#inner-landscape — Public Fediverse posts

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

Migraine, Perception, and Creative Flow

Living Inside A Migraine

When pain, perception, and medication reshape daily life

I’ve been dealing with a migraine for nine days. This isn’t just a headache—it comes with aura, Alice in Wonderland syndrome, and persistent vertigo with nausea. My perception gets distorted, my thinking slows down, and basic tasks become difficult. The medication helps with the pain, but it brings its own side effects, and overall, it’s been hard to function.

In the middle of this, something unexpected happened.

A Brief Shift in State

Unexpected focus and creative flow during disruption

While I was heavily medicated, I had a period of intense creative focus. For a few hours, I was able to paint with a level of freedom that I don’t usually reach. It felt like my usual mental filters were lowered. I wasn’t second‑guessing decisions or holding back. I just worked.

The result was different from my normal work—more direct, less controlled, but also more expressive.

This raised a question for me: what actually changed in that moment?

Changes in Perception

How migraine and medication alter access, not ability

Triptans, the medication I use for acute migraine attacks, act on serotonin receptors. They’re not psychedelics, but they do affect how the brain processes signals. Combined with the migraine itself—especially aura, which already alters perception—the overall effect is a shift in how I experience space, color, and thought.

That shift isn’t comfortable. Most of it is disorienting and unpleasant. But within it, there was a brief window where my usual patterns loosened. And in that space, creative work felt easier.

Access, Not Creation

The work was already there—the conditions just changed

It’s important to be clear: the migraine didn’t “create” anything. The creativity was already there. What changed was how accessible it felt. The conditions removed some of the internal constraints I usually work within—habits, expectations, and self‑editing.

That’s not something I want to rely on. The cost is too high. But it does point to something useful.

If a change in mental state can affect how I access creativity, then there may be other ways to reach similar openness without the physical toll. It suggests that part of my creative process is limited not by ability, but by structure—how tightly I control the outcome, how much I filter while working.

There’s also a broader connection here. Decades ago, I had experiences with psychedelics that shifted how I saw the world and myself. Those experiences helped me let go of a lot of fear and rigidity. I don’t return to them now, but the perspective they opened up has stayed with me.

That perspective has been important in dealing with chronic migraine. The pain itself isn’t optional, but my response to it isn’t fixed. Over time, I’ve learned to manage the mental side of it—how much resistance I bring to it, how I interpret it, and how I move through it. That doesn’t eliminate suffering, but it changes its intensity and impact.

The recent experience fits into that same pattern. Even in a difficult state, there was a moment where something shifted—not into relief exactly, but into clarity of a different kind.

For me, the takeaway isn’t about the medication or the migraine. It’s about access.

The kind of creative flow I felt isn’t something external that I need to recreate through extreme conditions. It’s something internal that I was briefly able to reach under unusual circumstances.

Openness and Letting Go

When the boundary between experience and experiencer softens

There’s also a quality in that state that’s familiar from meditation. It’s a kind of openness where the usual sense of separation starts to fade. Instead of feeling like an observer acting on an experience, there’s just the experience itself—no clear boundary between the one perceiving and what’s being perceived. In that space, the need to control or interpret loosens, and the work unfolds more directly, without the usual distance between intention and action.

Working with Pain

Perspective, resistance, and what can shift

Another layer to this is perspective. The difference between being overwhelmed by the experience and moving through it often comes down to how it’s held. I wrote previously about the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path as a framework for navigating chronic pain from migraine and lupus. What stands out to me now is how practical that framework is—not as philosophy, but as a way of adjusting perspective in real time.

When The Pain Takes Over

A reminder that practice isn’t always accessible

Pain is present. That part isn’t optional. But the added weight—resistance, fear, frustration—can shift depending on how tightly I hold the experience. That said, this isn’t always accessible. There are moments when the pain takes over completely. Last night was one of those times. I woke up in the middle of the night in severe pain after my first medication didn’t work. I couldn’t find my stronger medication, didn’t have my glasses, and ended up searching through cabinets, drawers, and bags in a panic. I knew that without it, I might end up in the ER—where the treatment helps, but comes with hours of discomfort and side effects. I was overwhelmed, in tears, and scared.

