I (a)wait.

Wooden floorboards on a stage someplace foreign await the heaviness of my foot. I’ve know this since it hit me as a child and brought tears to my eyes outside of my mother’s favorite fashion store. I sank to the floor, back against the wall and sobbed in revelation.

“Mum,” I said “one day they’re all going to wait for me.” And with the only words I knew at the embryonic age of 6 I told her “I was born to be famous.”

God experiences through me the performer. He sees what it is like to be watched. He sees what it is like to live against the grain. This is his wish for me.

So my foundation is being built, and what must be done is being done. I am not eager, I am not excited. I busy myself with the task at hand and await that day. Yet no more than I await the weekend. With a mild amusement and anticipation, but the relaxation of someone who knows it’s there and if missed, that one is just around the corner.

I write to you. I speak to others. I am captured by those who like to capture beautiful moments and looked on at by those who like to watch beautiful moments. I watch as Who I Am (Michael Sunderland) comes slowly into alignment with What I Am (a court jester).

And the process is beautiful, even when the current moment might itself appear ugly. Is the most beautiful part of an olive not that it is nearly rotten? Is the fragility of crystal not a weakness but a fineness? Does youth not owe its beauty to being short-lived? I sit, I watch, life turns. I’m told the way will present itself, and then I will know to act. Until then, the moment calls for patience.

So back to patience. Back to life. Back to not caring what happens next or how it unfolds before me. The stage awaits me. This I know. And I will owe what it said on it to my journey towards it.

I (a)wait.





My feet are weary.

They’ve been dragged back and forth across bumpy holes and have searched out peace in stones and crevices unknown to those that never rose and walked the path. Perfection is near, and far, and here all at once.

A chord change to major relinquishes the unruliness of minor and we are grateful. Humans have never had a lasting predilection for tension. We are creatures of comfort and therein lays our destruction. For sloth befits only the sloth. Humanity only the human, and where is the humanity in your laziness? So rise… and walk the path.

The form the destination takes is only hinted at by the wise and those with sufficiently corrected perception. These men are not with big mouths for talkativeness is not a trait admired by those with knowledge. Discretion, however, is and so I know only the body of the beast and none of its guts. Never mind. The destination for us all is perfection and I shall let that be enough.

You and I are all so mad – are we not? – for what is coming. So much so that we divert its beeline to us and step, instead, into the morass of futility. We farcically amble about here and drown ourselves with all the drama of Prince having lost his favorite raspberry beret. Yet this serves none of our ambitions and supplements only the burgeoning catalogue of things we have yet to correct.

So correct.

Return to your seat, now, be patient. Dinner is being served. And you shall feast with patience until you feast on reward for patience.

So feast.

Devour this moment and the next and be indiscriminate in your hunger for whichever the moment provides; another opportunity to be patient, or a hot meal. Who cares? Fill yourself. Do not wait to be filled by that which is outside you or you will forever be hungry.

When it is time for walking, know to walk.
When it is time for sitting, sit.
When it is time for eating, you shall eat.
When it is time for starving, you shall starve.

And then, fill yourself from the source and in your fullness, relax. And in your relaxation, allow. And through your allowing, attract. Finally through attracting, conserve. You will no longer go hungry.

Art by David Luciano

Tiny Doors.

Clutching hands and urgent grasps, for me, for food, for drink.

I will provide, young child, let me see to little necessities for you. I shall take ownership of all that my eye falls upon and see that what needs doing is done right. I waited so long for your arrival. And my patience was rewarded with the divine fit into a bundle no larger than my palm.

The park air and piano hammers hitting piano strings that float out of open windows nearby are made all the more sweet by the electricity of excitement you lend so freely to me each day. I thank you for that, and feel indebted for such a gift.

Let me point the way for you, and walk or crawl or fall however you see fit to open tiny doors with tiny hands. One day humongous gates will open at your slightest touch, yet we will build slowly and I will not open anything but the way for you. You will live the life of a warrior and, like me, will walk through the fire of life and come out crisped. I will not protect you from your burns, but teach you how to heal them and, in this, you will be self-sufficient and unafraid of fire. If I don’t teach you well what will you have to pass on to your own, in time?

Your mother will be loved and well looked after. She will find me unmovable, gentle, hard, and unconditional in both love and my approbation of you both. She married a man.

And so rest now, you both. Amidst the still certainty I bring to you, relax.

