Walking across the kitchen to turn off a light The hot water of a shower, wet hair, fingertips and the flow of motion Not really one thing then another, not even a moment to be found Just flow And then no flow to be found, but moments, things again, seemingly Shifting like this, until it just opens –
you arc around the edges of what they say rainbow shimmered alive by the molecules of water and air you resonate with your voice startling the sky, moving tides with the moon of your laughter you swim in the wide ocean of no-dividing-lines redefining the real with waves from your spiraling-insistent imagination(more…)
Wellfleet beaches twilight low tide, strung with stones like gazing stars you and I and the sun, seagulls setting and rising with the moon somewhere tiding rhymes around our wonder wandering, picking up the scattered verses of solid Earthspun rainbows daydreaming us the everything-children we are, exploring this allowingness at the edges of silver waves, falling awake in cold bursts within a warm heart-held nowhere (more…)
I’m still thinking of what was happening in Roadrunner’s mind the other day, standing five feet from the back door to the house, on a stoop two steps above the ground, facing the door as if wanting to come in. Every time I think of it, I feel sad – sadder than someone raised in a culture of scientific materialism blended with Catholic ideas about the specialness of humans is really supposed to feel about a chicken.
Walking the sandy path through the woods by Dyer’s Pond in Wellfleet, Massachusetts – with dried pine needles crackling under my bare feet, and late afternoon sun warming my bare upper body, and droplets from the sandy-bottom pond still meandering down my skin – I remembered that a body larger than my own or my mother’s had carried me like this throughout my life, and that this body had a name I could hear, a face I could touch, and an empathic resonance that could soak into the cells of my being, if I let it.
Lately – amid the unfolding catastrophes of climate change, white supremacy, potential nuclear war and physical, emotional, psychological and institutionalized violence of many kinds – I’ve been spending hours of what free time I have lying down in a grassy field among pine cones and dry brown needles from last Fall, amid the deep and imperfectly-perfect harmonies of Highland Park, watching clouds drift, picking seeds from the open cones, soaking in sun and doing as much nothing as I possibly can.