When I saw my reflection in the door of the grocery story I thought, ‘If I could just go incognito.’ And something deep inside said silently, ‘Don’t worry, you already are.’
We all are. The tulips and trees, grasshoppers and goats, caterpillars and cows. Life is divine. All life forms are divinity in disguise. You and your fellow man are simply human coated gods pushing grocery carts. Continue reading “Incognito”
How can I come into the present moment, you ask. Come clean. Come empty. Come full of space. Come full of empty space.
If you let a word define you it will always be wrong. Words disintegrate, letters crumble. They are but vanishing ink marks on a slate. Do you really want to hang one around your neck like a noose ? Take a word, if you must, hold it tight and never let it go. The winner is me ! Raise your clutched hand high, shout the word out loud. But do you really want to make yourself so small ? Do you want to live hidden in such a cramped space, behind letters that someone might suddenly and simply erase ? Winner is just a word and you are so much more. Continue reading “Come clean”
I wake up wondering why I woke up. I wake up clasping the edges of a rapidly dissipating dream. I wake up wondering, ‘Wait, am I supposed to be worried,’ as a flash of unfounded fear permeates my body. Morning.
Tweet, says a little bird. Tweet, he joyously announces the birth of a new day despite the fact that we are still deeply buried in night’s darkness. How do you know, dear bird ? How can you be so bold ? Then there is a chirp, a cheep, a twitter, a tweet. The dawn chorus cracks night open to let in the day’s light. Do birds ever awake in fear and doubt ? Do they ever worry that morning won’t come about ?
Professor Snowball is the snowball tree in my backyard. He changes with the seasons, like we all do. In November he is a dying fire with his last red embers drifting down into dark days. In January he stands stark naked. In spring he begins to bloom. By May he is covered with heavy snowballs which pull his branches down low. Then a brownish tint starts to gnaw at his glory like slush on the side of the road. This morning (like every morning) he is in full mutation. More brown than white. Soon he’ll be covered in luscious green leaves, then fiery red flakes, ending with his skinny stick branches covered in winter’s white frozen ash. I observe Professor Snowball as he evolves, dissolves and revives. He continually changes his outer cloak, but never what he is inside.
Pebbles 