In the twilight shadows of your mind, where the lanterns of reason flicker and sway, a question hangs in the air like a spectre: "Who are you when you're not being who you already are?" It whispers
for you to slip the bonds of identity
shed the skin of self like a serpent
leaving behind its old, worn scales
can you feel the liberation,
the weightlessness of being unmoored
from the concrete constraints
of your persona?
The shadows play tricks on the mind. Shapes shift and morph, and the familiar becomes strange and elusive. Who are you when the labels peel away and the titles and roles that define you dissolve like sugar in water?
Are you the hero of your own story or merely a supporting character in someone else's narrative?
In the dark corners of the self, where light and shadows intertwine, you may find the answer. It is not a destination, but a journey—a pilgrimage into the depths of your soul. It requires the courage to face the mirror and see not what is reflected back but what lies beyond the glass, in the realm of possibility and potential.
For who you are when you're not being who you already are is a blank canvas, an unwritten poem waiting to be penned. It is the unexplored land beyond the map's edge, where dragons and treasures may lurk, waiting to be discovered. It is the music yet to be composed and the dance yet to be choreographed.
In this space between selves, you may find the answer. It is a place where time is fluid, where past, present, and future collide and merge into a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Here, you are not bound by the constraints of time or space, of society or self. You are free to explore the multitudes within you, to become the person you have yet to imagine.
So, dear traveler, take the leap into the abyss of the unknown and discover the treasure that lies within. For who you are when you're not being who you already are is the truest expression of your essence, a testament to the limitless potential of the human spirit.
Welcome to Friday, my friend.
the Japanese cherry blossoms
The sakura.
They arrive on the cusp of spring, a flourish of delicate petals against the sky, painting Japan's parks and temples with a confetti of pinks and whites. Imagine standing beneath these flowering trees, an ephemeral shower of petals drifting down around you. The scene captivates; the moment is a celebration of life. And yet, it is precisely because of their fleeting existence that the blossoms stir something deeper in us—a kind of sweet, lingering sorrow.
This complex feeling, this tension between beauty and transience, is captured in the Japanese term Mono no Aware. Literally, it translates to "the sorrow of objects," but its layers are many and nuanced. It's an emotional response, a sensitivity to the impermanence of all things. Like the brief flare of a sunset before twilight or the last notes of a song, fading but not quite forgotten. It's an appreciation that beauty and sadness are two sides of the same coin of existence.
Mono no Aware taps into a universal experience—the transient nature of life itself. Nothing lasts forever—our joys, our sorrows, and even ourselves are impermanent. We love deeply and laugh loudly, and yet there is always a tinge of sadness in the knowledge that these emotions, like the sakura, won't last forever.
There's a Zen proverb that comes to mind: "Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water." It speaks to the constancy of everyday life, even in the face of profound realisations. Yet, it's in the mundane tasks—the chopping and the carrying—that the beauty of existence often reveals itself. And just as quickly, it slips through our fingers, as elusive as the dawn mist.
The awareness of this transient beauty enhances our experiences, making them more poignant and memorable.
So the next time you find yourself in a moment of stunning beauty—a mountaintop view, the soft strumming of a guitar, or the quiet of a snowfall—pause. Breathe it in. You are feeling the heartache and the joy of Mono no Aware. Your senses are catching a whisper of the universal song of existence—a melody made all the more beautiful because, like you, it is not here to stay.
emotions
we speak of them
as if they reside
in some spectral realm,
ethereal yet tangibly felt
intensity of joy
the ache of sorrow
the fizz of excitement
the lump of fear
each has its hue,
its texture, its tone.
Imagine, for a moment, the world as a great stage. The people around you, actors and actresses in their own right, don costumes of social norms and rehearse lines handed down by tradition or penned by contemporary wit.
the script?
it’s never quite fixed
It shifts, almost as if rewritten by an invisible hand in real-time. But what do you gain from this theatre if you are only comfortable reciting lines of a single emotion? As if trapped in a black-and-white film where the grayscale replaces the vividness of the technicolor experience.
Widen the aperture, and you find a panoramic landscape of emotional hues, each with a distinct flavour on the tongue of the soul.
The setting sun doesn’t just sink—it weeps into the arms of the horizon, its orange tears mingling with the inky blues of the approaching night.
The laughter of a child isn’t a mere sound; it’s the spirited dance of innocence on a stage as yet unmarred by the heaviness of jaded scripts. Even sorrow, that somber note that vibrates low and deep in the chest, has its own beauty, its own solemn grace. Within its shadowy folds lie the seeds of empathy and the roots of understanding that weave beneath the soil of the human experience.
To stifle any emotion is to deny yourself access to the library of human sentiment. It’s akin to walking through a garden and acknowledging only the roses while disregarding the mysterious allure of the orchids or the humble wisdom of the daisies. “All feelings are only looking for a place to show up.", poet David Whyte suggests. Indeed, they ask for acknowledgment, for a theatre where they can enact their intricate roles.
As we open ourselves to this plethora of feelings, we also sharpen our eyes to the world’s textures and nuances. You begin to see the world not just as a globe spinning in a yawning universe but as a tapestry woven with threads of multiple hues—each representing a unique emotion, each essential in forming the pattern of the whole. It’s like trading a monochrome lens for a kaleidoscopic one, each turn revealing a new pattern and a new perspective.
