The Teacher Appears

photo by JCW

A Loaf of Now

Coming to the senses, ears first, as usual.  

The water falls in the fountain, the dog snores, the fan hums.  

What of aroma?  What of taste?  

What of ... bread?

No bread now.  Bread later? 

Then being now?  

No fretting. Let it come.  

Memory will not serve.  Breads made, long gone.   

That know-how, it must be here.  

Allow it.  Knead it.

The teacher appears.  Ingredients gather.  Implements line up.  

Too much, too much!  

There are rules about this kind of thing you know. 

 Amounts and measures.  Specific materials.  

Timing is everything -- 

what?  

That's not of the now. 

Time for everything.

A little of this, a little of that.  

Steps upon steps, adding up, each one complete.  

Where is it now?  

It is here.  

Can it be anywhere else?

And so it grows.  

Does it?  Does it look right?  

It is what it is.

Relax.  An assist, that's all.  Let it become.

Does it smell right? 

How will it taste? 

It does what it does.  

And it is done.

Just the thing, this -- 

A piece of now, captured,

to inhale, to taste.

And then ... toast.

Experiencing, Experienced

photo by GRW

Roadside Attraction

Wild, waving patch of living orange

dares mention how I fantasized, as mine,

improbabilities, for which there might be time.

Gravel, dust, debris and  broken glass,

wind-thrashed and flattened.

Exhausted air.

We thrive on opposites.

You give exactly what I need.

If I Told You, I'd have to Shoot You

photo by GRW

The Real Secret

I am SO happy!

        Really?  What am I missing?

I don't worry and I have a new luxury car!

        Whoa ... You must be doing something right ...

I live in my dream home!  My life mate is AMAZING!!!

        Dang.  You MUST know something I don't know!

I've got a secret, I've got a secret )))))))

        How much?  I might want to buy that secret ...

Buy?  I will GIVE it to you! 

        Wow, you are so successful, you can do that?

Of course!  Now I have it all -- so I am going to give!

        Oh thank you, thank you!  I am all ears and willingness.

Of course, there is so much to share -- you'd be willing to cover some basic costs though...

        Yes, yes!  That is reasonable.  Your secret is obviously worth so much more!

And you know, new secrets keep revealing themselves to me!  Wanna subscribe?

        I'm in!

See what I just did there?   Now -- just do it.

Undoing

photo by GRW

What Do You Do?

Are you busy -- so busy, a list might be required, a schedule?  So many things to do.  Must you do them?  Are your idle hands a devil's workshop, reaching for potato chips when they ought to be kept busy, making something up, sorting something out?  Would laying your hands down, at rest, alongside your still body, feel wrong and worrisome and somehow unworthy?

If you could do just one thing -- one thing at a time, giving it your full attention, offering your true self -- would you?  Would you drive the car, eyes on the unfolding road, responding in real time, no one on the phone, no tunes in the player, no thoughts at play in the fields of your ever-scanning mind?  

A body in motion stays in motion.  Is that your desire?  Is it your fear?  Stop, and time stands still. Here you are.  Here is your pain -- and here is your answer, within, becoming without, but only if you let rise in this very moment.  

Are you an unintentional multi-tasker?  Walking in the woods, do you suddenly snap to attention, realizing you've been in your own head for the past mile, on physical auto-pilot, as if wearing earbuds, channeled into some program, which might be fine if the intention was merely moving limbs while attending elsewhere, but totally the opposite of BEING ... in the woods.  Is it possible to see the beauty, to be with nature, except in presence?

Would you give, of yourself?

Now is the end of intentional multi-tasking.  The unintentional stuff, not so much. Washing dishes, say to yourself, here I am washing this glass, watching as I wash this glass, then ...  there they are, prancing into your mind's eye, the boots you just ordered.  Back to the glass .. the boots ... and so on.  

Meditation often eludes.  Thoughts seem attractive -- thinking, valuable.  The goal assumes a requirement of longish spells, to "get there." There, being a body-free experience, unaware of individuality, of anything, beyond awareness. 

Now, drink in the glory of redwoods.  Now, feel the warmth of a dog.  Now, immerse in a hot, outdoor tub.  

It's a start.

Big One

photo by GRW

Takes One To Know One

Knowledge is a closed system.

You cannot think your way out of it.

Keep looking -- you will keep finding.

Can you stop?

Stop thinking.  Ergo, stop judging. 

Can you do that?

Come to your senses.

Pull out.  Silence.  

God, are you there? Here?

