Journeys
Images
Cloud
Timothy M. Leonard's books on Goodreads
A Century Is Nothing A Century Is Nothing
ratings: 4 (avg rating 4.50)

The Language Company The Language Company
ratings: 2 (avg rating 5.00)

Subject to Change Subject to Change
ratings: 2 (avg rating 4.50)

Ice girl in Banlung Ice girl in Banlung
ratings: 2 (avg rating 4.50)

Finch's Cage Finch's Cage
ratings: 2 (avg rating 3.50)

Amazon Associate
Contact

Entries in gratitude (31)

Thursday
Jun032021

Spring

One Kampot morning  
Dawn struggles to create music hearing
 Brooms dance with dust as Khmer and Vietnamese women
Bent like branches in strong wind

Hover over leaves, discarded fruit skins
Memories
Bird songs
Night dreams
Sweeping swish a wish
Rain glorious soft smooth clear rain


Cloud tears echo silence
Calm way
Spring speaks laughter
Cool sky jazz

Water imagination seeds with bliss & gratitude

Diamonds reflect a universe on bamboo leaf


In a Brave New World you shift from truth and beauty to comfort and happiness.
I ate civilization.

Breath brain 157 neurons
Attention arousal
Mortar pestle music
Rhythm kids
Chatter with mom on crutches

Reality is a crutch
Steaming gleaming aluminum containers
Meat, eggs, vegetables, soups, rows of BBQ fish, sausage

Smoke curls from charcoal flames
Backpack tourists avoid motorcycle mama mayhem

Little boys with little toys all 125cc
At the speed of light

Be light about it
Blind female masseuse meditates in a green room
A slow steady rain falls
Clean air smells good

A single star,

flickering out in the universe,

is enough to fill the mind, but it is nothing in the night sky.

Grow Your Soul

Author Page

Monday
Jan182021

Buy Low, Sell High

In the Sahara removed from death, chaos, tears and 3,000 funerals I suggested to Omar maybe it was about economic terrorism, poverty and empathy.

He understood the economics of survival, bartering, trade, exchange value, supply, demand and getting the best price. Not too low and not too high.

“A person cannot drink or eat more than they need. It’s about hospitality,” he said.

Omar’s tribe migrated from Mali, Southern Algeria and Mauritania. Prior to 1956 there were six million Touareg on nine million square kilometers of desert with no government borders controlling movement. Now there were 7-10,000 in the Sahara Occidental.

Berbers controlled the Iberian Peninsula as a colony from Marrakech castles. Fierce warriors, they resisted outside control while maintaining their language and culture during Roman, Vandal and Arabic rule.

“Your enemy is my friend,” said Omar.

His tribes conquered and ruled Spain for centuries.

He’d seen boring television images. He preferred human conversation. Omar knew television and cell phones were the most insane consciousness-stealing inventions of all time. They sold desire and greed designed by advertising companies pitching food, sex, self-esteem and illusions of false happy secure lies.

After the successful 9/11 attacks desperate stories, lies and myths evolved, adapted and adjusted like petri dish cultures.

They created new languages, art, music, attitudes, values, principles, weapons of mass distraction and historical chaos in the long now. They took on new fragmented impartial impervious identities.

“Buy low and sell high,” said Omar as sand shifted below a blue sky.

“Simple as ABC,” I said.

“It’s easy to comprehend at the heart-mind level.” He was a man of few words. We contemplated a vast silent world.

“No language, no culture,” he sang as shooting stars played celestial tag.

I visualized elements of fear, disinformation, misinformation, bias, lies, half-truths and paranoid propaganda bloviated by politicians, popes, prelates, mullahs, and animists in every oral language on a spinning blue marble in space-time. 24/7.

Fear sells. People buy.

Human brains overflowed with data and visual distractions. Incoming! Run for cover.

Free medications were administered to seven billion humanoids.

Survivors crammed mountain caves as orphans sang, “A tisket a tasket we need a casket.”

Peaceful people lived wisdom, empathy, and compassion. Meditation, deep breathing, harmony and forgiveness of Spiriti Sanctus were portals into clear awareness.

Arabic speaking scholars recited poetry by Rumi. They shared stories about rising and falling civilizations. Transmitting oral stories they diagramed hieroglyphics, cave paintings, metaphors and unconscious archetypes.

I envisaged historians, political scientists, talking heads, taxi drivers, unemployed fortunetellers and morticians answering suicide hotline calls. The number of callers increased exponentially.

Governments increased military spending.

They cut education, health care and social programs.

Citizens overwhelmed hospital emergency rooms pleading, “Give us drugs to alleviate our fears and illusions of desire and suffering.”

