You Complete Me

We never got enough of it.
Nobody ever does.
Perhaps it is the memory
of a more universal love,
unburdened by the shackles
of our own species—
expectations, resentments,
yearning, always yearning.

And so we gather like magnets
on a child’s toy, drawn to
and captivated by whatever it is
we feel lacking
in our own constellation
of self.

In that drawing toward
something that feels compelling,
we forget who we are, that we are,
and what we become is utterly
lost to ourselves—our essence—
in the desperate grasp for something,
anything, to help us fill the hollow
that widens within.

If we find another
with similar strivings,
we call it a match.
Jerry Maguire arriving—
you complete me—
and we lean toward,
away from ourselves.

The fly, drawn to
the heart of the spider’s web.
I am needed—call it desired—
by another equally dependent
on the oxygen of my being.
And we call it romance.

What else has a vacuous culture
conditioned us to expect?

Sovereignty, for all the word implies,
is a hard-won freedom
from such constrictions.
A self-containment rare
in a world of codependence.
A plain muslin garment
we try on from time to time,
its threads chafing tender flesh.

So what is a soul to do
on a lonely planet,
lush with natural beauty we ignore in favor of
the small rooms we build inside ourselves,
when we shrink it all down
to the tiny world
within walls
of our own construction?

Perhaps one day we long
to be free, and the awkward process,
flowers unfolding to the light,
begins.

bj ~ 2022

The Leap

Look — the universe is not chaos.
It is ordered beneath appearance.

The void —
a dark, voluminous fullness —
listens before it speaks.
It pulses with life, with potential,
and makes no effort to explain itself.

The quantum realm has much to teach
that way.

In the silence where thought evaporates,
where equations loosen their grip
and drift back into starlight,
only impressions remain.
Only sensation.

Here, reason insists there should be lack —
and yet there is fullness.
A humming quiet.
A sufficiency that does not argue
for its own existence.

God withdraws
so creation may proceed.

No one can be led here.
Nothing meaningful is borrowed.
Trust is the crossing.
It moves in both directions.

And if we can hold this
without flinching,
without presumption,
we may discover —
not something new —
but what it is to be
entirely, unmistakably,
ourselves.

Upolu Pt. ~ bj 2025

Where Is Love?

Daily writing prompt

Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

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People are fickle.
Emotions vary.

The universe and nature know nothing
of these human fluctuations.
The mountains and the stars simply are.

Their constancy has always given me
a deep sense that I am loved beyond measure.

Why?

Because I exist.

Each day and every night, I witness
sunrise, sunset,
the moon and stars,
doing what they have done for millennia.

Despite humanity’s worst efforts—
forests cleared, air fouled, waters polluted—
the Earth endures.

Tides still come in.
Tides still go out.

And each evening,
she fans out a breathtaking palette of color
before night falls.

How could one not feel loved
in the face of that?

Inside our houses and institutions,
the dramas run rampant.

Despite the sufficiency nature grants for free,
we steep ourselves in lack—
in what we do not possess.

We work away our days,
and sometimes our nights,
striving and grasping for things
we cannot carry beyond the grave.

We love, then we hate.
We blame others for our own lack of understanding.
Our time is too valuable to sit and listen,
to try to see from another’s viewpoint.

We hold onto beliefs as though they are lifeboats,
then exclude those who do not cling
to the same rigid forms.

And the one thing we most want from another?
To feel loved.

But love is the given—
the stardust from which we are made.

The ground beneath our feet
does not ask who we are
or what we believe;
it supports us just the same.

A tree’s branches welcome
any creature without question.

And we, above all species
on this beautiful blue orb,
possess the choice
to share what is in our hearts
or to turn away,
offering reasons for exclusion.

We bow our heads, rejected,
when all we have to do
is open—
again and again—
to love’s awareness.

Kawaihae sunset ~ bj 2017

Marathon

Daily writing prompt

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

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Because thoughts become things.
Intention is essential.
— Laureli Ivanoff

At seventy-two, my thoughts on living a very long life
are necessarily different
than they were at forty.

I have lived long enough to watch friends fall ill
and die.
Long enough to witness the suffering born not only
of disease,
but of confused priorities—
of people unaware of their own unexamined lives,
their own lack of self-reflection.

Age has not narrowed my vision.
It has widened it.
I know now, to the marrow,
how small our petty dramas truly are—
including those perpetuated by others
in the name of protection, loyalty, or fear.
Attachments tighten.
Hearts close.
And the world shrinks to whatever we believe
will keep us safe.

Recently, an elder friend died—
not gently,
but drowning in her own body fluids.
She had traveled a great distance
to be near those she loved,
only to discover that once she arrived,
the surrounding dramas took precedence
over time spent simply being with her.