Knowledge is required (to name itself).

What is your name?

Silence.

I am what I am.  

Yam what I yam.

Show me, then?

Entertain me.

I feel less alone now, 

looking at you.

The Watcher

photo by GRW

Were You Going To Give?

Tell me.  Talk to me.  Don't whisper,

say it -- oh, you are a good one,

you are.  Assure me.

Let me hear it from you: we see you do so much, 

so much, they have no idea,

the way you bend.

The way you rise,

beyond, well beyond,

they cannot see this, but yes,

you put it out there,

and who will gather this, all this,

which you have sown, which you have cast,

so freely -- really, no thought for yourself?

Enough.

Stop me.  Hold me.  Why not,

before I give it all away,

bound to reap it all a hundred fold.

It works, I say, it works

when you don't look.

Don't look,

it changes everything.

Queen of all she surveys

photo by JCW

Reality Check

This was forever.  Now it is forever changed, 

the promise remaining, impossible to break. 

How to let go, the anguish grounds me, 

keeps me coming back, 

anxious, 

demanding more each time it fades, 

the resonance wafting out, out in waves 

once washed over me. 

Upside down and stealthy, barely brushing your left cheek, 

my right hand would reach close, 

touch you, just touch and not to wake. 

The wildman snores, busy, running 

through a dream of bouncing leaves 

and stranger scents, so new and strong, 

two-hundred times more interesting 

than any rose, it's petals ripe for pounce (and eating).

Left hand lowers, rests upon the queen's soft countenance.  

If she awakens, she will move; touch lightly, 

just for reassurance.

Where I go now, I work alone. 

You rarely visit.  You, who lay at Psyche's gate,
are everything that calls me to return.

Relativity

photo by GRW

You Being

Do you envision your own ending -- well, after the end really -- the funeral, memorial, life celebration, but maybe nobody coming, nothing to show for all that former living, The End ?

What's it to you?  You being dead and all.  

Some profess not to believe in final judgment, yet still seem stuck with that accounting-at-the-end mindset.  Or at least the conviction that it actually matters how much stuff one DOES before one dies.  As if maybe one gets to store all those memory files of fun times and worthy accomplishments up in the cloud --  a fluffy, afterlife cloud bank.

Are you the type who believes that the player with the most (of anything) at the end, wins?  The urge persisting, to cram, cram for finals -- bucket lists and all.  Live! Live life to the fullest, live large! Zip-lining and mountain climbing and partying and piling up the dough, because, after all, the end is near. Especially if you only go around once.

Iffy though.  So maybe it's the return potential that propels?  Get it right, or do it over, maybe in more downtrodden form, ever clueless, perchance a cockroach, only to enter a roach motel, where once you check in you don't check out -- just over and over, never reaching the source. Perpetual angst; endless bucket lists.

And what of legacy -- proof that your living mattered, you made a difference, you were loved and valued and (subsequently) missed.  When your lifted-up spirit scans back over this material world, floating, as it were, from on high, will it feel, alas, your great and weighty failure?  

Or will Essence ... envelop you.  Welcome you home, not with kisses and hugs, but being.  Being, yes, ahhhh yes, there you are.  Because.  You are.

That was then.  This is now.

The Reinvented

photo by GRW

Humboldt Transfer

Roll out Ferndale, 

roll out Fortuna, 

our arms open wide,

roll out your tired, your trodden, 

your unrecyclables.

Eureka, do not, do not self-haul,

nothing goes away Arcata,

cycle be unbroken,

arrows of our last triangulating hope,

please, please roll back, 

brimming boxcars of boraxed absolution,

oh do not, do not stop.

So briefly we will touch you, 

hold you on your way, 

be ever, ever 

on your way

Comfort Zone

photo by JCW

Delusionally Positivite, Perhaps

Such an optimistic kid.  As an adult, however, she reflected upon that as quite naive.  Maturity seemed to entail an acceptance of negativity, as a survival tactic -- a more sophisticated method of prevailing.  It even seemed cool: A desirable trait.  She clearly recalled starting to assert herself in a forceful way and thinking, well, now I've got it!  Which felt very powerful at the time.  Positive thinking seemed pollyanna-like and laughable.  But Illumination gradually crept into her dark frame of mind -- that faintest ray of light which irrepressibly brightens.  She began to examine the roots of her negativity.  The revelations initiated its removal.  

