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Welcome to the Writings Gallery, a collection of my writings. They vary considerably. It is my intent to blend writings of insight teachings with those of raw human experience. I hope you'll enjoy the 'inner disciplines' as much as the 'dramatic' and be encouraged to make the most of this precious human birth.Kurt

Poetry & Shorts Gallery – Poetry and Other Short Encounters
I remain
Death of a Child
I am tired of hearing myself speak
Desire and Longing
Poem of the Damned
The Sweetest of Surrenders
Finding My Tears and My Child

Teachings Gallery – Teachings on Various Subjects
Navigating the Psycho-Spiritual Journey, a teaching essay about each person's spiritually-centered psychological journey in life as he or she acts on faith and guidance through magic, mythic, absolutist, reasoned, and 'holistic' maps of reality. After which, one transcends all beliefs and ultimately all teachers in the greatest existential "leap of faith"—to one's own transpersonal experience
Wisdom Gallery – Quotes from various authors and teacher over the ages
Book Indexes – What began as a rather spontaneous curiosity became a meticulous contemplative practice that provided wonderful insights. Eventually it became as much a devotional offering to others who might find them helpful. I hope they serve you well.
A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle
The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle
Awareness, Anthony de Mello (coming soon)
Living Awareness Newsletter – Past Issues (Not available yet)

Poetry & Shorts Gallery
I remain

i have felt terror
rage comfort despair
-- so many feelings
charged & important
eventually passed --
Yet I remain

i had a thought
which i forgot
i held a belief
then changed my mind
nursed a grudge
which i forgave
each came & went
Yet I remain

i was a child
a son a student
a spouse a father
identities traded
& abandoned --
Yet I remain

i was clothed in flesh
the gift of movement
& perception
this garment has
grown with me
worn from use
soon to be discarded
then naked will
yet I remain

i loved & lost the
object of my love
time & again to
find it is i who
loves and chooses
to love all life
& you
    & i
         & so I remain

scared to death
in the middle of the dark of night
shaking I peered out from the covers
and dared to look under the bed
it was a frightening sight
to find that I was both in
and under the same bed
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Death of a Child

The death of my daughter; the death of my son— at whatever age; to behold them has already been an absolute miracle; Who am I to demand anything more?

What if my 13 year old died today in an auto accident? Of course, I will be pained. Of course, I have other plans …but who am I to actually expect something different?

In 100 years I will be gone. In another fifty so also my children. Photographs will eventually fade, memories forgotten. All that will remain of us will be the signature of whatever love we loved left reverberating in the lives of others.

What if my daughter died tomorrow?
Would any hardness of expectation stifle my gratitude?

This is it… why when someone faces death their whole life “flashes before their eyes.” It is not memory. It is the Self looking back from the Everlasting Now at the reality of this life as it in actuality is—a flash. Nothing more.

If my son dies this day who am I to expect anything more? His years are a miracle as it is.

I may valiantly lay claim to protect him until I must completely let go.

This is the art of life, to see it for the miracle that it is without clinging to an expectation of what we think it should be. It is only from the perspective of death—that freedom into the Eternal Moment— that we see the joy of knowing each person but for a single breath, as the perfect and utterly complete gift that they are.

Kurt Treftz 2006

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"I am tired of hearing myself speak.
Now you tell me a story.
You, with your deep eyes,
you with your sweet breasts,
tender shoulders, gentle waist,
and lovely hips—though all be covered.”

She responded with silence…then,
“I don’t know what to say.
I feel naked before you.”

“Like children, then.”

“No, not like children,” she responded.

Looking into her eyes and into her body I said,
“Then as lovers and as children,
             tell me a story.”


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bird in handDesire and Longing
As I went for a run yesterday morning I contemplated my own intensely, long-held desires quite a bit and realized what a wonder it is how we must know our deepest desires as the crazy wild, immensely powerful horses that they are.that must at the same time be held like an incredibly beautiful butterfly, with the most tender wing-scales, invited to rest in our open hand.

