Two Kids

Two kids are talking.

The kid from the West said, "Where did I come from?"

The kid from the East said, "How did I grow?"

Metta.

Jumping Thunder

"Find whatever freedom it is that you need or whatever freedom from need that you seek" - a post on Hanoian from a writer in the Botanical Garden. Everyone lives in their personal garden, visible, secret, serene and portable.

Now then. From the notebook extolling recent Hue travel. On our first afternoon in Hue, Joe, Andi, Isabella and I walked to the Citadel. It sits along the Perfume River, long walled enclosures. It's huge with many exhibits, temples and rooms filled with photographs, art objects and paintings. Old images show an arena where they staged fights between elephants and tigers. 

It rains heavy and the girls disappear. Joe and I take shelter under a pagoda roof with a young couple.

She teaches poetry. Joe asks her to tell us a poem. Thunder. Lightning. She jumps. Rain pours on fields, old marbled stone stones, inside green. Initially she is shy, then she recites a poem. It is musical and mysterious. It is about love, about two people missing each other. Her voice is strong. She feels this poem through her, it is her life, history, all the stories and songs and poetry she learned growing up surrounded by friends and family.

She gets into it. Her voice is an angel. Her melody, rhythm and voice flow as the thundering rain and lightning flashes and dances.

We applaud her performance. She is retiring, relieved. Joe and I perform "Singing In The Rain," for them, circling around stone pillars, twirling with the words, feeling the music. Rain dance. They laugh.

The intensity of the rain slows down and we all walk through the drizzle. Say farewell.

The sun comes out, reflecting diamond light on stones inside shallow water pools. Deep dark blue skies fill the air above mountains. The sun drenched fields are an amazing brilliant shade of green.

We walk over the bridge, over the river.

Metta.

Wandering

How does it feel in hot, humid, steamy Hanoi? Delightful.

It's the poetry of the street. Diversity of life's energy. Fascinating documentary of modern tribal realities. Blond backpackers wear rubber flip-flops. Hard going through the mud and meadows of reality. Influences and migration.

Ha Noi Handicrafts is a fine place with friendly people. Feel free to see their site: 

I am Anon-o-mouse. Enjoy fresh tea near the lake at dusk. Dancing yellow lights. Fish are jumping.

Massage away your tension, anxiety, fear. Practice sitting and walking and breathing like a monk. Calm, serene and spine. This is a quiet simple dignity.

Metta.

Joy

Greetings,

A simple joy is being in Hanoi savoring delicious Chinese tea.

I am liberated from tolerating the tyranny at a private Catholic school in Jakarta. I completed my penance. A beautiful universe.

It feels fantastic to be back in the University of the Street. So it goes.

Metta.

31 Fools

Greetings Foolish ones,

yes. birds whistle their foolish sharp twills, leaf vein, rats, geckos, butterflies, echo.

ah, the faint sound of a step on gravel. a piano note. broom music on stone.

a crescent moon lies on her back massaging ink sky

an is-land floats on blue water, a wake for the living

be a work of art or wear a work of art. writing down the bones of tongues inside tibetan thangkas, golden threads, grounded semi-precious stones. a mandala. centered. release.

read everything backwards. write right to left to the imagination sitting on a metro subway sandwich dreaming dust inside word tunnels.

spin your wheels. a wheel of life. dance with angels.

Metta.