Here's the Thing About Fear
Dear Artist preorders are now shipping
Dear. Here’s the thing about fear: It stops us from composing the living poems we were sent here to be. The best verses still wait inside you, gathering scent and potency patiently. You came with a mission: Be me. Quickly, a tidal wave washed over your valley: human judgment and projection. Before you knew it, your life was lived for others, bound in a canvas bag for them to tote around in circles of confusion. All the while, in you, majestic lyrics, flute music worthy of the ears of nature, impromptu chords, rips, and runs harmonious with breeze through leaves and water over stones. All the while, in you, a poetry that has no purpose at all but to be lived, to climb mountains, run with children in villages, behold sunset with no distractions, pour libations over your ancestors, and remember your true beginning. Sometimes your poetry is no more than the smile you have not released today, or your own permission for laughter. When it gets far flung, your poetry is cookies and tea with a monk on a Himalayan mountain pass. If you think the monk won’t eat cookies with you, again, fear has taken over your perception. The monk won’t only eat cookies, he’ll take the last one with a mischief in his eye. Maybe your poetry is you being the monk. When was the last time you thought so little of your clothes and possessions? You’d be amazed at the joy true freedom brings. Faith is a good tonic for fear. Faith… a cloud that roams our innerness, expanding, raining, and birthing whole new worlds. Take your religion, whatever it is. If you follow it and end up in the land of Love and compassion and kindness to others, you have found your true religion. If you follow it and find yourself wallowing in ugliness toward yourself and others, and life itself, then friend, you have lost your religion. For no faith that Spirit follows carries a mission of hurtfulness. Fear ransacks our supplies and leaves us hesitant to go wandering. We stay close to the hut, muttering nervously, waiting for fish to jump from the sea onto the plate of our desires, our hopes, our needs. Remember, you are a living poem. You can fill your sack anytime you wish with what makes your heart say Ahhh... Then, you’ll have no excuse but to leave the hut and go out wandering, living, Loving, at last revealing the poem you were born to be.
- Jaiya John
From my book All These Rivers and You Chose Love.
Preorders have now ended and are shipping for my new book Dear Artist. The book releases worldwide and at jaiyajohn.com any day now. Also at my website, enjoy my books, eBooks, audiobooks, talks, sleep stories, and piano music.
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