You’ve lived well, made an impact in your community, perhaps They’ll dedicate an interchange on Highway mile marker 162 in your name.
Morning Light diffused behind mushrooming sweeping clouds -indigo. violet. pink. white and blue
Tahoma stands watch over the corridors. The prideful provider of milky white waters to the river valley below.
Morning in the night
fog spills between and below rooflines
the cock crows.
Dad is trying
but crumbles under the weight
of his expectations.
You took me
Twisted and knotted
And all the struggles of youth
And shaped me into a man.
That’s something I never could
Understand, what compels
Women to do this?
I know my son
Is in capable hands
He’ll be prepared
To be a man.
Sometimes I forget my meditation practice is a tool, a supportive base from which the rest of my practice grows. It’s understandable since I practice everyday, soon I start to see it as a thing that is going to make me better, or get me somewhere. I depend on it, I hang on to it and it becomes heavy. And my successes and mostly my failures have a meaning, with regards to how close or far I am to my goal. It becomes a burden, burdening me with my failures and insecurities. It’s at this point that I have to ask how does my practice support me, does it? And if it doesn’t, why? Usually it has become a tool I use towards my destruction, and I slide into a depression because I’m depending on it, hanging on to it, expecting too much. I have to realize that I only need it if it provides a place for growth. Then it becomes light again, not heavy or burdensome. It becomes a chance for discovery, the reason why I was curious and interested in the first place. So I can use the tools of the practice, strengthening the base to support further practice.
As I walk along this path
I keep finding things that interest me and distract me
I pick them up, take them with, until they become too heavy to carry.
You are the twisted pine shaped by salty sea winds and held down by swollen knuckles. sitting on the precipice above the waves which belt out ceaseless foamy crescendos spilling into craggly shores. soaked up by the deserts of eyes and you’re only participation is the attention it takes to let growth unfold, line after line, swells and breaks, you increasingly realize your part in the whole is merely to listen.
Why is it that the hardest thing to observe is contentment? Either in nature or within ourselves.
Go Stone clouds mirrored upon clear shallow water, stooped Heron watching.
Trickster Kingfisher, perched on mast, shutters into flight -only to return. A real comedian.
cently we had an HVAC technician come out to look at our furnace. It has been down for a few years, for various reasons we’ve never been able to have it fixed, or looked at. He was able to get it up and running, but did confirm our fears that it wouldn’t last long and that he had been out replacing others in our complex, it’s just too old, and we would soon need to replace it. He didn’t charge for the service call which was awesome and over the past few days our house has been a little bit warmer. Which led me to write:
During morning piss
heard the most wonderful sound
working furnace -ah!
Walking the narrow sidewalks cobbled for immigrants of the 1930s
under grayscale constantly moving towards the horizon
past houses framed for the laborers in the ’50s
chain link fences put up to keep out the drugs of the ’70s and ’80s
under trees sprouted a hundred years befor
pushing my way through decades of History
with a wall of ideas around my head to keep out the ideals of the dead.
Dozing with light behind closed eyes, lost in yellowing dry summer grasses.