In moments like that, there isn’t much space for perspective or practice. But experiences like this also make something clear to me: without meditation, without the framework I’ve built from Buddhist practice, I would likely be living in that state of panic much more often. My commotion woke up my husband, who came in—calm, steady, not caught in the panic I was in. He found the medication, and he cleaned up the mess I had made searching as I went back to bed. That contrast stood out. It reminded me that while I can’t always access those tools in the moment, they still shape how I move through these experiences over time.

Returning to Openness

Creative flow, meditation, and another way of relating to experience

It’s not easy to stay open in the middle of persistent pain. In those moments, it’s hard to remember that the pain will pass—that it isn’t permanent. Pain forces attention into the present, but not calmly or intentionally. It can narrow everything down to urgency and survival. At the same time, it can act as a kind of teacher. It shows where resistance builds, where fear takes hold, and how quickly the mind tries to escape what’s happening. When I’m able to step back, even slightly, I can see it less as something to fight and more as something that reveals how I relate to experience.

What I keep coming back to is this: the experience changes depending on how I meet it. Not completely, not all at once, but enough to matter. And in those moments of openness, there is less separation—and a little more space for things to be as they are.

I painted this over six hours while medicated for a migraine, drifting in and out of focus. The haze loosened my usual self‑judgment, and the work shifted into something more fluid and intuitive. It’s not complete, but the evolution itself tells the story.

Migraine, Perception, and Creative Flow

Living Inside A Migraine

When pain, perception, and medication reshape daily life

I’ve been dealing with a migraine for nine days. This isn’t just a headache—it comes with aura, Alice in Wonderland syndrome, and persistent vertigo with nausea. My perception gets distorted, my thinking slows down, and basic tasks become difficult. The medication helps with the pain, but it brings its own side effects, and overall, it’s been hard to function.

In the middle of this, something unexpected happened.

A Brief Shift in State

Unexpected focus and creative flow during disruption

While I was heavily medicated, I had a period of intense creative focus. For a few hours, I was able to paint with a level of freedom that I don’t usually reach. It felt like my usual mental filters were lowered. I wasn’t second‑guessing decisions or holding back. I just worked.

The result was different from my normal work—more direct, less controlled, but also more expressive.

This raised a question for me: what actually changed in that moment?

Changes in Perception

How migraine and medication alter access, not ability

Triptans, the medication I use for acute migraine attacks, act on serotonin receptors. They’re not psychedelics, but they do affect how the brain processes signals. Combined with the migraine itself—especially aura, which already alters perception—the overall effect is a shift in how I experience space, color, and thought.

That shift isn’t comfortable. Most of it is disorienting and unpleasant. But within it, there was a brief window where my usual patterns loosened. And in that space, creative work felt easier.

Access, Not Creation

The work was already there—the conditions just changed

It’s important to be clear: the migraine didn’t “create” anything. The creativity was already there. What changed was how accessible it felt. The conditions removed some of the internal constraints I usually work within—habits, expectations, and self‑editing.

That’s not something I want to rely on. The cost is too high. But it does point to something useful.

If a change in mental state can affect how I access creativity, then there may be other ways to reach similar openness without the physical toll. It suggests that part of my creative process is limited not by ability, but by structure—how tightly I control the outcome, how much I filter while working.

There’s also a broader connection here. Decades ago, I had experiences with psychedelics that shifted how I saw the world and myself. Those experiences helped me let go of a lot of fear and rigidity. I don’t return to them now, but the perspective they opened up has stayed with me.

That perspective has been important in dealing with chronic migraine. The pain itself isn’t optional, but my response to it isn’t fixed. Over time, I’ve learned to manage the mental side of it—how much resistance I bring to it, how I interpret it, and how I move through it. That doesn’t eliminate suffering, but it changes its intensity and impact.

The recent experience fits into that same pattern. Even in a difficult state, there was a moment where something shifted—not into relief exactly, but into clarity of a different kind.

For me, the takeaway isn’t about the medication or the migraine. It’s about access.

