrusted into the hands of those who came to be who they are through the same process.