What’s more, by embracing a fuller range of emotions, you become an acute receiver of the world’s subtleties. You hear the unspoken words hanging in a pause, sense the tension in a room like the electric charge before a storm, and see the hidden sadness in a smile. You understand, more deeply, the unsaid.
To limit oneself to a handful of emotions is to walk through life with a narrowed gaze. It’s to read only the opening chapter of a book, to taste only the appetiser in a seven-course meal.
So, if the spectrum of human emotions is a grand symphony, shouldn’t we aspire to hear it all—from the softest violin whisper to the boldest brass proclamation? And as you contemplate the full orchestra of your emotional life, ask yourself: What emotion have I yet to truly hear, and what new world will it reveal to me?
we are with the poet,
seeing, hearing, and feeling
the same things at the same time,
a shared but fleeting residence in the house of sensation and image.
It’s as if we’ve stumbled upon a hidden chamber in a well-known building, entering a room where the atmosphere is thick with the texture of memory, the aroma of distant lands, and the murmur of bygone conversations.
A river flows past us, and we see it not just as a body of water, but as a time-traveling storyteller. Each ripple a story, each wave a generation, each stone a historical marker polished by the relentless touch of the present brushing up against the past.
Isn’t that how the great poets, like Rumi or Emily Dickinson, infuse the natural world with layers of meaning?
A bird is never just a bird; it’s an emblem of freedom, a song of solitude, a messenger between realms. A tree isn’t merely a fixture of the landscape but a sage that has observed the secrets of earth and sky, holding in its rings a coded autobiography of nature’s whims and the world’s heavy sighs.
And it’s not just sight;
it’s a symphony of the senses.
The jarring collision of clattering pots in a busy kitchen is reimagined as a percussion section in the soundtrack of domesticity. The aroma of freshly ground coffee enveloping the early morning not only wakes you up but calls forth other awakenings—of dreams, of ambitions, of unspoken love, perhaps.
What you hear is more than just sound waves; it’s the harmony—or dissonance—of life’s myriad complexities.
These poets allow us
to hear the hidden chorus
in a lover’s whisper or
the secret plea in a baby’s cry.
But, oh, to feel.
That’s where the real magic lies, isn’t it?
When reading Pablo Neruda or Sylvia Plath, one doesn’t just skim the words; one touches the very fabric of their emotions. It's empathy, immediate and raw, as if their verses were inked not in pigment but in the very plasma of the human experience.
Neruda’s odes are so filled with texture that you might feel the rough skin of an artichoke or the silkiness of wine as it slips through the goblet of your mind. Plath’s confessions don’t merely expose her feelings; they lay bare your own, unveiling the shadowy realms you dare not visit.
The poet’s canvas is expansive, stretching across geographies of the heart and topographies of the mind. They are both mapmaker and tour guide, drafting coordinates that may begin in the flesh but resonate in the spirit. Standing beside them, we are more than passive observers; we are fellow wanderers, seekers on a common but infinitely varied quest for truth and beauty.
And as we pause, catching our breath in a momentary stillness, we confront an unsettling revelation. Are we, through this act of reading, merely catching a reflected glimpse of the poet’s world—or are we, perhaps unknowingly, also the poets of our own lives, continuously writing, erasing, and rewriting the manuscript of our existence?
If your life were a poem,
what would be its central metaphor?
moments:
Feeling that everything around me is relentlessly alive
I was momentarily stunned when I saw a white woman walking her dog. She was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Give more airtime to blacks, dogs, and the Irish.” I didn’t know whether to applaud or be offended
I transformed my son’s old room into a home gym. Now i can workout in between my workouts
Having Rick Rubin as my mentor all week
Rediscovering my connection with the Tao and Taoism as a spiritual practise
I had a moment when I felt connected with myself and the greater spirit of life, feeling protected, blessed, and fortunate
Realising that my blogging doesn’t serve a pain in the traditional marketing sense. My blog (Substack) is in service of ideas and contributes to the collective consciousness in the hopes of inspiring someone someday
I met an old friend for coffee after having not seen her for over a year. Our conversations are always enlightening
Getting out of that checklist mentality, because it just makes you a machine, going through ticking off the algorithms, and is that living, I guess, is the question
Missing these days:
recommendations:
if you feel yourself to be an artist of any kind (and we are all artists), then Rick Rubin’s book, The Creative Act: A Way of Being, is a must-read. in fact, i would suggest you buy the audiobook and listen to it while you’re out on a walk in nature. it’s like walking side by side with your own personal guru.
the day in the life of a barefoot philosopher: an aspiration.
if you’ve never had the pleasure of listening to Kirk Nugent’s spoken word poem, Pursue Your Passion, stop reading right now and watch/listen to it right now!
postscript
What’s been working for you this week?
I've enjoyed the journey of reconnecting with nature, immersing myself in poetry, and feeling a deeper connection to the source. This week has brought moments of clarity as things continue to evolve, guiding me closer to the source.
I hope these notes provide a spark of inspiration. Perhaps they've ignited a thought or prompted you to take action or to see something from a different perspective. These notes are my way of sharing what I'm exploring. My hope is that somewhere within them, you also find some inspiration to continue or enhance your journey. Whether it's a piece of enlightenment or a simple source of inspiration, that's the ultimate goal.
Until next week, my friend, take care.
Clay
barefoot philosopher