Midnight in the back of my car

Midnight. In the back of my car we made love until we were dripping like the foggy windows. Then the thing all back seat lovers fear: the knock at the window.

It was her mother. How she found us down that dead-end road in the middle of the night is still a mystery to me, but she did, with that supernatural radar mothers have. The knock. The knock that threw us into motion like thieves caught in the act. What were we stealing? 

She got dressed faster than me and stormed out of the car to confront her mother. As I pulled my clothes on I heard them yelling at each other. I was impressed by her ferocity. I'd be sheepish. I was caught fair and square. What right would I have to put up a fight?

She came back and told me she had to go. She told me everything was ok and she'd call me soon. They drove away and I turned my defrost on full so I could see. I was that guy, wasn't I?  The ones parents fear.

There was a difference, I told myself. I actually loved her. I didn't know what the hell I was doing but I loved her. The drive was 30 minutes through the hills and trees and I turned the whole thing over in my mind. When I got home I slipped in through the bedroom window so I wouldn't wake my family. 

As sleep came to me I thought about the water running down the inside of my car window and her hand pressed against it while we made love, in the same spot her mother put her hand when she knocked... 

promise me

promise me

you'll find the beauty 

in our world

when my eyes

no longer see 

promise me 

you'll have vision 

for the two of us 

i, looking 

through you

in this moment of

pure existence 

double-visioned 

graced moment of 

divine sight 

let light fill 

our body

in the presence of 

this passionate 

cohabitation 

i am always with you 

if you have eyes 

to see 

oh my earth

in my final moments
let me be light
let me soar the starry sky
my earth, oh my earth
i leave you by
returning
will i ever see again?
no, oh no
as long as the 
end of time

firefly

When I was little I'd catch fireflies in a jar. Only one or two at a time. To my young mind these small creatures were living miracles.

They would always appear in the same spot in our backyard, near a small hill around the base of an old telephone pole. Catching them was easier than you might think. One simply had to wait for the little insect to signal with its glowing abdomen and scoop it up. Where I live now in suburbia I rarely see them in great enough numbers to do this, but when I was a child, the night air was full of them. 

I'd take my jar inside and inspect the bug under some light. What a strange creature lived there on the other side of my fingers and a few millimeters of glass.

Then I'd sit the jar next to my bed and go to sleep, but with one eye open to watch my little prisoner. Sometimes I'd see it glowing there, but never so brilliantly as outside.

In the morning I'd find the firefly lifeless on the bottom of the jar. I don't think one ever made it through the night.  There's probably a metaphor in that, if one cared to think a little more about it.

being here

"repetition

variation

intersect in

Mother Gaia,

existence is our

salvation from the

Void" -Jerus Maximus

We unfold like paper umbrellas

little bloomings

snowflakes on the crinkled nose

of a child

glorious revelations

brilliant in our being

soon forgetful

all enveloped cultural

pigs in blankets

fit only for 

consumption

reawakened by small

sparks

glimmers of light on

lips of strangers

reminders of our 

effervesence

or as Hegel once said the:

"foaming ferment of finitude"

you're full of secrets

you're full of secrets
and unfathomable spaces
so terrible in their
invincible aspect
i'm broken to pieces
when did you become the
Unconquerable Sun of 
our earthy domain?
what alien womb 
gave you birth?
what's to stop me 
worshipping you 
at an altar i hastily 
construct with these
still strong hands
oh indifferent god of 
Being?

all life is a day

all life is a day

dawning and dusking

golden light between the 

twinned darkness 

we find ourselves 

here 

this day 

terrible in its 

naked givenness... 

is its contemplation 

not the highest 

form of consciousness?

I walk the green 

path toward the

wine dark sea 

are you here with me? 

or will you slip 

into an hour of 

your own? 

I feel the 

sand beneath my feet 

the pound of surf 

upon the lightless shore 

soon we'll be 

no more 

i am many ideas

ཨོཾ་མ་ཎི་པདྨེ་ཧཱུྃ

i am many 
ideas,
many many lives seen 
through immeasurable eyes
have i yet
found my true nature?
aggregrate of the crowded
alleys of a swarming city
flower blossom in a 
wind-swept field
OM
a practice for the 
ten thousand things
my voice the edge of 
destiny manifested
OM
earth air
fire water
boddhisattva of compassion 
may all living beings attain
liberation
OM

when the weather grew cold

when the weather grew cold

she came to me

trailing freshly 

fallen leaves 

crisp from morning frost 

with hot tea and 

warm bread 

the sunlight golden on her 

wind-blown head 

her eyes all bright with

new welcome and 

desire 

I clung to her like moss 

on a stone 

inseparably grown with 

ages of time

"you'll always be mine" 

she whispered 

and the trees bowed

in solemn witness

to her words 

and my heart bent 

with those ancient woods

toward her 

in the Fall

in the Fall

you fell 

like a majestic oak 

like Hadrian's Sycamore

you were cut by indifference 

to your majesty. 

it's not fair 

that fate refused to

spare me 

this awful day. 

but how can i complain 

when others feel 

more pain and 

loss? 

