My Heartsongs

Victor La Cerva
  • 5.0 (10)
  • Health & Fitness
  • Updated Weekly

A podcast about conscious empowered masculinity, exploring all the vital areas of a man's life, including family, personal evolution, sexuality and love, friendship and solitude, success and right livelihood.

  1. 2d ago

    My Heartsongs Photopoems 8 Sacred Part Two

    #8 Sacred Part Two Today brings the joy of sacred arising in objects and home. I am a bit of an existential outlaw, I think, when I bring up the topic of my love for flea markets and estate sales. It’s not just the ingrained Brooklyn “I need to get a good deal on such and such,” but the curious fascination with glimpses of someone’s life. And all the objects, an unbelievable amount of stuff, that someone chooses to be intimate with. In my Worldwords book, on March 1st, I introduce the Japanese term, aji. The changes that occur over time in an object, through the loving handling by human beings. An amazing concept that I see in my own collection of ritual, special objects. They mostly hide on bookshelves, or in my curio cabinet. Some are wrapped in fabric, or encased in the bottoms of leather satchels, or wooden boxes of diverse stature. All somewhere in the closet depths, where it really isn’t safe to enter! Only with a few do I really feel that aji sacred pulse. Some Zuni fetishes that I’ve had for decades, termed Ahlashiwe meaning "stone ancients.” Or mola beads from Asia travels, a jade Toki, with stone I brought back from New Zealand to have crafted by a talented jeweler friend. Healing talismans, but why? And I know for some folks, certain tools used for many years also hold that palpable sacred energy, as do some of my musical instruments. While not heavily into astrology teachings, I do get that home is really important to Cancers, like myself. I remember early in my medical career, I switched to using “home” instead of house, when asking questions related to someone’s illness. A subtle sensitivity to the reality that not everyone – especially the patients in front of me – has resources for a house. Yet even refugees and unhoused people try to establish a sense of home where they can feel safe, and enjoy whatever comforts are available.  Heraclitus wisely states, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” Or woman, or non-binary or transitioning trans person, same truth. Home changes, and how we want to craft it at any given stage of life, or even as transitional space, can be inspiring. I tend to care more about the structure, than the furniture that ends up in it, the art on the walls, or how it all gets arranged. Except for the kitchen, my castle keep within my home. There, I do have some opinions, for sure! In the end, what matters is the overall gestalt, the feel of the space, the shifting dance of the clutter, the sense of welcome. I am far from living in a Zen inspired household, yet I lean in the direction of space, openness, and large visible chunks of real Natural life outside. Beyond the avalanche of things and the jumble of mess, I somehow, some of the time, really feel the call of the sacred, in both some treasured objects and my home.     An ancient rhythm in the blood That does not ask for permission Like a lotus grows in the mud It just needs the right conditions A door opens without knocking In the silence before the sound Sweet objects, comforts, safe at home Again, the sacred has been found   Robin Brown captures some of these sentiments in this part of her poem Haven: In labyrinthine longing, where my weary spirit roams, I seek an effervescent haven to call my home. A luminescent refuge where the anxious heart finds rest, Where benediction whisper and the soul is truly blessed.

  2. Sep 26

    My Heartsongs Photopoem 7 Sacred

    #7 Sacred Where does the sacred live? One initial response might be that it is present everywhere, if only we had eyes to see, and the wisdom to perceive and embrace it. How to define sacred in a way that feels real and accessible? For me, in simplest terms, it is the energy of connection. And I see that most clearly in seven aspects of this world: seasons, place, objects, home, the body, relationships, and beauty. As we turn into fall, and I pen these words in the midst of a full moon night, I am reminded of how solstice and equinox are such a part of me now, or rather I am attuned to them, this sacred passing of seasonal energetics. Suddenly – or so it seems – shorts and sleeveless shirts surrender to long pants and warm comfy garments. I feel the subtle anticipation of the first woodstove fire, the joys of ongoing harvest, and perhaps a slowing down for a soothing cup of tea with a good book. We all have our small rituals for this shifting dance of cycles, and in some indigenous cultures, ceremony to honor the transition is a way to ground one in the changes. My sense is that “the mystical” is merely (ha!) an intense experience of the sacred, a whole body-mind-soul tasting of the vast cosmic consciousness ocean we inhabit. It seems to be rooted quite firmly in place. Though quite clearly, it can give us a peak (PEEK!) experience via any of the seven realms mentioned above.  One of the first times for me was bodysurfing in Bali in my early thirties. My wife and first daughter were on the beach. It was one of those moments when everything coalesces in stillness, silence and solitude. The sun, sand and surf worked their magic, and I felt transported into a rarely visited heightened state of awareness. Another time, I was hiking with a friend off trail in Chaco Canyon, and as we descended into an arroyo, a deep penetrating feeling of dread filled me. Both of us, actually, as we talked about it later. As if a battle had occurred right there, and the land still remembered, somehow offering us a mystical piece of the puzzle. When I visited the Western Wall in Jerusalem, I consciously opened myself before I touched the wall itself with both hands. When I did, I felt throughout my entire corpus a river of pain and suffering, deep and strong and also vital, that literally took my breath away. Something deep opened inside me with these and other examples of the power of sacred place. As if a locked passageway revealed itself for a fleeting moment, that produced an inner shift. An invitation, if you will, to be more receptive to such revelations in the future. Not a state I known how to stabilize, just fleeting moments of wonder and deep connection. If you search your own memory banks, perhaps there is an impressionable fragment there, which helps you grok what I am sharing, someway, somehow.   The energy of special place Contains its own sweet, unique pace. Hidden within the turning wheel, Palpable when you open, feel. Flows into your heart directly. Invites less doing, more just be. No big brain thinking is needed. A subtle shift to be heeded.   Rumi comes to the rescue with this opening stanza: Something opens our wings, Something makes boredom and hurt disappear, Someone fills the cup in front of us. We taste only sacredness.

