The below poem is offered in honor of this poem by an Anonymous Samurai:
…I have no friends:
I make my mind my friend.
I have no enemy:
I make carelessness my enemy.
I have no armour:
I make benevolence and righteousness my armour.
I have no castle:
I make immovable mind my castle.
I have no sword:
I make absence of self my sword...click here for the full poem.
A Poem of Discouragement, Upon Seeing Friends Fail to Support my Work & Mission.
“Our only weapon is gentleness.” ~ Trungpa
I feel discouraged—yes, I do.
No, I feel softened.
I persevere, though the world does not echo my calls. I have no confirmation.
I have a mentor. He says: be clear about what you offer, and cut those off who do not repay, out of joy, that generosity with appreciation.
I have a mother: she says: I love you, unconditionally. She says these words without speaking, and has done so since I was a bowl-cut-headed red-blond happy, ferocious boy.
I have many dear, true, best friends—but they are all gone. One is here—but he, like me, is too busy doing good things while so many others work in cubicles, in ruts, in hungry ghost money-hungry whirlpools created by their own discursive, inner PR and overblown, underrealized positivity.
I have a girl—and I do not have her, nor do I want to have her. My idea of a relationship is a partnership, two honest, frank, nakedly affectionate allies.
I have a dog, and he is snoring by my side, his belly full and his hair still slightly stinky from last Friday night, when I got back from an art party and date in Denver, sick, tired, coughing…only to find him skunked, rolling in the earth desperately…I took off my clothes, and, in my underwear, cold, washed him for an hour in my backyard and the park’s little creek behind my house.
I have a house—or rather, the bank has it—and I’m taking care of it, finally, painting and fixing up and it feels like a second heart, this one external, beating brightly and nakedly.
I have a business—and
I have a mission—and they are the same thing.
I have a future—to be rich, but not greedy, a father with dumb jokes and bright children, a husband with simple pleasures and a public servant, of some sort, and
I have myself. Alone, covered in blankets, working all night, as I have done for years.
And, I have my village—my Buddhist community, my Boulder community, my yoga community, my friends, my Grandma, aunty and mommy—I owe so much, and yet have earned what little I have accomplished through work, and through not giving up, even when those I respect do not return the friendship.