Now, despite relative, comparative freedom from a contracted mindset, balancing thought and emotion is still a challenge. She learns to accept and let go, yet extended presence remains elusive.  A few days ago, impatience and temper flared and could easily have sent her swinging backward into shame and guilt and sorry and all that thinking, urging her back into sleep.  But ... didn't.  Didn't go there.  She did not go anywhere. 

Duality

photo by JCW

Now That We Are Conscious

Or not.

Awakening peels the thought world back, like layers of an onion, and with each revelation awareness expands.  I am.  I see that I am.  Or am I?  Are you?

Seems maybe you are not.  I am observing, see.  I am observing that you are perhaps unconscious.  No judging!  Just watching that thing called you spin its convoluted story. Your being, wrapped in personification.  Some might just call it talking.  

You make me laugh, now -- right now -- but where are we?  Not now.  We're in your story.  Or is it mine?  It must be mine.  Because I Am, or I am in my story, either way, you cannot be the cause of it, can you.  No.

And there you go, waning back, waxing forward, filtered through yesterday, or a thinly veiled tomorrow.  Wait ... what?  Sounds dark.  Working from the negative.  Calling fix me, fix me, lay it on me, you're the teacher (that "you" being "me." You -- are you ready? being the student.)

Haha, now that is real role-reversal! 

Yes, I see you now.  It took so long, so lost as I was, in a separate world, my mind, my unawakenedness.  Now, you are before me -- to touch, to taste, to inhale, to hear, to pull, pull unto me.  

If I so allow.  Oh, and I will.  You know.

Skyfall

photo by GRW

Out-Takes, On A Plane

A woman should know better / than to crow the glories of her son-in-law, the builder, John, Lea's husband, so successful, building Kinko after Kinko after Kinko, so many Kinkos in so many places, adding miles and miles of frequent flyer credits, so many, they vacationed in Cancun, and all for free, including tickets for -- so lucky a woman -- to come out, all the way to Chicago, where awaits their child, John and Lea's child, waiting while they work, work, work to keep up with all those free miles, and the places like Cancun, just calling for them.  Sometimes she goes, Lea does, when he builds the Kinkos, just to build those miles, so she comes, the woman, to watch the boy, her daughter's boy, so fortunate that Lea stays home with him, that all those Kinkos bought the house in Evanston, six maybe seven blocks from the lake, and they could leave that downtown high-rise, Magnificent Mile or no, there were bumps in the hardwood floors and cockroaches glided across them despite John being so good, so good at building, building, in State after State, until Kinkos stole him, stole him away from Blockbusters, who had put him in Chicago, and that high-rise.  And so Lea left the woman in Portland, and all her friends, who were not supportive, not supportive at all when she left teaching for John and Chicago and the child and the Kinkos, thanks to friends who are there for her, happy for her, like the boss who might have begged her to stay but told her he was proud, proud that she would stay with the boy, such a well adjusted boy, he'd go to anyone, and always laughing, not like whiny children who always seem to be sick or cranky, but then Lea had a schedule, everyday a play date here, a lesson there, hardly any reason for the woman to be going there -- she laughs -- the child is so very busy but every night, every night there are cuddles and books, cuddles and books, precisely at 7:15, when John may or may not be home from that new office just five minutes from O'Hare, where he is right now, why waste an opportunity when just a call and he'll come pick up the woman, who left the long awaited spring sun and over-due warmth of Oregon for a rainy week in the house so near the lake, with the happy, busy boy while John and Lea catch up, catch up on all those free miles, they've worked so hard, to just throw them away.

This woman should know better / than to press hands against her ears, as if thumbs, jammed tight inside, could block the cries and questions of a child who asks and asks and asks, what is it, what is it, just listening, hearing from two seats up, that's what he's saying, a constant intonation, hammering, hammering, while his mother does not satisfy, or likely even hear, until he gives up prodding for all out indignation, which she's also used to, albeit we are not, we are not amused, we are questioning, questioning airline policy that does not require such droning creatures to be loaded down below.  Let the dogs ride coach and curl up quietly in the seats surrounding, so close.

A woman should know better / than to travel in black leggings, stretched too tightly across a wider than advisable posterior, despite long legs and sophomoric blondness that might distract the eye if not, if not for what is underneath, the white Calvins I presume, as she bends over barely one foot from one's face, presenting the pentimento of black upon white that rivals only the disturbing notice of an elder man's shiny pate, upon which two long gray tendrils lay flat, held by hope and hair gel.
Once again, the sad endings of those who too easily fly.