Fear and Consumption demand outstripped supply.

Scarcity was thrilled.

 

“What happens when they run out of CONTROL programs and advertising?” a girl asked her mother, the mother of all answers.

“Don’t worry my sweet,” said her mother living her worst nightmare, “They will invent, fabricate and illuminate something new. The manufacturing sector will rebound when shelves are empty. Advertising and propaganda never dies. We’ll always have sugar and we can always go shopping.”

“How long will it take to reduce these feelings of imaginary fear?”

“Healing, empathy and compassion require our individual intention. Many practice a calm way like there’s no tomorrow,” said her mother.

“Healing energies, peace and love sustain us.”

“There is only F.U.D.,” said the mother twisting her daughter’s hair until it caught fire.

“What is F.U.D. mother?”

“Fear, uncertainty and doubt. It’s part of our DNA since we jumped or fell or were pushed from The Tree of Life 60,000 years ago. FUD evolved with a vengeance as hungry unconscious greedy demons.”

“What about adventure and surprise?”

“They are factors in our adaptation as a species. You ask great questions my dear,” fanning her daughter’s flame. “A long now-time. A century is nothing.”

“It’s good to know some things,” said the girl. “We know so much and understand nothing.”

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I’ve already said a lot.”

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. Tell me the truth,” mother. “I want to know your truth.”

“It’s a miracle we are here is my truth. It’s a big cosmic joke. Our insecurities are disappearing and our strengths are growing. Consider this. The letters F.E.A.R. can mean face everything and recover, or fuck everything and run away.”

“Life is a magical celebration, mother. We are flukes of the universe. We are miracles. Life is a beautiful short dream. There’s no rhyme or reason. It’s about realizing peace and gratitude in our heart. We connect with family, community and world tribes. Inhale other’s suffering and exhale healing. Cultivate our heart-mind awareness.”

“I love you,” said her mother.

“I will be present and grateful mother. May we go out and play now? May we take the day off and be creative?”

“Yes, let’s invent a game theory my sweet.”

ART

Adventure, Risk, and Transformation - A Memoir

 

Saturday
Dec052020

Tattoo

Ink Me
Married to a needle
Zen of needle

Tattoo customers wander into studio:
Russian mafia, Indonesian businessmen,
two female Chinese students
Khmer boy has “Lin Forever” tattooed on his forearm
English man has a cover up job done on a red risqué dancing woman replaced by Dali's “Melting Time.”

Mont Blanc ink me
Penetrate my skin using coil and rotary machines...

Feel the pressure



Surgical precision
Process: set up worktable, cover table, pillows and bed with cling wrap,
arrange needle machines and ink. New needles from sealed packages.

Put on black surgical gloves, attach plug into amp meter for needle machine,
tape stencil on client for tracing. Client lies on back with cling wrapped pillow under head.

Artist places arm on pillow and long wrapped table for support. Small talk.

Artist consults sketch, applies pressure to arm with left hand,
puts needle machine on skin, client inhales,
artist turns machine on, zzzzz cutting skin.
Client exhales. Process continues 2 hours.

Focus of tattoo artist
Calm waves early light

Be the ink
Be the needle
Be the skin

Clear heart-mind healing skin
Ibuprofen 800 reduces wrist/hand swelling. Rest. Water.

Deserted beach, wave laughter, dawn light
Floating world islands remember current
Yoga posture
Healing energies

Orange sunset dives into blue green waves
Swim with
Courage laughter joy bliss and gratitude

Grow Your Soul - Prose and Poems from Laos & Cambodia

Luang Prabang, Laos

Friday
Oct232020

Warrior Spirit

His pale skin outlined bones. His blue eyes were radiant and clear.

I opened the veil. Snow sky, flying clouds and soaring birds.

“What day is it?” he said.  

“Saturday.”

Icicles melted along a roof edge. Drops reflected rainbows. Across the valley a laughing father and son shoveled spring snow off stonewalls.

“May I have more ice please?”

I spooned comfort. Sky eyes rested on my face. I handed him a long piece of Gringsing, a sacred healing cloth from Bali with a story about its creation.

“It’s lovely,” he said, running thin purple vein fingers over fabric.

“I love you,” I said.

I breathed in his suffering and exhaled my love.

Feeling no pain he rested. We talked about roses, seeds, seasons, English gardens and nature. We sat quiet holding hands.

A spoon of ice comforted his dry lips. His manners never ceased, always a “thank you” for simple sweet essential ice.

Our visit was rich in quiet contemplation. His mind was alert. His thoughts flowed quick and easy. He’d pause and stare away when I opened veils. Dawn light. Afternoon light. Twilight. Sky clarity.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, a smile creasing his sallow face.

