I Found (Audio)

Standard

Day Thirteen: Serially Found

I watched the weather of me through the day to see if perhaps there was something there
I noticed that it changed, unbidden as though another turned its dials
Sometimes the taste of that place between green and violet was broken by mountains of stark white cotton stretching from horizon to horizon
It called to something in me which wanted to be in that place of awe and wonder, but it passed over
At other moments my sky was filled with shades of gray and black ominous and threatening, fields of energy, alert to danger
The impulse to cover, to hide was strong but I remained still and it passed along with the rest
All I found there was that the weather of me shifts its shape to suite the situation
There was nothing profound there, nothing to hold on to, it just comes and goes as it wills

 

I sought meaning in the deeper things to see if there was some nugget, some treasure there for me
I noticed the Sage of me arise from the depths, ready to pronounce profundity
He sat on his throne, voice lowly intoned, gentle condescending words doled out to the yielding seekers needing a light, a way, a Wizard
And then another, a chocolate haired little boy, with dark brown eyes and freckles dotting his nose and cheekbones
He sought to woo with innocence and pouty lips, seeking attention, protection, love, crooked smile, shaggy hair, smelling of sunshine and romance
Then in the midst of my looking I heard Him laugh. The Jester, my tenuous but always faithful friend
He reminded me that what I was seeking would not be found in the costumes my ego wears
The profound can be another distraction and a game, as too the dance of affection What I sought was not there

 

Then, I watched the watcher, paying attention to my paying attention
Remembering again, that I know very little and how easily distracted I can be
Caught up in a self that is fleeting like the weather, changed by the currents on the wind around me
Hidden behind masks that can at times be mistaken for me, leaving me alone but entertained or distracted
I laughed along with the Jester. He always tells me the truth, especially when I take myself too seriously, or not seriously enough
Like trying to scratch an itch in a mirror, I sought but did not find, for what I wanted could not be found there
A wonderful playground of experience and love and learning and hope and grief, but playground it is, for it will not last
In seeking I found. I found that there is really no need to seek that which is not lost.

 

Come home boy it is time for rest.

 

 

Bare Feet Running – Missing Her (Audio)

Standard

Boy, shirtless, bare feet accustomed to the earth, shaggy chocolate locks lightened by the sun
Favorite ragged cut-offs tentatively hang on narrow hips
The slap, slap, slap of his stride down a well packed earthen path
Something slows and stirs and calls him to leave that way

He lay in a field of deep spring grasses
The warm earth held him, he made a bed between the sharp stiff stems and the soft grasses beneath
The buzz of insects, the call of birds, cow mooing in the distance
Grass and flower and Oak and cattle hung warmly over that place, moved about by the wind

No one had suggested it, there was no Youtube then teaching Westerners to breathe
Perhaps it was the connection of his bare feet to the soil and Her children
Perhaps it was the warmth and the buzz and the fragrance and the light and the tastes on the wind that called to him
His senses connected with the earth created a space there under the wide sky

He breathed in and out without thinking, without knowing that he matched the rhythms of Her
He felt Her pushing back holding him aloft as he lay still as a heavy and ancient stone
His mind began to sleep as his awareness awakened
Gazing deeply into the worlds that exist only in the white shifting shapes above him

He thought things that could not fit or be contained in a word
He thought, he felt, he knew without effort, it just was
He felt connected to Her in a real and material way, the boy was still, yet aware that he moved
She moved, the Earth turned and he turned with Her

He lay there out of time, floating, spinning, senses outgrown by the depth of him
Then, another call like a voice through water claimed his attention
The spinning slowed, the heaviness of him lightened, he remembered the warmth and the buzz and the fragrance and the light
Soon the slap, slap, slap of his bare feet on the hard packed dirt, all he thought was “That was so cool.” . . . bare feet running

He grinned and continued on his way thinking to return there someday.
He just remembered, feet no longer running
Perhaps I should
Perhaps I should have long ago

Pine Wood Floors – Mama Taylor

Standard

I awakened to the sound of footsteps on the pine wood floors. The cold air on my face. I was warm there underneath the many layers of quilts she had tucked us into the night before. They were heavy and comforting, holding me safe in the warm bed. She always said goodnight with a kiss and a hug, her soft skin smelling of Noxzema. I still love how Noxzema smells, probably because of how much I loved her. The footsteps belonged to my grandfather. Each morning before daylight he would light the heaters. The scrape and strike of the sulfur kitchen matches, the smell of gas and the whoosh of the gas igniting. Soon the fragrance of the rich black coffee and cigarette smoke would drift in as I drifted back out. It was a cold wet Louisiana winter.

We had been outside working in the garden, weeding and planting and preparing. Well, my grandmother did most of the work. The kids were here and there, running, exploring, climbing our favorite trees. She had the best trees. A boy could lose himself in one of those. My favorite was an ancient Holly in her front yard. I would sit at the top of it for hours, suspended there between heaven and earth. The birds would light in the branches just feet away from me and if I was very still I could watch them, unseen. Cardinals, Finches, Blue Jays, Mockingbirds all came and taught me of the world. The smells of spring mingled in the clean fresh air swaying my perch back and forth. I was a king for a little while. She called us in to eat lunch, then set about arranging us on the knotty pine floor. Pallets she called them and we were expected to sleep. The heavy quilts from the winter now laid out for our nap. She turned on her little black and white T.V. and as it warmed up that same song and that picture of an hourglass told us that it was time for silence. She sat in her chair with my grandfather’s belt rolled up in her lap and was quick to use it on us if we stirred. Because her “Stories were on . . .”