The kind of creative flow I felt isn’t something external that I need to recreate through extreme conditions. It’s something internal that I was briefly able to reach under unusual circumstances.

Openness and Letting Go

When the boundary between experience and experiencer softens

There’s also a quality in that state that’s familiar from meditation. It’s a kind of openness where the usual sense of separation starts to fade. Instead of feeling like an observer acting on an experience, there’s just the experience itself—no clear boundary between the one perceiving and what’s being perceived. In that space, the need to control or interpret loosens, and the work unfolds more directly, without the usual distance between intention and action.

Working with Pain

Perspective, resistance, and what can shift

Another layer to this is perspective. The difference between being overwhelmed by the experience and moving through it often comes down to how it’s held. I wrote previously about the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path as a framework for navigating chronic pain from migraine and lupus. What stands out to me now is how practical that framework is—not as philosophy, but as a way of adjusting perspective in real time.

When The Pain Takes Over

A reminder that practice isn’t always accessible

Pain is present. That part isn’t optional. But the added weight—resistance, fear, frustration—can shift depending on how tightly I hold the experience. That said, this isn’t always accessible. There are moments when the pain takes over completely. Last night was one of those times. I woke up in the middle of the night in severe pain after my first medication didn’t work. I couldn’t find my stronger medication, didn’t have my glasses, and ended up searching through cabinets, drawers, and bags in a panic. I knew that without it, I might end up in the ER—where the treatment helps, but comes with hours of discomfort and side effects. I was overwhelmed, in tears, and scared.

In moments like that, there isn’t much space for perspective or practice. But experiences like this also make something clear to me: without meditation, without the framework I’ve built from Buddhist practice, I would likely be living in that state of panic much more often. My commotion woke up my husband, who came in—calm, steady, not caught in the panic I was in. He found the medication, and he cleaned up the mess I had made searching as I went back to bed. That contrast stood out. It reminded me that while I can’t always access those tools in the moment, they still shape how I move through these experiences over time.

Returning to Openness

Creative flow, meditation, and another way of relating to experience

It’s not easy to stay open in the middle of persistent pain. In those moments, it’s hard to remember that the pain will pass—that it isn’t permanent. Pain forces attention into the present, but not calmly or intentionally. It can narrow everything down to urgency and survival. At the same time, it can act as a kind of teacher. It shows where resistance builds, where fear takes hold, and how quickly the mind tries to escape what’s happening. When I’m able to step back, even slightly, I can see it less as something to fight and more as something that reveals how I relate to experience.

What I keep coming back to is this: the experience changes depending on how I meet it. Not completely, not all at once, but enough to matter. And in those moments of openness, there is less separation—and a little more space for things to be as they are.

I painted this over six hours while medicated for a migraine, drifting in and out of focus. The haze loosened my usual self‑judgment, and the work shifted into something more fluid and intuitive. It’s not complete, but the evolution itself tells the story.

In Capa Citation

this cold paralysisfreezing of mindbodysoulseizes meuntil every innervesselsqueezesshutthere is no sunwarm enoughexcepttimeandyetthe stuffof lifeconspirestoleave mebreathlessstrange toobserveIa frozen thingyet stillspinningincirclessomewherefar awaybeneathbittersnowIliewaitingfor thepainfulthaw

The First Green Thorn

I returned
expecting only stone.

The same arch.
The same hollow.
The same bouquet
browned at the edges
like a prayer
left too long
in the weather.

I had learned
the discipline of kneeling.

I had learned
how to make peace
with the wrong place.

There is a strange holiness
in returning
to what cannot answer.

There is a strange faith
in speaking
to silence
until silence becomes
less empty.

But this morning,
at the foot of the cenotaph,
where the rain had gathered
in the crack
between two stones,

something had risen.

Not a flower.

Not yet.

Only a thorned green stem,
small enough
to be missed
by anyone
who came looking
for a miracle.

It leaned toward the light
with the awkward courage
of a thing
that had not been told
it was impossible.

I almost wept
from fear.

Grief I knew.
Absence I knew.
The old wound
had become a room
I could enter
without striking a match.