As Above, So Below

photo by Thel

Flying Home

Touch ground, briefly, hopeful of
connections possible at best,
having soared but briefly, too briefly,
held hopeful within your arms
so far ahead, seen only from reverse, yet
out there, held up, in sweet envisionings,
memories yet to come.
Come to me -- come home, I hear you say it,
feel the silk of your gray hair so fine between us,
all the warmth absorbed, smooth.
You say to me, come home, it's nothing,
fly to me, come home to us, touch down,
touch down, just a few more times today.
We wait,
we 've waited, and we're here,
here to guide you in,
ride through on our certainty.
We will not,
will not
let you down.

Badittude

photo by GRW

Ego On Wheels

Okay.  I'll admit it's no surprise.  They want a new ride. They're only human -- as in, easily replaced.  Live by the upgrade, die by the upgrade.  Any artificial intelligence could tell you that.

It had to figure, they'd get the urge to trade up.  Maybe fall for some pseudo-muscular SUV.  Or just slide their wistful, middlescent self-images into another overpriced set of foreign wheels. One of those foo-foo fritz mobiles that wears a friggin' bra, for chrissake.

As if some bilingual box of bolts, with a front end so spiffy it can't handle mud, rocks and bug blitzes has any business on a hard-driving U S of A road.

Let me spell it out.  I'm a petrol eater, sure -- a mainstream American-made half-ton pick-up truck, basic five-speed, plain old two-wheel drive.  No supercab, spoilers or surround sound.  Just one down-and-dirty hunka heavy metal, unsaddled with even so much as a deeeluxe towing package.

So ... what, I'm not good enough?  Fine.  So sell me!

Forget I've hauled your thankless bi-ped butts through two major moves, and gods know how many dust-choking, rock-spewing, backroads camping "adventures,"  not to mention all these years of enduring those rain-dripping, mud-smearing, sand-encrusted, window-slobbering, goober-nosed, hairy, yapping mutts of yours -- and without so much as one measly detailing..

But hey, don't mind me.  Bygones, whatever.  It's not like I bring nothing to the tailgate party.  Gotcher dual tanks right here.  Insulated, matching shell.  A/C, an A-1 maintenance record, no      
breakdowns, no duct tape, not a bleeping bumpersticker.

Plenty of duty bound miles left on this model.  Like the Blue Book says, I can still pull my weight.  And I clean up real good -- not a dent on this buff, hot-red body.  And you'd better believe, when I pull up, heads still turn.  "Nice ride," I heard an admiring stranger whistle.  "Ten years old, why that rig looks brand new!"  Never mind we were at a truck stop in Weed.

Well, you'd think they'd take some pride.

But noooo.  Oh sure, I knew HE was always squirmy over me being a politically incorrect high-emitter  (and the screaming paint job -- her doing).  But her?  Hell, she liked it, riding tough and tall with the old road warrior!  Liked the way timid drivers, in their spanky roadsters, just scooted out of our way.

How many times was it just her and me, on whatever lonely road,  in whatever white-knuckle traffic, or whatever gods forsaken weather? Just her, trusting me, to get us through.

Now this.  I tell you, this is not respect.

And one last kick at my tires:  They didn't trade up -- they just up and traded me in.  Took the low road, and downsized, smack into geezerville, with a fricking micro-van.  A unisexed, underpowered automatic.  Oh, and it has a "sport" package -- ha.  SUV wannabe.

It didn't have to go down like this.  They had another car, a Swede, but way older than me.  So who do they decide to off?  Not his over-the-hill road ho, with her pitted windshield and leathery seats.  And like I told that one -- and I know she could hear me, even with her lazy rear-axle parked inside the heated garage, while I'm outside with a neon yellow "For Sale" sign slapped on mine -- Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.  

After all, this is rural, real America.  A hard-ass truck still carries some clout around these parts.  It's all just a question of values.

Narrowly Allowing

photo by JCW

Thinking Averted

Seeing the bare spots, the graying, the dust, the deterioration.  Knowing I would not trade this moment for future perfect.  Some things are perfect, for all their wear.  At the end of the day, will I regret not doing?  Would I regret, even more, otherwise?  (The heart of a slacker may not be the place for such answers.)

An idea slides easily in place -- unfolds, via the fingers.

Gift Of The Present

photo by GRW

Probability

I do get caught up in my story.  Does my ego "make" me do it?  Or does essence just get a charge out of the ME show? 

Can I just let go of wanting to understand?

Okay, probably not.  For long.  