One summer it rained fish. Small bass and bream and minnows were flopping in the grass. We asked her how they had gotten there. She explained how during violent storms over water small fish can sometimes be swept up in the currents of the wind and dropped again miles away. She knew everything. How to find worms for fishing. How to fish. How to clean and cook that fish. How to make things grow. How to make us grow. And she taught us when we would listen. One of my favorite memories of her was sitting on her screened porch nestled under her arm. Warm and close without a fear or worry in the world. There was a violent thunderstorm raging around that place of utter calm and contentment. The forked light streaking, splitting the sky. A clap and a rumble and a boom of thunder shaking the earth. The smell of clean ozone and the fresh summer rain. I still love the storms, and the smell of Noxzema, and growing things, and fishing, and understanding how things work. I think God must have a swing like that. Those moments there on the swing and a thousand others like them remain with me even now. She is the picture of grace to me.

One winter day I received a call saying that something was wrong at her house. Rushing there and running inside I saw her laying on that pine wood floor. Paramedics pushing on her chest, breathing air into her, forcing it into her lungs, her belly distended, color a pale gray. She did not move or speak or react in any way to their efforts. I really did not understand what was going on as the men quickly placed her on a stretcher and rushed her away under the lights and the screams and the roaring of the ambulance. I saw her a few days later, laying in her coffin. Her hair was done and she was wearing a pretty dress. There were flowers and many people around. There was that strange funeral home smell with way too much perfume on way too many women. I was not sure if it was right or not, and I did not ask. I reached out and touched her skin. So different than the warm softness that I knew. I kissed her forehead and cheek as I had often done. She was not there. She was still teaching me. She taught me grief and great loss. I cried, and I wailed. I had not learned to hide and bury my pain, yet. Then later that day there was food and many people at her house. I think my grandfather lost his way that day. He sat still amidst the bustle of eating and laughing and crying and the telling of memories of her and of our lives together. I was quiet too and watched and listened, not really knowing what to do. I felt very alone and I missed her so, disconnected and adrift, I had no words. But one night sometime after that I dreamed. I could smell the Noxzema, feel her warm soft skin touch me as she called my name. She told me “Boy I’m OK and so are you. Everything is alright.” She teaches me still.

Garden Update

Standard

“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a seed growing secretly . . .”

In a month or so this little space will be filled with green, and yellow blossoms and buzzing bees.  There will be insects laying eggs in the earth and under leaves.  Some will make their living eating the green and others will lay in wait for the ones doing that damage.

20150418_160948Roots will push deep into the earth, claiming space.  They will support all of the green that lives in the sunshine and the wind and the rain.  They will seek out places where water runs through and give every drop away to the place of the light.  The dark earth, through them will be transformed into stems and vines and blossoms and leaves and fruit.  They are not the stars of this ever unfolding process and never see the light except at the time of their uprooting and death.  Do they ever wish to be a flower or a green leaf?  Do their hearts yearn to live in the heavens and to feel the wind?  Or are they content making their way deep in the damp dark earth?

20150418_155008Tomatoes, Zucchini black and gold, Basil, Mint, Peppers, Egg Plants, Cantaloupes, and Squash will all live together in these little spaces, moving through their cycles.  When space is tight, up is the direction for growth.

Cucamelon, il melone che sembra un piccolo cetriolo

I have started some Cucamelon seeds and are waiting for them to push themselves up out of the darkness and into the light.  In a couple of weeks I will plant them in the large containers and make a trellis from them to climb.  It is said that they taste like cucumber with a hint of lime.  I thought they were cute and would make a good salad with some grape tomatoes and onions, vinegar and olive oil.

20150418_155033So the planting is just about finished.  As the babies settle in and grow a little I will give them a bed of clean wheat straw to help hold the water and give them a pretty place to rest.  And next year that straw will become a part of the earth, enriching it.  And next year’s roots will push through the earth finding water and through their magic transform last year’s straw into a squash or a tomato or a flower which feeds the bees.  Be Groovy! 🙂

Grief – One Tear (Audio)

Standard

Day Eight: Describe a place. I am in a place where material subjects don’t hold my attention very well.  So this is an attempt at describing an emotional space.

boy-one-tear-medium

I have penned no words for you since forever

Out of time though, my heart has done nothing but call your name

Over and over I find myself following paths that lead to you

Or rather they lead to places where I realize your absence

The separateness is startling and unreal

Grief too deep for words or tears, for they only well up in me

Perhaps I can not weep because I can not accept or come to terms with it

Or perhaps I just refuse to

But how can I come to terms with what is impossible

Just one tear would contain the sadness of the whole world

Perhaps that is why they will not flow

It would be too terrible