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Poem of the Damned
1999, 2006

I am hardened, reinforced with steel
I span the banks
Never moving, never compromising my
rigid boundaries

I arch my back to
Hold myself against the flow
Closed, not allowing,
Not opening, not open

Behind me builds this
Vast pressure, this
Great unrelenting burden
Yet I hold fast to my anchorage
Trusting my foundation
Unwilling to venture a peek, a spout
That would surely result in
My painful death

Holding fast, the rain
Continue to fall
And my burden grows daily
Straining me, torturing me

Though the reinforcement of fear
Is great
The strain-full suffering
Grows greater
Oblivious to myself I am parched, a desert
A living dilemma
My convicted contractions
Meant to protect me
Now hurt me with unbearable,
Strain-full suffering

Oh, that I were not
So strongly hardened
Oh, that I knew my gateways
Oh, that I were not a dam at all
That I might discover
My dreaded shadow—that
Ugly, filthy, dangerous and disgusting beast
To be no less than the
Waters of life

Oh, that I might break
The concrete and steel that
Surrounds my heart
Burst forth
And see myself for what
I was meant to be—
A part of the River of Life

The deserts and wastelands
Before me would again
Spring forth in abundance

Oh, that I might have the
Strength to let go of
What I take to be my strength
And realize the power and glory
Of my flow

Recognition and Realization

We want to love Life the way it was meant to be lived. And, indeed, this is Life's intention.

It is also Life's loving intention to birth us through pain and grow us through challenge-that which we tend to avoid-only so that we might live more abundantly.

And so it is, that when we recognize pain and Challenge as our benefactors-open to Life and engage it fully-that we realize how Life lives us the way we were meant to be loved.

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The Sweetest of Surrenders

There he rested, seated in the chair at the side of the bed, his upper body slumped over and onto it. He had gently collapsed with the sweet peace after long battles and the fatigue that come with them.

From the far corner across the room I watched both him and the soft morning light just begin it's presence through the curtains. It is as though light itself-seemingly so indifferent to whatever human suffering-is, and always has been, the unknown faithful witness and comforter. Today it announces the sweetest of surrenders.

I see my husband out in front of me, restful. I love him so. And his love for me has been immense these past months as he's cared for me in my ailing, deteriorating state.

Just two days ago I teased him, "I suppose you'll sooner or later find another lover." As much as he responded with a painful glance I wanted him to see that I know and accept how life must go on without me. I wouldn't want him to limit his life because of me. I want him free to live fully.

Physical pain, debilitating weakness, and all the accompanying emotions around loss had slowly brought me dragging, but no longer kicking, to an acceptance of all this. But Stan was still in the throws of losing me, watching me disappear from his life.

He painfully considered what I'd just said. He knew all too well that in the months that I'd quickly declined he'd experienced my absence in many ways-not the least of which was how my feminine energy had waned. Eventually, finding an island of acceptance in his sea of process, he mustered up his keen insight and responded with a dry smile of whit, "Yes, I'll be left here with all my bodily appetites while you get to ride out on the smoke of a candle, free, unencumbered, ethereal and carried by the wind."

"Carried by the wind," it echoed in me, my greatest, most present wish. He was right, of course, I so wanted out. But right then I was present and concerned for him. I soon wouldn't be here to give him my love and support, to influence his life in any way.

Stan just continues to lay there. It is so good to see him rest. He's been such a perfect husband, hanging in with me as I fade away. Even when he burst forth in frustration at the medical team he was perfect. I didn't think so at the time, but it was his way to fight for me, to protect me. And it was his way to protect himself.

Counting the days we could get out as precious, we not long ago had gone to the lake side park where Stan had brought all manor of blankets and pillows and propped me against the base of a tree in the sun.

From what depths he sourced himself to care for me on top of all else was beyond me. Of course he'd cut back his hours at work. But his work with, for and around me was endless. I couldn't count the tasks and constant vigilances on the days I was given over to pain.or worse, medicated to oblivion. On those days I was self-absorbed or just altogether absent. But when we went to sit in the sun near the lake I was fully aware of his heroic efforts to "create life" for me.

When all our necessities had been hauled from the car and properly set within reach about us Stan found a sandwich he'd packed and began to eat it. He then began to check that the hat and sunglasses he'd made me wear were keeping the sun from burning me.

After finishing his snack he leaned back along side me, held my hand and relaxed looking at the sunlight waving and flashing off the surface of the lake. I felt strengthened by the touch of his hand and watched him. Stan gazed for some time, looking not out on the lake, but someplace infinitely further. He was obviously so content to yet have me that the truth we both knew tore at my heart. Nevertheless, we had what anybody really ever has; we had "right now."

Sweetest of Surrenders






I watched him that day as he shifted and looked directly into my eyes. He was full of pain, and full of surrender, and full of his love for me. I was seeing him through the infinite place I was quickly approaching and I saw eternal beauty reflected in his eyes. Such were the heights we realized in what could otherwise seem as pain with no bottom.

