We walk in bone fields of unknown dead
And crush the shards of countless shattered dreams
With each careless step.
Occasionally someone stops,
To whisper on the wind to those forgotten,
“I remember. I remember.”
A bird flying overhead might reply:
“You have been those bones.
Pick up whatever dreams you’ve lost and go on your way.
You will forget again soon.”
For a brief moment, the sun becomes radiant,
And the earth shifts.
Thank you.
Your words run quicksilver
Over my patched places.
I am shattered anew.
But now the light flows through,
And I laugh to see this.
The cracks of all my imperfections
Are not flaws,
Nor am I merely broken.
I am that, yes, but also and at the same time,
Gloriously whole just as I am.
As are we all.
I strike the bowl.
The moon appears.
A chant drones.
The floor trembles.
Another strike.
Time fissures.
There is a brief smell of incense.
All disappears.
The rains have arrived,
Remnants of the hurricane.
If I go outside and lift my face,
Will I taste the salt tang of gulf waters,
Hear the faint sound of Parlez Nous A Boire drift on the wind,
Catch the tantalizing scent of my father’s gumbo?
Or will I find the salt of tears cried by all who’ve lost,
Hear the shriek of a roof as it is torn away,
And smell the smoke from fires that cannot be quenched?
Nostalgia is easy for me,
For I am in the mountains and far from this devastation.
I am geographically lucky at the moment.
steam rises from the cup. consider these things
the cup shatters and the world explodes
celadon shards and tea float in the midst of primal debris.
chaos and noise and confusion
breathe, and then:
sit in silence,
sipping the usual cup of tea.
I swing my mala and throw it.
It tears a hole in the fabric of this existence.
The beads disappear one by one.
I follow them,
While reflecting on impermanence.
I recite gate gate paragate
As I evanesce.
I rose before dawn in the late summer.
I sat on the porch outside my room.
The air was still and redolent with the salty musky scent of the bayou.
The bull frogs were still croaking from the night,
The crickets were chirping,
And a few birds had begun their morning calls.
I drank my usual Gunpowder Green in a hand-thrown mug
And realized I must make a trip to New Orleans soon.
I needed more tea.
How to quiet my mind?
It often seems like a flock of restless birds:
The thoughts dart here and there, as they will.
I breathe and bid them fly away,
Yet they perch to preen and call,
Gently mocking my efforts.
Perhaps the greater wisdom
Says simply to allow the birds
To be as they are
And expand my limited meditation.