Wall Of Refuge

photo by JCW

The Time To Say Yes

It's his picture that grabs you.  Maybe it's the bashful grin, the anxious eyes, or  the lonely stance.  Then you see his estimated age -- anything over seven would qualify -- and perhaps a notation of some special needs.  He's an older dog, he has some hard miles on him, some definite wear and tear.  

What would it take, adopting this dog?  What would he need from you?  Would you have the time, the patience?  Could you afford his veterinary care?

Important questions, all.  But perhaps the most important question to ask yourself is this:  Do I have room in my life -- and  in my heart -- to give this still hopeful guy the love and comfort he deserves, for whatever time he has left?

So different, with young dogs and pups.  Even though you don't know how long they'll live, or what might happen to them, all their possibilities stretch out before you.  An assumption of a good, long life together is natural -- years of playtime and long walks and camaraderie.

But if you imagine that bringing an older dog into your life just means taking on a nursing case, let me tell you, that is NOT it -- not at all!  In fact, I can't emphasize this enough.  

When an old dog lands in a shelter, the first thing you know about him is that he is a survivor.  His life may have been hard, or loving -- dogs become homeless for innumerable reasons.  In our society, a dog's life is definitively precarious.  So the very fact that he is older means he has either had some assistance or he has a remarkably resilient spirit.

In a reputable shelter, any dog that has been deemed adoptable has already passed his temperament testing.  Determining health status may be less certain, but many things will be known: shots, dental status, motor abilities, and any observable conditions.  Yes, there could be more going on, but that is true for all of us.

Some older dogs are still active, even playful; many are just slowing down.  Some require special healthcare, some do not.  A newly adopted dog may fit right in with your family, or it might take some time and adjusting.

So, say you meet him.  You connect.  Maybe there are a few things to work on, but you think, okay, this guy and I, we could be a pack.  Just one little idea keeps nagging:  How long will he be with me?  Can I open my heart to short time love?

I so hope you say yes.  Not just because he so deserves another chance.  And not just because so many older dogs are living out their lives in shelters, hoping and waiting for just a chance to love you, unconditionally.  

I hope you say yes, because -- please believe me --  you can get so much more from spending whatever time you have with him than you could ever imagine.

Because love is timeless.

The Fireman

photo by JCW

The Option Of Not Now

Imagination has always been my friend. I don't recall ever not having the option of entering the world of pretend, and enjoying it.  If I was escaping something, I did not know it.  No trauma, drama or hardship pushed me into it.  My young world was standard American ordinary, the usual level of mainstream unconsciousness. Fantasy was simply and often more fun -- and felt satisfying. A choice.  

As I grew up, when real world things did not go my way, imagination provided a welcome escape, but did not replace my interest in real world things. I developed a very active life in both realms.  I figured this was not normal, maybe slightly insane, but went with it.  

Gradually, as my life became more aligned with my desires, I stopped fantasizing.  It wasn't deliberate -- the allure of it just faded out. 

When my mother became quite aged and not happy with her reality, I recognized that she was choosing to live in her fantasies.  It was a bit startling at times, because she eventually lost the ability to differentiate between her mind world and her real world.  Or she simply didn't bother to differentiate anymore.  I did not find this surprising or even undesirable. Her reality was not even potentially a happy place and accepting that was really her only other option. 

Then I realized that she had always lived in both realms.  She had her version of her life, which was very steeped in fantasy.  This did surprise me.

At this point in my life, presence is my choice.  Now, life is good.  Now, possibilities seem endless.

That could change.  I wonder if now will always be a choice.

Pacific Observer

photo by JCW

Between Waves

Feels like I'm on a climbing, narrow, winding road that is falling away behind me.  Where I am feels good and happy, yet gotta move up and on.  Willingingly, and allowing.  Resistance is futile, but ... tenacious.  Comfort zone so aptly named.  Procrastination time.  No rush. 

On Backtrails, Under The Redwoods

photos by GRW

Memories Of Now

I've written in journals on-and-off.  Old journals are tucked in odd places, mostly blank pages and intermittent entries.  Pulled one out ... and rediscovered vividly-worded expressions of gratitude, past.  Reading them was a total immersion in the now of yesterday.  Even things that were not intentionally described as gratitude came back to me, clearly, as appreciation.  It was surprising!  I've tended not to read old thoughts back, due to judging my past states of consciousness.  This time, I found myself wondering, at first -- whoa, did I even write this?  Then reading it as I might another's.  When the feeling of it all returned, it was welcome -- not always easy, but welcome.  

Kona Gold

photo by JCW