Fiddler's Green Monastery

Master: Wake up!

Student: I'm tired 

Master: You have yet to live a single day, how can you be tired? 

--

One day while walking along the green bank of the lake I asked my Master, why is it so hard to be enlightened?

He only smiled. 

--

One day during morning meal the Master watched us with eyes half closed. He didn't touch his food.

"Why aren't you eating Master?" asked a sister. 

"I was experiencing deep gratitude for this new day, and for this delicious food," he said.

The rest of us slowed our eating and bowed to him in thanks for the lesson. 

--

"There are 4 pillars of Being Meditation," the Master said.

"One is the awareness of Being itself, that is space/time, the fabric of Being. 

Two, is the ten thousand things, but especially living and sentient beings. 

Three, is consciousness. 

Four, is transience, the folding and unfolding of Being. These are the key to true meditation practice."

--

Once when walking through a nearby town we observed a man kicking a dog. Someone asked the Master, "Why does he kick the dog?" 

"There are many reasons why men harm others. Ultimately it is because he has forgotten the miraculous nature of existence. If he had remembered, he never would have harmed that other being."

Ego and Entitlement

I saw a woman today at the local coffee shop. She had a very large diamond ring on her finger and drove an expensive car. I held the door for her. She seemed nice. While we waited for our order she asked the employee if she could have hers faster because she had an appointment to get to. There were perhaps 5 of us waiting. The employee agreed to finish the woman's order first. When the drink was handed to her, she turned and stormed out saying, "It's not even a fucking grande like I asked, you fucking bitch." Then she stood in the parking lot on her phone for some time before driving away.

It is possible to have compassion for such a woman, without relinquishing the sense of injustice we all feel when hearing the story. Justice and compassion are not incompatible. 

I suspect that if she could practice even a little Being meditation her perspective might change, or at least her anger be tempered.

Many times such anger is habitual, having been reinforced by an unchecked expression of it many times before. 

Perhaps her ego felt entitled. Do all our egos not feel entitled?

Through Being meditation our ego slowly (but sometimes in a flash) realizes its place in the cosmos. What destruction will we cause until then? 

Orange Shirt Day - Reflections

The very first step is a kind of recognition that some injustice has occurred. It might not see the full scope of that injustice, but it recognizes that here, to our fellow Canadians, something very wrong has happened.

It follows that someone who has this recognition will dig deeper, through a process of self-education (at this very early stage), into the history of these events. It will soon be seen that a profound tragedy has taken place, a profound injustice, to these peoples, the original inhabitants of these beautiful lands. And though I have had no hand in any kind of direct action against them, one will soon see that this injustice was done in my name, that is, the Canadian.

Very soon the impulse to “make things right” will arise in the heart. After much more reading, and listening to those who have been impacted, it will become evident that it is not possible to “make things right”, that such an event, or series of events have occurred on such a scale and quality that something irreversible has taken place.

One will also be filled with uncertainties about the role one should play, what right one has to even speak or participate in such a “making right”.

I am of the opinion that, as a Canadian, I can first, recognize the injustice; second, name it and draw attention to it; third, continue to try to understand and educate myself, either through reading of histories or through the very words of those who have survived; and finally, I can take part in initiatives that seek to address the wrongs done and look for some kind of way forward.

But most importantly: Listen. Not to me and my reflections here, but to the indigenous peoples of Canada. My intentions are good, but I haven’t lived their lives.

Please don’t harden your heart.

this time of year

this time of year
is you to me,
even absence is in the 
cool autumn air,
in fading light and the
fading flowers of the 
forest glades
tired crickets give their
final performance
before cold solidifies the
grass and earth,
i wear a sweater that
reminds me of you,
i swear your scent is 
on its threads 
in the place you
rested your head
when i kissed it,
when i gave my heart
to a friend

gifted

you are a gift,

and in my deep gratitude 

there is longing:

when will my blue eyes 
reflect your face?

when will your touch

speak of the warmest presence?

how old we have become 
upon the thin green plane,

rarer than any jewel 

desired by blurry-eyed men,

it is the inevitability of it

all,

and our faded memory of

a truth known our first-breath's

moment.

our default: complacency,

but has our love 

ever been satisfied?

i burn with Being's immanence

like the newborn star,

terrible, but the

giver of a 

beautiful intensity.