  3. Sep 20

    My Heartsongs PhotoPoems 6 Vulnerability

    #6 Vulnerability “I’m not complaining, just explaining,” was a favorite phrase of my dad. As he aged, he used it often. At our regular men’s group meetings, we often joke about “medication check-in” and “organ recital” time. So how does sharing differ from just complaining/explaining? I think the distinction lies in one’s ability to go deeper into the emotional components of the experience, rather than a somewhat dry –even if impassioned – recitation of a story. All those stories we tell ourselves about ourselves sometimes seem to me like polishing our prison bars. But when I get to the emotional heart of the matter, so to speak, then there is a taste of liberation. My foot might still be swollen and painful, but now instead of relating just that, I have opened up the wider perspective of lessons still being learned and applied, as well as the spectrum of grief that inevitably accompanies the losses associated with aging. I am quite fluent in my own BS, and emerging from the wreckage of my splintering self, I see clearly the truth of my latest mantra, “old car, old house, old body, something is going off somewhere every week.” Which definitely creates this cloudy misty sense of vulnerability. The old adage, “anything can happen at any time” is a great reminder to not let myself be pulled down into a vortex of fear and its close cousin anxiety, which is where one might go when feeling fragile, susceptible, or infirm. And there is also a sweetness to being vulnerable, knowing we must rely on others to help us with what we used to easily do ourselves, and a heightened sensitivity to the plight of other beings. Strange how speaking and sharing our own suffering can burst our solipsistic bubble and expand our compassion. Uncle Arthur has come to town His hello an unwelcome sound He visits my hands and my knees Greets my feet with a twinge of bees Now I don’t mind a little pain When mobility does remain. But when I’m sent off to my bed That really messes with my head. Arthur itis is just the tip Of maladies for me to sip. “Vulnerable,” my new nickname Acceptance just the old age game.   Jadine Lydia reminds me: the iron maiden within me says: keep these walls strong, but the feelings within me whisper, let it crumble down and fall... today, i am falling apart and falling together – simultaneously. you could say, i am one beautiful mess.

  4. Sep 13

    My Heartsongs Photopoems 5 Choicepoints

    #6 Choicepoints. Those of you who have listened to some of my 333 podcasts might remember my use of this made-up term. It reflects those moments, sometimes days, weeks, months or longer in duration, when we are face to face with “two roads diverged in a yellow wood...” I long ago abandoned to dust any formal religious paths to truth. Thank you, Ecclesiastes 3:20 “All go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return.” I define spirit as all that is, and soul as a unique conscious individual manifestation of that greater ocean of being. As if a bubble broke free of the surface and floated on its own journey. Distinctly different and yet still connected. That – in a nutshell – is the essence of my spiritual worldview. Lovely ancient phrase that one, originating with Pliny the Elder, who wrote a story in first century AD Rome about a copy of the Iliad written on parchment that fit into a nutshell. The term signified tiny physical spaces or very small writing, derived from the Latin word nuce. Not until the 19th century did its meaning morph into being concise and summarizing. Similar to the modern day, “long story, short.” I wonder about that newly minted idiom, spoken as if we are apologizing for taking up too much of the listener’s time and attention. Perhaps a product of our busy busy hurry hurry multitasking verse we’ve collectively created as a species. This world seems more and more spinning out of control. The Italian word for what I feel is scombussolato, or scombussolata for a female. It roughly translates as disoriented, confused, rattled, shaken up, and more. Makes it even more challenging to experience the clarity I seek.   When, where, which of these, this or that. Should I pluck my choice from a hat? Flip a coin, perhaps ask a bird? Yet ancient wisdom I have heard: When you’ve two apparent choices It’s best to always pick the third. What choicepoints speak to me of woe? Can’t they please wait till the morrow?   A favorite from Robert Frost: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;   Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,   And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.   I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