Many study expansive awareness.
Few practice it.
The lotus position does not prepare us
for the moment when compassion costs us
convenience.
Do we see how we affect others?
Do we care enough to look honestly
at our own failings?
Do we ever ask
what we might one day regret?

Those who live with eyes open—
who tend their bodies and spirits,
who choose joy despite having seen
the darker edges of human nature—
we become the elders.
We face the road ahead
with either quiet excitement
or unspoken dread.
We are the ones who must live with
the consequences of choosing longevity
in a culture that increasingly
marginalizes its aging.

Each morning, I wake with optimism
about what the day might bring.
At night, I fall asleep wrapped
in the steady love of my longtime companion,
secure in the knowledge
that our needs are met—
while so many lie awake
fearing how they will endure
the years ahead.

I look forward,
but not naively.
I know that any sunrise
may carry news of loss—
another passing,
another rupture.
If these thoughts do not visit you at forty,
trust me:
they will arrive
sooner than you expect.

And so—
be kind.
Be aware.

We are a small planet
in a vast cosmos,
yet our lives matter.
Our thoughts carry weight.
Our choices ripple outward.

Love unreservedly.
See one another clearly.
So that when the end comes—
yours, or someone you love—
there will be nothing left undone,
nothing left unsaid,
and no regrets
worth carrying forward.

Tide going out, Santa Cruz ~ 2017

Deferring to the Now

Daily writing prompt

Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?

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Mindfulness is brilliant in its essence—
always here, always now.
But I would be lying
if I said I lived there
all the time.

My mind keeps me alert, attentive
to details I would otherwise miss
in the complexity of daily life.
Yet it can mislead,
moving too quickly
when important choices are required.

So when decisions arise,
I return to mindfulness
to discover clarity and space.
Still, the mind wanders—
drifting forward and back,
like fingers on a guitar’s neck:
often melodic,
sometimes dissonant.

That dissonance most often appears
when I look backward.
Memory is an unreliable witness.
My siblings’ recollections of childhood
differ from my own,
just as my children’s memories of me
will differ from mine.

To remember how we felt at five
is like stuffing a king-sized quilt
into a mailbox.
We have grown too much
to make it fit.
And so I step away
from the past
with relative ease.

The future is the opposite.
Anything is possible.
With optimism, imagination
creates worlds.
When I travel forward,
it is to envision peace—
equality among all beings,
a world like the Hawai‘i I call home,
where Aloha is practiced
and the common good
is shared.

Between past and future,
one feels expansive;
the other, fragmented,
often unsettling.
Measuring inner progress
from then to now
keeps me from slipping backward
into confusion and fog.

In the end,
I return to the Now—
the only place
where choice is possible,
and growth occurs.

Stormy horizon ~ bj 2026

Playtime

Daily writing prompt

Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?

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This is a good prompt, for me.

I do not play.
I never grew up playing much—
learned discipline and work instead.

I have a psychology degree.
I know play is considered beneficial,
even essential, for productivity.
And still, I resist it.

I gave my own girls
everything they needed to play—
alone or together—
but I don’t recall playing with them myself.

Even the dog invites me.
Usually it provokes irritation more than joy.

Play with me!
Toss the stick!
Pretend you want it, then I run!

How fun is that?
Not fun for me.
It seems to require too much energy.

That said, I do play—
just not where it’s usually recognized.

I play in my mind.
I twist and turn words and ideas,
shape them into poetry or prose.
More these days than ever.

I allow myself all the time I want
to enter that magical, mystical
realm of thought.

No one restricts me.
No one urges me to get back to work.

Am I too cerebral?

Once, I made myself ride my bike
fifty miles a week.
It was fun—
once I crested that massive hill.
Lowest gear.
Lungs expanding, contracting.
Eyes flooded with brown and green,
the colors of the gulch.

I hiked, too—
rocky roads down to the ocean.

These days—
and I give myself latitude—
I’m simply not moved to action.

Instead, I watch rain sweep over the sea,
spill into the gardens.
I watch flowers drink deeply.
A mango tree sends out new green leaves,
tender at first,
then hardening into permanence
over time.

And maybe that’s what I’m doing.

Ideas forming.
Extending tendrils
into the field of possibility.
Some remain there,
deciding when—
and with whom—
they’ll share
yet another written offering.

Waiting for playtime ~ bj 2018

The Overview

Daily writing prompt

What are your biggest challenges?

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Right now, my greatest challenge
is staying on the planet—
alive and optimistic,
which is my basic nature.

With all that has transpired in 2025,
and all that unfolds across a lifetime
that feels seven centuries long
rather than mere decades,
I have seen too much
of humanity’s unacknowledged shadow—
even among those closest to me.

The betrayals.
The refusal to consider another’s view.
The turning away from difference
rather than allowing it
to become a site of growth
within our own field of relationship.