He was now. Marian and my brother Tom shared their comfort and love.

“Two things start to go when you’re over fifty,” he said. “One is your mind and I can’t remember what the other thing is.”

His warrior spirit moved on with a clear vision. His spirit accepted all. I was content to be present. Grateful to be with him seeing his joyful face, feeling his soft hands, rubbing his facial stubble and massaging worn skin.

I witnessed his joy, reflective spirit and letting go with dignity, authenticity and silence. Sharing green grapes, water and ice he said, “You know, it’s not about death, no,” shrugging thin shoulders.

His swollen left hand passed over his skeleton frame like a shaman. “It’s strange, how fast the energy is leaving me.”

“Yes, death doesn’t bother me. It’s just the energy started leaving quicker than I imagined. Still, I never imagined I would live this long. I thought maybe 72 or 73 years, so I never imagined I would live this long.” 

His voice and vision was strong.

“Sweet dreams, dear father,” kissing lips and forehead. I hugged his left arm and shoulder feeling bones. “Thank you for a fine lovely day.”

Bless his heart full of goodness, compassion and light. I read a letter to him about how I appreciated his love, kindness and virtues.

“You always were a dreamer,” he said.

Yes, always to be a dreamer, how in his heart, his truth comforted me.

For three days we cried, laughed, sharing stories knowing in our hearts it was a letting go. Our love was perfect.

I held his hand, rubbing his thin back and legs, tickling his toes, “Oh, no you don’t,” he laughed squirming. I rubbed his cheeks, kissing his forehead.

Our time together was pure. We understood the process of letting go without desire or attachment. Clarity and wisdom blessed us.

I returned to Tacoma. On May 8th I was coaching tennis students. At 9:08 a.m. I stopped. I knew he was gone. I returned to Colorado.

A shift. Family and friends gathered for his passing ceremony. Candles and words illuminated his life light.

“He had a warrior spirit with a diamond mind. His path of light and love was a path of perfection. He demonstrated ethical and moral guidance. He allowed us the freedom to surrender old fears and habits, enabling us to cut through the net of ignorance. He was grounded in luminosity. His warrior spirit was resilient and spiritual. He has crossed the river of time. We discovered the strength to let you go. We remain blessed by your spirit.”

ART Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Friday
Apr032020

Adventure, Risk, Transformation

The narrator, a soldier, talks to a priest while serving in Vietnam.

"The histories speak about humans shedding old habits, attitudes, values, and beliefs and loved ones to go on journeys with new opportunities and compassion.

"How they renewed their spirit with pure gratitude and joy. It’s amazing. I mean here I am sacrificing my youth, desire, ignorance and anger to be cleansed, to be made whole, to integrate my unconscious into oneness with the ALL as an authentic being. We are stardust. We are one third the life of the universe.”

“Yes, my son, using religion I sacrificed bodies and souls. I created sorrows and depravity. I wandered through Sumerian, Greek, Roman, and Spanish villages where I administered suffering, pain and death. I burned 12,000 innocent men, women and children at the stake during the Inquisition. Ah, such a time I had condemning heretics to damnation and life everlasting. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

“Did you record these events?”

“I dictated my myths, legends and story-truth to Omar, a blind Touareg scribe. My amanuensis. You’ll meet him in Morocco on 9/11. You will combine stories and adventures in this tale. Anyway, to continue my little saga, I licked civilization’s fire. As a fire-eater in a traveling carnival I blessed sinners with ashes on Palm Sunday. I drove a tank through Middle Eastern deserts converting the heathen with fire and brimstone. I kneeled and prayed in mosques facing Mecca five times a day.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes. I survived in Afghan caves near destroyed statues of Buddha hearing Taliban confessions. I tended to suicide cases in GITMO. I meditated in Tibetan caves for three centuries, three decades, three years, three months, three weeks, three days, three minutes and three breaths. Ah, the blessed trinity. At Tibetan sky burial ceremonies north of Lhasa after flaying skin off bodies, I ground human bones to mix with blood for vultures so the departed spirit could, would, should be reborn. Karma and reincarnation.”

“You did all that?”

“Yes. I walked the length of the Silk Road from Venice to Guangzhou bringing comfort to the lame, blind and destitute. I traveled with Italo Calvino from Italy a scribe blessed with magical realism insight when he created Invisible Cities in Kublai Khan’s court. Perhaps you know of it?”

“Yes, he and the great Khan played chess.”

“Ah the great game and a metaphor of life. Castle early. Control the center. Divide and conquer.”

“Checkmate,” whispered Death.

ART