But life—
life arriving
without permission,
life answering
when I had stopped
asking,
life wearing thorns
before blossoms—

this was a more terrible mercy.

For if something grows here,
then I must change.

If the stone has cracked,
then I cannot spend forever
calling it final.

If roots have found me,
if green has entered
the vocabulary of my mourning,
then perhaps I have been wrong
about the dead.

Perhaps not all that is buried
is finished.

Perhaps not all that is empty
is abandoned.

Perhaps the former self
does not return
as the boy who believed,
but as the wound
that has learned
to shelter a seed.

I touched the stem
and blood rose
from my finger.

So this, too,
is resurrection:

not the absence of pain,
but pain made porous
to light.

Not the grave undone
all at once,
but a thorn
breaking through stone,

a small green alphabet
beginning again

where the epitaph
ran out of words.

The Cenotaph Triad

The Cenotaph

The Roots Beneath the Stone

The First Green Thorn

The Root Beneath the Stone

I thought the stone was final.

I thought the name carved there
was the last word
the earth would allow.

I thought absence
had a kind of authority,
as if an empty place
could speak with the voice of God
and say,
No farther.

But last night,
beneath the monument,
something moved.

Not the dead.
Not the lost.
Not the boy exactly,
nor the song,
nor the face before sorrow
taught it its new expression.

Something thinner than memory,
but stronger than grief.

A root.

Pale as a finger
beneath the dark soil,
blindly seeking
what the heart had forgotten
how to want.

It did not knock.
It did not rise
with trumpets or thunder.
It did not roll the stone away.

It only pressed
against the underside
of what I had mistaken
for an ending.

All these years
I had been kneeling
before emptiness,
bringing flowers
to a place
that could not receive them.

But perhaps the flowers knew
what I did not.

Perhaps their stems,
cut and dying,
were still fluent
in the old language of return.

Perhaps every grief
I laid down there
became compost.

Perhaps every tear
sank farther
than my prayers.

Perhaps the thing I mourned
was not buried elsewhere
after all,
but traveling underground,
passing through houses
that no longer stand,
fields grown over
with strange weeds,
the silence after a voice
has vanished.

I wanted resurrection
to arrive upright,
whole,
recognizable.

I wanted the former self
to come walking back
wearing the same face,
carrying the same bright belief,
singing the song
exactly as it was
before the world interrupted.

But roots do not return
as branches.

Seeds do not rise
as seeds.

What comes back
comes changed,
darkened by earth,
fed by what has fallen,
tender where it once was proud.

So I will come again
to the cenotaph.

I will bring flowers.

I will kneel.

But I will listen now
not for the dead
inside the stone,
not for the old name
to answer me,

but for the small green pressure
beneath everything,

the mercy
working in secret,

the hidden life
that does not ask
whether the grave was marked correctly,

only whether there is still
somewhere in me

a little soil

left open.

The Cenotaph Triad

The Cenotaph

The Roots Beneath the Stone

The First Green Thorn

The Cenotaph

There are places in me
where I go to mourn
what is not there.

An empty stone,
a name without a body,
a date without a doorway.

The precious thing is buried elsewhere—
in a house that no longer stands,
in a field grown over strange weeds,
in a voice I cannot quite recover,
in the face of someone
before disappointment taught them
how to look away.

I bring flowers
to the wrong place.

Still, I come.

Because memory does not always know
where the dead are buried.
Sometimes, it only knows
where to kneel.

And perhaps that is what I am:
a cenotaph of my former selves,
a monument raised far from the grave,
a body still walking
with epitaphs hidden under the skin.

Here lies the boy who believed.
Here lies the song unsung.

Here lies the photo with the blurred face.
Here lies the joy that went ahead of me
and never came back.

But the mausoleum is empty.

That is the terror.
That is the mercy.

For what is not here
may not be wholly lost.
What is buried far away
may still be sending roots beneath the earth,
their ghostly fingers stretching toward me.

The Cenotaph Triad

The Cenotaph

The Roots Beneath the Stone

The First Green Thorn

The Power of Relationships in Shaping Identity

We Do Not Move Through Life Alone

I often return to the same idea when I cannot sleep.

