The Wild
The Wild--a poem
There are cows in a field of snow
black and red angus to be exact
behind them lies a fallow apple orchard
in its neat, precise rows
the hand of man imprinted on the land
as I drive past my favorite
rock formation
there are pre-fab houses
everywhere
the hand of man imprinted on the land
One picturesque, one abomination
these are the polarities of man
364 days a year we bend the Earth
to our will
the hand of man imprinted on the land
but the wild
the wild is always there
one day, maybe more,
the land reminds us who owns it
no one
the arroyos swell and wash away
the stain
the fires burn and quench their thirst
with the tenderbox houses filled
with trinkets and trash
and the precious lives of men
the wild awakens in the brown bear
the mountain cougar
the lonely coyote
the Great Eagle watches
the hand of man cannot touch everything
it cannot touch the wild
man can only awaken it
within his own heart
Labels: poem, poetry
Everyday things I love
Everyday things
Once, several years ago, a friend
said to me, "your world is so small."
I agreed. But what he didn't see--what
no one sees--is that even in these small,
everyday things, this tiny little world
I dwell in, these 20 square blocks,
this well-traveled country road,
the curve of these particular mountains,
that particular body of water,
the deep lines in my brows,
the map of my hands,
the worlds within my own eyes.
These everyday things are my
universe. You see it as small; but I
have always believed that the only way
to know everything was to be intimately
engaged with one thing. To know it like
your own hand, the curve of your own breast,
the light in your own eye. These are the
things we can know. An in our knowing,
the entire play of the cosmos awakens
in our hearts.
My small world is a temple, a grand
basilica, a symphony, a song.
These everyday things give me comfort.
They are the keys to what I know of Infinity.
They are the image of God. There are no idols,
there is only the magic and mystery found
in these the most mundane of
everyday things. And my small world
is alight with the play of the Infinite
in this wooden spoon, in this rounded, smooth stone,
in this well-worn book, in this faded photograph,
and this pair of jeans, littered with holes.
Look upon your world--sing your song, build your
temple, write your symphony in the names of all
the everyday things that surround you.
This is love.
Labels: poetry
Broken Mala
This morning I did a two and a half hour practice of So Purkhs with some girlfriends. It was a beautiful practice. At one point, I wanted to include my beloved in the meditation, so I reached into my bag for my mala that he had given me and it was broken. A shock went through my body because I realized I could no longer live in my projection, my fantasy (which seems to be going around these days) about him--us. Because there is no us-and there never was--yet I've lived in the idea of it for months. The mala was a way for me to remember--remember what I'm not quite sure. Perhaps it was more a way for me to dream. To be fair, it was also a tremendous tool for my meditation. I had never had a mala before he gave this one to me--and it was a tremendous awakening for someone like me, generally agitated and impatient, to simply run the beads and chant the mantra. It was such a gift--a grace.
And now it's broken. Perhaps it's a sign that I'm finally freed from my attachment to something that never was. Or perhaps it's a sign of nothing at all. It's definitely a sign that I need a new mala.
May you be freed from your attachment.
May your heart always open to love.
May your horizons be filled with
a future you long for and
may your days be filled with the
contentment of the present.
May you meditate always
and may that be the gift--the grace--
you've waited for all along.
