Run

I'm not feelin' it. No inspiration here –
just respiration, which is more than
many can say these days, so

I'll take it. I'll take it, and I'll run –
run 'til my lungs burn and my legs
throb and my heart is on the brink

of bursting. I will honor Life with
the gift of these hard breaths, beat
a path to inspiration's door. Knock.

Song of the Dishwasher

The dishes will always be there.
They will get done, and then
there will be more. And more.
And more. There are so many

dishes, always. Always, because
we are creatures, and creatures
need to eat. Eating is good and
right. It is good and right to

eat the good of the earth and to
turn it into music and dance, for
that is how heaven breaks in,
steals the show. Just not the

dishes. Heaven leaves the dishes
behind and waits, waits until

the good of the earth is served
up once again, on clean plates.

Pile-Up

Sheer volume. That's the theory. Accumulation –
of days, hours, minutes. Words, breaths, cuddles,
kisses, sunrises, campfires, storybooks, cookies.
Pile 'em up and up and up, until they cannot be
ignored. Until they take on life through pure heft.

As If

So am I ready? Of course not. Who has time
for ready? I'm here. I'm present. I'm accountable.

Does that count? It should, so I'll act as if
it does. I give my best and watch it get better.

How do I know? I don't. I just go by feel. Or,
just go. On trust. That the stones will rise up
     to meet my feet as I step out into the water.

Both-And
A Jedi Lesson

What Yoda got right:

That trying is too tepid, too safe.
There's still too much in reserve.
It lacks full-bodied commitment,
the headlong dive, the foolhardy
leap, the launch into free fall.

What Obi-Wan got right:

That Luke wasn't ready. He was
only half-trained, hadn't put in
the reps, lacked the bedrock of
discipline yielding wisdom in
crisis, didn't yet flow in Force.

Both are right.
Both carry costs.
And so I hold both,
one in each hand.

Time Machine

What do you mean no such thing as a time machine?
Okay, okay, yeah, I don't like "machine" either, freighted
as it is, now at least, with a sense of metallic necessity,
weighted with the "progress" of The Industrial Revolution,
all the barnacles of a history of trade-offs – the lives
expended to mine the ore, the heat expended to
smelt it, the rust and waste of it all, all in exchange for
the achievement of escape velocity, for a few anyhow.

I know, I know. It's distasteful. Okay, you're right, it's
worse than that. I get it. But we still need a way to talk
about how to make it right, now. We need language for
imagining a future that seeks enchantment rather than
escape, and we won't find it by avoidance of the past. So
let us dig amidst this rubble for tools, for this is all we
have. Can we use these tools to make better ones? I don't
know. But you can't say there's nothing here to work with.

The Visitors

Ramble, meander, wander, wonder.
Lounge, loaf, idle, sit.
Walk out, and don't hesitate to stop,
     dead in your tracks,
     when the scissortail pair return,
     light on the fence, then swoop
     to the crown of the native pecan,
     whose welcome has already
     lasted lifetimes, and persists,
     with grand exhalation of breath.

Little Ditty

This little ditty went to market,
this little ditty stayed home,
this little ditty made goat cheese,
this little ditty made none.
And this little ditty cried, "Hungry!"
                        all the way home.

This little ditty went to schoolhouse,
this little ditty stayed home,
this little ditty played bagpipe,
this little ditty played none.
And this little ditty pined, "Lonely,"
                       all the way home.

This little ditty went to woodlot,
this little ditty stayed home,
this little ditty gave walnuts,
this little ditty gave none.
And this little ditty whined, "Chilly,"
                       all the way home.

This little ditty watched sunrise,
this little ditty brewed tea,
this little ditty came ready,
this little ditty came free.
And this little ditty sang, "Will you
                      stay home with me?"

I have said my piece –

or is it my peace? I have

parsed my piece of the

pie – or the puzzle? I am
puzzled about the part
parsley is purported to
play in this recipe. Now
I am just playing. I am
at peace, said my piece.

 

Eternal Practice

It's like putting on an invisibility cloak or emitting a force field.
You step into Now: you pull back the curtain, the veil, and slip
into the inner sanctum of Presence. It is holy, which is why you
abandon your shoes at the boundary, the threshold between Time
and the Eternity that cradles it. You're going to want to feel this,
                                                                               all the way down.

So now that you're Here, you feel. You feel the Being-ness of the
soles of your feet, which will, soon enough you think, be cracked
winter-dry, because that time is coming, and you usually neglect
the creature-comfort of a stout cream. Do not berate yourself for
the omission, or the lapse back into Time. Take note to take care,
                                                                              and return.

Return, revolve, circle back to Now. Then return, revolve, circle
back again. Do not let the irony, or the near impossibility of it all,
make you cynical. It is the small who smirk, who shirk the debt
owed the Ground beneath their feet. Swell instead. Balloon. Rise
to the Occasion. Dwell, as often as you can, in the space cracked
                                                                             open by the Paradox.