• The first is the one between birth and death. This life. The one you’re living right now. The unfolding of what was, through what is, into what could be.

    The second is the other life. That between death and rebirth. It’s the elusive life, because in the midst of its living, there is no concept of itself. And so we can never speak of it.

    It is where you return to. But when you return to it, you are not there to experience it.

    We do remember it though. The feel of it is there in every moment. It’s there in every cell of existence, the source of every single atom and non-atom. That which gives everything and nothing.

    It is the insidious knowing that we are not originally of this plane. That we are fallen.

    And in the broken yearning for home, we search for what we came here to discover.

    Everything that plagues us has been exquisitely designed in our second life, to live in our first life.

    But to seek the second life as the goal is to miss the point. Because our return is the only inevitability.

    To live the first life as a pursuit of the second, is to clench in anticipation of the relief of tomorrow, because we cannot give ourselves over to today.

    And today is the game. This life is the beautiful gift we gave ourselves.

    Ewan Townhead

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  • Speak the truth.

    What moves you. What perplexes you. What pisses you off.

    Whatever comes out. The more you say it, the more wants to come.

    Keep speaking, even if it’s just for you, to untangle the mess in your head, scribbled in a notebook and kept on a shelf.

    And then. More often than you’d prefer.

    Share it.

    Publish it.

    Give it to as many people as you can.

    Some will like what you say, and ask you to say something else, something more. Then you have one more listener. And one more person who might be touched by your words.

    Don’t do it to get attention – because you’re lonely and want people to look at you.

    Speak because you have something that you must say. That you want to say.

    Because speaking what is inside, changes what is outside. And then inside in return.

    And that’s what we’re here for.

    Ewan Townhead

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  • There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to be conscious – to feel, to actually notice what’s going on around me

    And so when I’m not looking, it sneaks around behind me and steps into me, putting his hands inside my hands.

    When I can’t find a way to say what I want to say as I write, he takes over, gets up and smokes a cigarette.

    When I don’t know what to do with my discomfort and anxiety at the great work project in front of me, he rescues me, and I turn to Facebook and divulge myself of the responsibility of feeling myself.

    When I can’t find a way to be with the grief and longing in my heart, he steps in swiftly and feeds me cheesecake and pasta, and all the feelings melt away in culinary overwhelm.

    These are my time disruptors. They are the crutches of my attention. The habits that I can always lean on when the present moment becomes something I want no part of.

    The magnificence of the moment hides itself from me as I look for solace out in the future, that imagined reality where I will finally have resolved all my problems. Or in the memories of the past, where I look for the reasons I can’t find what I’m now looking for.

    All the while, the gift of this moment goes unclaimed.

    I’m sorry sweetheart, I neglect you don’t I?

    And then there it is, the utterly simple beauty of noticing now. The way the candle flame flickers and reminds me that time is moving. The miracle of a roof, and a glass of wine, and the fact I get to spend my time writing things like this.

    Ewan Townhead

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  • It is I who am your greatest longing.

    I long for you to open yourself and receive all that is.

    For when you do so my dear, you will realize that there is only This. Only Love.

    Can you feel me when you are moved?

    Can you feel that there is no other way but to surrender yourself to the beautiful pain that is the very substance of This?

    Can you be ignorant enough to allow that which you don’t realize you know?

    Can you be big enough to feel that which is bleeding for you, in every moment?

    As I sit here, looking out over the fields of a simpler existence, I feel the sadness. Not of loss, or not having, but of that which I dare not fully allow myself to feel.

    Out there, beyond the trees is a golden sun, waiting to burn you up in its glorious fire.

    Can you allow yourself to burn in Love and release that in you which is not really alive?

    14604002_mI am so in love in with my own reflection.

    I’ve worked very hard to preen his image, and yet I hate him for it. I hate him for being something untouchable, like the stranger in the mirror. A reflection of something I invented.

    Every crumb of suffering I am fed has the same elusive imprint.

    And as I invite the taste of them in just enough, so as to follow the trail back to the one that dropped them, they lead to the same lakeside.

    The one where I’ve forgotten who I really am.

    The one where before I knew how to, I created an image in the water, and loved him so desperately.

    I cry for him, as I hate him for stealing my skin and pulling the strings of innocence.

    I curse him for doing all he can to keep his own freedom. He who has been my greatest love, and my oldest friend. So delicate.

    And yet, as I feed him I starve. And I am so very hungry. Hungry for the beauty that I am. Hungry for the space that I am asked to exhibit.

    I love you my young friend, so very dearly. You are everything I thought I wanted.

    You are nothing like me, and for that I love you unconditionally, as I offer you up.

    Remember. There is only This. Only love.

    Ewan Townhead

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