I am honoured to take care of you. This is the longest and dearest duty of my life, and when done I will leave you and sleep easily, forever more. I will be missed but not mourned.

Powerful spirits dwell in these bodies I have made.

Warrior spirits.

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Artwork by Ricor







The tree outside my house has stood patiently, in one spot, for maybe 50 years or more. Roots deeply entrenched into the ground, he knows that all will come. After 50 years of stillness and everything he needs being delivered to his feet, he has no reason to believe otherwise. I, however, am not 50, and I have little tried and can attest to the level of patience exhibited by my loyal and sturdy friend. So I am erratic, and get delivered very little.

Nature has many lessons to show us if we would only look and see.

Is there anything as erratic as I with the might of a stationary tree? I think not..

I watch the avocados being ripened by the engine of nature.. becoming plump and black. When the time is right for dropping, they do so, all as if to the tick of some universal clock, heeding only to divine timing. Ahh, so patience, and stillness grew the mighty oak and timing delivered the perfected fruit to the earth below. What might applying these virtues bring me?

Quitting is fear, I’m told. It is not the business of the warrior. It is not in his domain.

He stays. He transforms. Unaffected by this circumstance or the next – all that surrounds him comes to perfect fruition in the fields of his stillness and by the nourishment of his patience.

Undeterred by outcome and always properly situated, he completes. The warrior then allows the next step to present itself, graciously accepts (or rejects) and humbly stays or steps away. He is weatherproof.

Artwork by Mikael Aldo

A Thank You To These Men.

The sweetest moment I’ve ever known in 24 years on Earth involved little more than a vanilla scented candle, soft music, and light refracting off beads of water suspended on waxy leaves outside my bedroom window. “The simple things..” they told us, and off we went and became complex.

And through our inner complexity we were able to bring only outer simplicity to the world around us. And so outer simplicity is all I came bearing. Until I met a man, simple within, who bought great outer complexity (and beauty) to my life. And so inwardly simple I became. I threw out most everything save the candles and the tea pot. Deleted all but the most necessary of music. And after 6 months of reduction and simplicity, enjoyed the most magnificent moment of my life.

You do not need another to love. Just love.
You do not need valuable possessions. Become of value to yourself, you are your most valuable possession. And you are with yourself everywhere you go.
You do not need to listen to your ego. Perfection is on its way.

Nestle in, child. Let me keep you warm with tales of silly things I did before I realized my own divinity.

Oh how uproarious our laughter might be at all the missteps I took before I began to humble myself and listen. And laughter, still, at all the missteps I still take, however, this time, never in vein.

A ‘thank you’ to these men.

We owe you our lives.

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Left: Magister Daire Russell. Right: Paul Briggs.


– M.


My sacred fire drives me wildly into consciousness – beauty is its fuel. Flames ripple up from my feet and over my lap, into my fingers and through to this keyboard.

I do not disperse myself. This is not an energy I am uncomfortable with sitting in indefinitely. This is me. Why be scared? And what of?

You do not seek out the boy in me and I do not wish to bring him to you. We exist for the God and the Goddess in each other. Revere them, in the few spaces we can find them, when they do not meditate silently in solitude away from seeking eyes.

Love is the fruit of the tree of discipline. I love myself, I love all living creatures. I love women, God I love women. I love them enough to live a life of discipline, to not indulge them at every whim, and to know when feminine influence ends and masculine direction begins. And when that tree bears fruit to feast like a King.

I do not write to please – I write to write. Not to please. So when I write to please, you may have that, and when I write to write it shall stay with me, dear Teacher. I am empty. Fill me.

This ancient soul has returned again and is unconvinced by the promise extolled by the posters they put up in public spaces. I wish, instead, only to right and write until all I’m left with is the shavings of a blunted eraser, corrected mistakes, and a life of power, art, and beauty. What will it take? I’m sure we’ll find out. Journey with me? Journey.

Ancient men rest idly with backs-to-wall in corridors that I prayerfully amble down, fitting myself into increasingly simpler spaces and becoming happier there. They watch as I pass, and I know they are here for me yet I cannot make out a familiar face. With discipline, however, I know too that time will unfold all life’s mysteries. Patience, then, is the test. So patiently, I wait.

I lay back in the mean time and watch the fruit ripen, becoming fat and plump with sweetness like a chair-bound emotional eater. Move slow. When the time comes: strike fast. In power, share the fruits of my patience. Victory is in each moment.

– M