The challenge is to rise, again and again,
to the possibility of another day.
To allow others whatever time they require
to widen their own perceptions.
To wait while life offers its mirrors
often enough that they finally pause
and look.

What has meaning for me
has always been nature.

What endures?
The answer is the same.

Flowers continue to bloom
under less-than-ideal conditions.
Trees still reach for the heavens
despite repeated efforts to cut them down.

And what survives?

When we are long gone,
when our small worlds we believe so vast
have returned to dust,
the stars will still shine.
The planet will still circle the sun.
Galaxies will continue their slow
expansion and turning.

The challenge is to hold that perspective—
and to wait for others to glimpse
their proper proportion
in a world where love
is the only eternal binding force
we are blessed to witness
and to share.

To be well met
in that expansive frequency.

Expand ~ bj 2025

Loosening The Knot

Daily writing prompt

What makes you feel nostalgic?

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I am not one who looks back, longing
for what was, or what might have been—
that way of seeing sets me up
for self-criticism,
which dims my spirit
rather than lifting it.

Nor am I inclined
to prop myself up with false images,
finding them equally damaging
to the essence of who I am,
and what I have to express
in this short span of a life.

Still, it feels natural
from time to time
to cast back in memory,
to long for a simpler era—
which, for me, would be
the mid-twentieth century.

Then I shake myself awake.
How could the 1950s or ’60s
have been simple?

I won’t insult your intelligence
by rehearsing the broader strokes
of that time.
It’s enough to say this:

In retrospect, it’s easy
to long for what we label innocence—
a time before life felt weighted
with adult responsibility,
before decades of accumulated knowing,
before facts and figures
revealed the depth of our impact
on the Earth,
on one another,
on other species.

And I find myself wondering:
was there ever a moment
when ignorance
was truly bliss?

Hibiscus – bj 2018

The Wonder

Daily writing prompt

Is your life today what you pictured a year ago?

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After rushing about this morning—
muffins for breakfast,
water for the Christmas tree,
matcha made—
I sit.
And breathe.
And notice.

A year ago, I could not have imagined
the utter calm now at my core.

After moving back to these islands,
after four years away,
I was in fragments—pieces—
plagued with doubts and fears
not typical of my usual state of being.
I have never developed a mask
that helps me cope with the existential terror
of being alive in a fragile body
in a tenuous world.

So then, as now, I sought what I seek still:
solitude.
A place where I can write down feelings
such as these,
and dreams, when memory
sparks awareness by rising into time.

What has changed in this transitional year—
despite the jangling collective energy
I feel whenever I leave this sanctuary—
is that sometimes I sense a lull in the matrix,
a pause where my spirit aligns.

There is spaciousness
where there was constriction,
focus
where there was chaos.

I can breathe.

And step out into the garden to water,
and breathe in
the wonder of the day.

Kauai ~ bj 2013

The Day Muhammed Ali Stepped Out of a Pink-Carpeted Limo

Daily writing prompt

Who is the most famous or infamous person you have ever met?

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When I was sixteen,
I worked at a local radio station
that hosted some of the biggest names in the business—
deejays like Casey Kasem and Bob Eubanks,
both of whom would later rise to television fame.

They were true gentlemen,
stand-up guys who always acknowledged
even unpaid interns like me.

The station often invited musicians on the rise
to answer request lines, so I met quite a few—
Frank Zappa.
The Doors.
The Turtles (remember them?).
The Standells (ditto).
Brenton Wood—the Oogum Boogum man himself.

And then there were the surprises,
the back-door arrivals no one announced.

One afternoon I stepped outside
just as a stretch limo pulled up.
Out stepped Muhammad Ali,
larger than life,
resplendent in a suit that shimmered
under the California sun.

The limo’s carpet—pink chinchilla—
was what struck me most.
Maybe it was the audacity of it,
his sheer confidence.

He didn’t see us, of course—
we were just wide-eyed kids,
invisible to greatness.
But I didn’t mind.
It was enough to breathe
the same air as the man
who floated like a butterfly
and stung like a bee.

The city was burning then—
riots in Los Angeles,
smoke rising not far
from where we played records
and answered listener requests.

Yet even that big city
seemed small beside the horror
of the lynchings still happening in the South.

Such was America in the sixties—
brilliance and brutality,
side by side.

And how have things changed,
all these years later?
We seem to be circling the same fires—
racism, equal rights,
tolerance of differences.

Will it matter that we ever raised our voices?
Will this nation ever mature enough
to contain diversity of all sorts?

If I didn’t believe it was possible,
I can hardly think what else
would hold me fast—
to a life as broad and wide
as the blessings I can conceive
beneath the starry dome of heaven.

author with deejay Dave Hull, “The Hullabalooer” ~ c 1968