May spotty skies of dog fur and loving eyes lap you with the wet kisses of clouds overhanging unconditionally all you ever felt or believed
May you break into the abyss of laughter and shout for joy as the Eden of allowing rewilds you from edges hardened by too much time in houses and buildings
May you grow green canopies for hair, feeling the wafted chemical messages of trees in the branching tentacles of your interbeing brain and heart
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
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.
Sitting outside the ice cream place in a small New England college town you ate strawberry ice cream and remembered the man everyone said was insane – the one you met before you ever met your father – who took you to get your first bowl as a child in another country and another world – and your tears openly shined.
I dropped for the moment any pretense of trying to interject evidence-based interventions into our time together (though I value the crystallized care they can be the expression of), and said what seemed obvious to us both: “Maybe he wanted to send you a message today.” To which you replied, “Maybe he did.”
We four met at the bus stop, randomly
the FRTA in Northampton, outside the Academy of Music
it was cold, gray, 6 PM in October
with blue lights inside buses starrifying the sidewalk
I had just emerged from icy oceans beneath
the crust of Europa (which really are 62
miles deep, and full of life) as I nursed my
wounds of apparent rejection (more…)