On the surface, life appears singular. One body, one name, one mind moving through time. It can feel as though we travel through existence as isolated entities, responsible only for our own thoughts and choices. Yet when the world quiets—when the distractions fall away and the night opens space for reflection—that illusion begins to soften.

Who I am today is not the result of a solitary path, but a reflection of every experience I have encountered along the way. Every interaction, every shared moment—no matter how brief or seemingly insignificant—has shaped something within me. Some of these moments announced themselves loudly. Others flow quietly, unnoticed at the time, only revealing their influence later. Still, each one left an imprint.

We are not separate beings moving past one another untouched. We are vibrations, interconnected in a complex, ever-shifting dance of energy. Each encounter subtly alters that rhythm. A conversation can change the way we see ourselves. A look can linger longer than words. A moment of grace can soften a place inside us that we didn’t realize had hardened. Even moments of tension or misunderstanding carry information, reshaping the inner landscape in ways we may only recognize much later.

Life unfolds, and we unfold with it.

There is a natural ebb and flow to existence—of emotions, of resilience, of learning, of becoming. We are constantly shifting in small, often imperceptible ways to accommodate this unfolding. Some days, the shifts are gentle. Other days, they are disruptive, demanding attention. But they are always happening. We are never static.

When we allow this process—when we move with life rather than against it—there is a sense of alignment. Not perfection, not ease in every moment, but a kind of coherence. The inner and outer worlds speak to one another in a shared language. We respond rather than resist. We listen rather than brace.

When we fight the natural movement of existence, however, we encounter friction.

Resistance To Flow

That resistance creates a different vibration. It tightens the body. It clouds perception. It turns experience into something to endure rather than something to integrate. This friction is not a failure; it is information. It signals that something is being held too rigidly, that we are attempting to remain unchanged in a reality that is defined by change.

Our inner landscape reflects this tension. Just as environments respond to pressure—eroding, cracking, reshaping—so do we. The emotional terrain shifts. Old beliefs are challenged. Patterns either deepen or dissolve. Nothing remains untouched.

This is not a call to passive acceptance or disengagement. Rather, it is an invitation to participation. To recognize that we are co-creators in this process, shaped by what we meet and shaping in return. Every relationship, every experience, every shared moment contributes to who we are becoming.

In this way, identity is not fixed. It is relational.

Deepening of Self

We are composed not only of our own thoughts and histories, but of the echoes of others—their words, their presence, their absence. Our inner worlds are populated landscapes, layered with meaning gathered over time. This does not diminish individuality; it deepens it. It reminds us that depth comes from contact, not isolation.

Perhaps this is why these thoughts surface at night. When we are no longer performing our separateness, the truth of interconnection becomes harder to ignore. The mind, finally unoccupied, begins to integrate what the day delivered. Sleep resists not because something is wrong, but because something is still settling.

There is comfort in this understanding.

It tells us that we are not broken for being affected. That sensitivity is not weakness. The way we carry others within us is evidence that we have lived fully, openly, and in relationship with the world. It reminds us that meaning is not manufactured alone, but emerges in the spaces between.

We are shaped by life as it happens—and we, in turn, shape the life unfolding around us. This shared movement, this mutual influence, is not a distraction from who we are. It is who we are.

.

In stillness I sit
awareness blossoms
flow, naturalness, suchness.
In stillness I am
emptiness and everything
sat-chit-ananda.

~K.M. Simonds

The Power of Relationships in Shaping Identity

We Do Not Move Through Life Alone

I often return to the same idea when I cannot sleep.

On the surface, life appears singular. One body, one name, one mind moving through time. It can feel as though we travel through existence as isolated entities, responsible only for our own thoughts and choices. Yet when the world quiets—when the distractions fall away and the night opens space for reflection—that illusion begins to soften.

Who I am today is not the result of a solitary path, but a reflection of every experience I have encountered along the way. Every interaction, every shared moment—no matter how brief or seemingly insignificant—has shaped something within me. Some of these moments announced themselves loudly. Others flow quietly, unnoticed at the time, only revealing their influence later. Still, each one left an imprint.