Across the room I see Stan quicken from the break in his vigil. He lifts his head to check again on what I'd become to him, a faint and fragile occupation of the bed. Taking full notice he coughs a sudden exhale, his face contorting. Then like a long awaiting desert it floods with tears. He pries open his eyes beyond their winching contraction, and through a watery blur he fully recognizes my absence from what I once was.

The pain of being utterly alone in life hits him. For several minutes he is fixated on the empty place that has been so filled with meaning and purpose. He has no fight left; he knows it's far bigger than him. And after teetering there for moments on the edge he surrenders to the painful emptiness-accepting it completely. He inhales and exhales deeply, his body welcoming the renewed rhythm of peacefulness. His shoulders relax and his face softens.

Then turning to where I've been watching him he looks across the room and sees a candle that has kept vigil along with him for days. Gazing into the flame he finds its light so steady even as the flame gently dances. In communion with it he is no longer alone.

He watches the light from the candle emanating out, blending into the soft early daylight like a stream releasing into an ocean that now fills the room. And somehow, well beyond his comprehension, in this his sweetest of surrenders, he is most assuredly comforted by a faithful witness.

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Finding My Tears and My Child

To find my tears-to cry To find my sensitivity is to shed my shed my armor from fear and shame-much of it passed on from generation to generation-"family of origin"-the family of 'man'.

To find my tears and shed my armor is to find the child within-to find raw vulnerability. to be held as a child, and to hold my self as the child that I am.

In all of this there is-and has been for some time, a thawing-a thawing of a frozen parent, a father who loved his little children dearly- dearly enough, like some weed emerging from beneath the pavement, to begin to set early boundaries even against the hoards of a cult! A tenderness for children that hinted Of what was always left wanting in my own childhood -and a tender heartedness that had become lost and forgotten, frozen away so that it would no longer feel.

The numbness of flesh bound by ice the freedom from pain in the numbness-yet Life lost in the bargain.

And now the thaw-so Real as to break beyond what was before, breaking generations. To hear another's daughter's child's voice over the phone and have my heart melted further-stolen, my eyes moistened where only frost had been.

How can a man who knows not his own child within-ever love or cherish another? --

I have been in a state of dis-equilibrium-a place between trapeze bars, suspended in fright. feeling vulnerable, even fragile at times-going against all social notions of manliness.

New to honest truth of ‘what is trust?’ and the earning of trust… those places where I myself have failed, untrustworthy, and especially where I over-trusted only to find a lack of capacity, or a lack of willingness, honesty… a hidden “I don’t really like you. I’m only tolerating you.”

To wake up and find years of what has hid behind the faces of those I trusted—those I let way too far in… behind the smiles, the politically correct respectfulness… behind the face of “Nice” behind the lie of care-taking placation behind the masks that merely handled me— To see it all at once is more than dis-equilibrium— it is the hint of paranoia begging “who then can be trusted?” “where do I start trusting?” and “where do I stop doubting?”

It’s such a fragile place to be 51 and Have again both the innocence and the lack of skill of a small child.

Surely the growing skill bounds decades in days, but those days are delicate, wondering, “Are you telling me the truth, or just what you think I want to hear.”

I have dreams for 2 or 3 fitful nights That my closest intimate secretly harbors judgments of me, dreams of deceit and collusion…

In the fragility of acknowledging my fragility first everything is up for questioning—as if I don’t know where to stop… All my worse fears—nightmares—surface. I have to face my worse fears— rejection by everyone, and especially by those closest to me—and sit, just sit in the painful vulnerability of the possibility of this fear—for days while holding myself—my “child” all the while. There is no other way.

And then, slowly—ever so slowly, I begin to breathe again, to relax again… to no longer have my mind electrocuted with the ultimate fear… And I find—or start to, at first— find myself alone.

A more solid aloneness surfaces— Shit, how did I get lost? Did I backslide? Or, did I just grow beyond anything before?

In the depths of fragility I said goodbye to everyone—to my whole way of life if that’s what it took! …willing even to let go of my marriage, and, so, I set myself free

In this freedom I see the duplicity, bound fusion, and blindness of "dead people" that have no desire for sight… In this freedom I have rediscovered the ‘Way to Love.”

- Kurt Treftz, May 30, 2007

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More to come...

All writings by Kurt Treftz (unless otherwise quoted), copyrighted 2006-2010 (or otherwise dated). All rights reserved. These writings may be shared on only a non-commercial basis unless specific permission has been granted otherwise.
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