My Name is Winterhawk

Now you are in a train dining car rolling to some glorious ancient city near a sea and snow covered mountains seeing wide open snow covered fields stretching to infinity. Inside, on the table are wild yellow flowers with pink and green stems. Click, clack.

Shine the light. Be light about it.

The train passes through memories of a Starlight domeliner and C.C. reading your palm - head line and heart line - rolling metaphorical memory. Sweet contamination. Dancing elemental rivers, sagas and oral transmissions near empty bright cold winter fallow fields as children stand bundled, waving goodbye at a station.

Long ago and far away in a language of land, ancestors, wants, needs and desires lived a heart filled with soft eyes and a wisdom mind of intent. 

Wnterhawk wingspread read air above winter's glide. I am free to live wherever I want. My only small imaginary fear is leaving the sky. As long as I stay below it I am safe. Do you remember flying when you were little, like now?

When, once you let go, how the air filled with wind welcomed you, how the calm air created endless space because you had no memory about it? How it was all instinct and feeling,

this bliss, this sensation

of being in the air passing through a long black tunnel and how a small white light waited for you and it was easy this glide like a smile or an echo

sensing the crisp vapor of rising steam off a river, the blue-green liquid of your dream landscape zooming over rising red rocks inside winter groves of tall quiet Aspen trees singing their bark, branches wavering

as your quick flick of strong delicate wings brushed their knowing, their patient reflection

dancing inside star trails because in your vivid Winterhawk reality you are destined to remember everything as the sky welcomes your wingsing.

Room For Rent

“The leaves are falling fast,” I said to a ghost.
“They are falling far from the tree,” the ghost said.
“Yes, they are dancing,” I said. “Dance is about process, becoming, the passage of time. Shiva symbolizes the union of space and time and indicates creation. This is why dance is one of the most ancient forms of magic.”

“Magic is universal,” the ghost said. “People wear masks to hide their transformation, seeking to change their dancer into a god or demon. Dance is the incarnation of eternal energy. They are free. Do leaves really fall far from the tree? It’s hard to say. Did you see a diamond light off a leaf this morning? It reflected an elegant universe.”
“Yes, the diamond mind reflects 10,000 things,” I said.

“What do you see now?”
“I see a circle of movement,” I answered. “A connected unity, a language in space.”
“It’s more than that,” the ghost said. “There are five rhythms in dance. You start with a circle, it’s a circular movement from the feminine container. She is earth.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes, then you have a line, from the hips moving out. This is the masculine action with direction. He is fire.”
“Fire purifies,” I said.
“Chaos is next, a combination of circle and lines where the male and female energies interact. This is the place of transformation.”
“I see,” I said, “and then?”

“After chaos is the lyrical, a leap, a release. This is air. And the last element of dance is stillness. Out of stillness is born the next movement.”
“Ah, I see language in space,” I said. “The word is beauty. The Greeks said it was order.”

“Speak to me,” the ghost said. “Tell me a secret. Plant a seed in my garden. Something glorious for spring. Eternal material with regeneration potential. Turn old soil. Give me a metaphor for digging.”
“They say grief for the dead was the origin of poetry.”

White bread

On the day before he died of starvation the old man wearing his poverty overcoat above broken tennis shoes walked slowly down the street.

Besides the small white plastic bag hanging from his dirty brown fingers, his right hand, open, held a huge slice of white bread. On the bread were chunks of brown meat. Inside his slow pace he bent a grizzled face down flickering a tongue, capturing a morsel, pulling it into his mouth.

He then continued walking past chickens turning on gas fired flames, a bread lined bakery window and a freshly squeezed orange juice shop. He danced through pigeon shit and across the street of perpetual dreams balancing his one good meal and endless essential hunger.

Spin them wheels

Delicious ice coats the streets as drivers spin their anxiety wheels. Trying to get somewhere fast or last.

Pedestrians slow down or fall down.

Speaking of down, it's worth mentioning a recent vision.

You were in a taxi heading to old Roman ruins filled with bones. An army car with flashing lights entered the highway. It was followed by an army truck filled with bright flowers. It was followed by another army truck carrying an olive drab green casket draped with a red flag. The odd yet true thing was that the red color was blood, and, as the truck roared along the highway it left a trail of blood in its wake. It coagulated quickly in the frozen light of dawn as the trail grew longer and longer until it disappeared into the faint glow of a dull faint stain edging into secret stone passages where memories saluted fallen heroes.

This convoy of memories was heading to a cemetery where family, friends and strangers waited on a bitter cold day. They were holding hands and wearing frozen tears. They cried, "Goodbye. We hardly knew you."

Existing and laughing

How did it feel to wander into work after six peaceful days?

A stranger in a strange land. A wild animal trapped in a zoo filled with melancholic humans, desperate to pass...desperate to get a life. How, as a small Zen monk comfortable with the consciousness, shifting into a zone of peace, I was a ghost in the floating world.

How when someone asked me how I was I replied, "I am existing. Here. Now."

How, maybe this awareness, this small utterance connected their reality with an image, a feeling of inner stillness. How, like a bolt of lightning, my voice articulated the reality allowing them to see the futility of grasping.

"Yes," I said, "I find it peculiar to see and hear people still trapped in their own personal fear, anger, manic behaviors, and attitudes. How I dreamed some of them might have, during the recent retreat, used their time to meditate, to slow down, adjust, adapt, and evolve their direction, motivation and intention as a new year, a new beginning allows everyone the freedom to develop deeper meaningful and beautiful relationships.