We are not separate beings moving past one another untouched. We are vibrations, interconnected in a complex, ever-shifting dance of energy. Each encounter subtly alters that rhythm. A conversation can change the way we see ourselves. A look can linger longer than words. A moment of grace can soften a place inside us that we didn’t realize had hardened. Even moments of tension or misunderstanding carry information, reshaping the inner landscape in ways we may only recognize much later.

Life unfolds, and we unfold with it.

There is a natural ebb and flow to existence—of emotions, of resilience, of learning, of becoming. We are constantly shifting in small, often imperceptible ways to accommodate this unfolding. Some days, the shifts are gentle. Other days, they are disruptive, demanding attention. But they are always happening. We are never static.

When we allow this process—when we move with life rather than against it—there is a sense of alignment. Not perfection, not ease in every moment, but a kind of coherence. The inner and outer worlds speak to one another in a shared language. We respond rather than resist. We listen rather than brace.

When we fight the natural movement of existence, however, we encounter friction.

Resistance To Flow

That resistance creates a different vibration. It tightens the body. It clouds perception. It turns experience into something to endure rather than something to integrate. This friction is not a failure; it is information. It signals that something is being held too rigidly, that we are attempting to remain unchanged in a reality that is defined by change.

Our inner landscape reflects this tension. Just as environments respond to pressure—eroding, cracking, reshaping—so do we. The emotional terrain shifts. Old beliefs are challenged. Patterns either deepen or dissolve. Nothing remains untouched.

This is not a call to passive acceptance or disengagement. Rather, it is an invitation to participation. To recognize that we are co-creators in this process, shaped by what we meet and shaping in return. Every relationship, every experience, every shared moment contributes to who we are becoming.

In this way, identity is not fixed. It is relational.

Deepening of Self

We are composed not only of our own thoughts and histories, but of the echoes of others—their words, their presence, their absence. Our inner worlds are populated landscapes, layered with meaning gathered over time. This does not diminish individuality; it deepens it. It reminds us that depth comes from contact, not isolation.

Perhaps this is why these thoughts surface at night. When we are no longer performing our separateness, the truth of interconnection becomes harder to ignore. The mind, finally unoccupied, begins to integrate what the day delivered. Sleep resists not because something is wrong, but because something is still settling.

There is comfort in this understanding.

It tells us that we are not broken for being affected. That sensitivity is not weakness. The way we carry others within us is evidence that we have lived fully, openly, and in relationship with the world. It reminds us that meaning is not manufactured alone, but emerges in the spaces between.

We are shaped by life as it happens—and we, in turn, shape the life unfolding around us. This shared movement, this mutual influence, is not a distraction from who we are. It is who we are.

.

In stillness I sit
awareness blossoms
flow, naturalness, suchness.
In stillness I am
emptiness and everything
sat-chit-ananda.

~K.M. Simonds

Benefiting From Mental Chatter
Mental chatter provides a chance to strengthen mental muscles and discover inner landscape.

#meditation #mentalchatter #innerlandscape

Benefiting From Mental Chatter
Mental chatter provides a chance to strengthen mental muscles and discover inner landscape.

#meditation #mentalchatter #innerlandscape

Benefiting From Mental Chatter
Mental chatter provides a chance to strengthen mental muscles and discover inner landscape.

#meditation #mentalchatter #innerlandscape

Benefiting From Mental Chatter
Mental chatter provides a chance to strengthen mental muscles and discover inner landscape.

#meditation #mentalchatter #innerlandscape

The Gateway
The breath is a gateway to the innerscape.

#breath #innerlandscape #meditation

The Gateway
The breath is a gateway to the innerscape.

#breath #innerlandscape #meditation

The Gateway
The breath is a gateway to the innerscape.

#breath #innerlandscape #meditation

The Gateway
The breath is a gateway to the innerscape.

#breath #innerlandscape #meditation

Aujourd'hui sur Blog à part –

Inner Landscape: 3h33

C’est au cours d’une des émissions de MoM que j’ai entendu parler de Inner Landscape et de 3h33. Du post-metal en produit régional, ça m’intéresse.

#France #InnerLandscape #metalProgressif #postMetal

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