    My Heartsongs Photopoems 5 Choicepoints

  5. Sep 6

    My Heartsongs Photopoems 4 Stuckville

    #4 Stuckville I have noticed that there are distinct times when the big wheel, as I call it, does not move favorably. Often the descent into this undesirable state is subtle, lurking on the edge of my awareness. Obvious only when fully caught in its unkindly embrace. I know the wisdom of “this too shall pass,” which does admittedly not bring much comfort to those thrashing moments of discord. I have also learned that such life periods – as is true with most difficulties – bring their own secret gifts. The blessing sleeps next to the wound. Yet that rings true only if I really heed the call to examine the inner wheel. What internal changes are being called forth? That is where the juice is –well worth the squeeze – as well as eventual liberation from the layers of dilemma I have allowed to take up significant mental-emotional real estate. The Goldilocks Zone is that sweet spot of maximum learning, a sort of limbo lying between knowing just what will happen, and not being able to predict what’s coming next. It’s why young children love to have the same book read over and over, or watch a film repeatedly, and drop that spoonful of applesauce a zillion times. They “redo” something over and over until it becomes predictable, and they stop learning from it. Maybe that is a good reframe for stuckville. I’m just exploring a novel cognitive feedback loop, until I get the lesson. I’ve frequently joked about writing a tome entitled, No more lessons, please! No doubt they will keep coming, whether I get that written or not.   While wide awake at 3 am I watch my mind just twist and bend Down a narrow groove of desire Sex and money, sex and money My big brain 3D tapestry Weaves illusion and confusion The full moon laughs at my madness Where oh where is my peaceful rest?   This poem by Stanley Kunitz speaks to this quite eloquently: (Best to read aloud!) I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray. When I look behind, as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey, I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings. Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections, and my tribe is scattered! How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends, those who fell along the way, bitterly stings my face. Yet I turn, I turn, exulting somewhat, with my will intact to go wherever I need to go, and every stone on the road precious to me. In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: “Live in the layers, not on the litter.” Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.

  6. Aug 29

    PhotoPoem 3 Spaciousness

    #3 Spaciousness My main gratitude mantra for some time has been, “I’m not in Gaza, Haiti, Ukraine, Sudan, or other places with horrible human conditions.” Recently added Iran to that mix. A good reminder when I find myself whining about yet another household repair, poor customer service encounter, or elevated grocery store prices. I find this image quite evocative, as it represents for me the life journey, with all its twists and turns and choicepoints. I remember when a group of us turning fifty created a men’s group – the 49ers – that lasted a few years. One of the first exercises we did together was a spiral circle of rocks where we started at the center and walked outward as we told our life story’s highlights. We then returned back on the path heading toward the center again, but stopping where we felt we were in terms of our death/ return to the billabong from which we had emerged. Good stuff. I have walked a number of labyrinths in my day, and they always evoke a certain timelessness, an invitation to enter the luminous, a deep physical sense of both my small universal insignificance, and the power of embodied consciousness. I love the Italian expression, Lasciare spazio ai propri desideri. The rough translation is to give time and importance to something, so that it has a place in our lives. Given the current degree of worldcrazy, what arises is how do I create spaciousness for myself in my daily doings?   I sit down by the precipice The soft sweet edge of my knowing Where adventure beckons beyond I watch as longing becomes fear When and how did that shift happen? Was I asleep or just dreaming? Within my self-made prison walls A long long way from my true home.   For me, E.E Cummings creates space with this poem: maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day) and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

  7. Aug 21

    PhotoPoems 2 FLOW

    There are favorite places that always invite. One of those for many years has been the Chama River wilderness area, where I have primitive camped many times, with my children, my wife, some couple friends, a few other guys, or my men’s group. Always, at some point, I do some solo walkabout, and often find some magic peeking out from somewhere special that I had just never noticed before. Familiar haunts, but delightfully daunting, offering up new sparkling secrets to fill my inner well. Reminds me of the paradox of choice. This concept, coined by psychologist Barry Schwartz, speaks of the Chinese menu effect. When there are too many options, humans often revert to something familiar, like getting sesame orange chicken yet again. I often find myself tilting toward the comforting familiar and habitual these days, perhaps because the world seems to be constantly verging on another day of blessed chaos. My own poem for this week is on audio. And this Rainer Maria Rilke poem speaks well to the changing flow of our inner lives. The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. It seems that things are more like me now, that I can see farther into paintings. I feel closer to what language can’t reach. With my sense, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven, out of the oak, and in the ponds broken off from the sky my feeling sinks, as if standing on fishes.   This new series combines photo art, poetry and musical background on one of my many instruments. Let me know what you think!

  8. Jul 12

    MyHeartsongs Podcast 333 Farewell For Now

    Imagine that your physical body is a playing piece on an intricate game board. The rules of the game keep changing, but one thing is certain: forward motion is desirable. Onward through the fog!

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About

A podcast about conscious empowered masculinity, exploring all the vital areas of a man's life, including family, personal evolution, sexuality and love, friendship and solitude, success and right livelihood.

Information

  • Creator
    Victor La Cerva
  • Years Active
    2018 - 2026
  • Episodes
    100
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Copyright 2018 All rights reserved.
  • Show Website
    My Heartsongs

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