Musings from a Transformed Being

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Musings from a Transformed Being

Dare Sohei


Healing doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll feel less pain, or have less pain. It may, but it may also mean that the pain that’s there/here won’t take up all your attention, won’t distract you from what you CAN do, what else you can feel, what else is possible.
Healing is a long game. Healing is often indirect, a strange consequence of different alignment and distributing forces across multiple relational networks and ecosystems.
Healing isn’t really even the point of living, it’s a way we measure with our human ideals, and sometimes our ideals get in the way of healing.
Fate and Death have more to do with Living and Healing than we like to realize, partly because the white idea of “karma” is mangled through bizarre filters that remove the wholeness from the idea.
We will all suffer some pain, we will all die, and yet everyone can feel loved, if not by other humans, than by joy, by music or by the pervading gaze of the forest.
No one knows when or how we will tip over into feeling mostly well or mostly good. There’s no way to know.
It might happen right now as you feel into some of these words that feel good. Healing might be just a bright color away.
Fate is a sacred challenge we all share with our ancestors. Escaping fate is exactly the problem, disconnection from the wider networks that might help us distribute the load of our lives.



I’ve been away from internet for a few days, how lovely. I return from reading and writing, poetry mainly, because this is how i enjoy communication. I’ve been writing on this platform for a few years, because it made sense to me to use this medium for the kind of hybrid textuality i enjoy. I came from a bit of spoken word, improv, devised theater, clown, somatic art… and now i’m supposably a teacher in this age of trauma, with all the projections that entails.

And yet i still push back on this mono-identity matrix thing that is happening. I try to “make sense” sometimes because so many people are in such pain – mental, physical, emotional, spiritual, cultural pain.
To tell you the truth, my truth, a truth, i would rather be seen as the tom waits of counseling if i had my druthers. so with all this prefacing out of the way, here is a poem i wrote this weekend that hopefully acts as both a warning and an invitation.
who do we write for
if it is merely for other humans, with their resonant struggles and secret kinks, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the animals, who do not care about what i am saying because it has no bearing on their actual lives except in the ways i might harm them with my frightened actions, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the plants and trees and flowers, who inspire me sometimes but who go on and on in worlds i can’t describe, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the lands that dream me, that i only speak of in hushed and cryptic tones out of the corners of my mouth when i stupidly dare to think about time and death, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the gods, who hold a broken mirror to my broken face and clap with thunder and cry with rain but ultimately swallow up my gifts like butterscotch candy, appreciating me as i appreciate each breath, which is to say, very briefly or not at all, then i do not want to write.
if it is for my other selves, who dwell in colored layers in the essence of my gaseous mind – the mind i think is mine, but maybe i am just a Walmart joker in their courtyard telling lies about the royal family from the cheep perspective of a drunk bird with annoying whistles and a depreciating mortgage on the dark side of town – then i may want to write to liberate myself from myself, a noble effort with no chance in hell, in which case then i do not want to write.
if i am writing because i have to, in the same sort of way one has to defecate, or else become devoured by what i have devoured, then i do not want to write.
if i write to be in service of transforming order into chaos again, then i must write.



a simple difference that is profound is the global meme of the white jesus – open hearted on the cross (tortured and murdered and dying) vs. having beautiful alive sex with mary magdalene.
the former is praised, modeled, copied and talked about endlessly while the latter is shunned, demonized, slandered and denied.
we live in a society of the former, not the latter, and that makes a whole lot of difference.
in other words, if your body registers the latter as threatening because to be alive spiritually in your lower body/pelvis/genitals is to be killed or exiled or abandoned, then the body will route sensations/blood/energy differently – automatically and unconsciously based on epigenetic trauma, ancestral ghosts, and cultural threats.
and it will “seem” as if that is just your opinion, preference, talent or tendency, rather than a multi-causal effect of forced somatic contortion.

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