bells

A distant bell rang. Another bell answered. 

“What day is it?” asked Raven. 

“Today,” said Orphan, “It is the day of the bells. The Day of The Dead. Celebrate life! It’s the first day of the rest of our lives. Ring low, ring high.” 

“How sweet it is.” 

“Balls of fire!” 

“Why do bells say sing ring a ding dong?” 

“It’s a code. A signal. They are calling us on a quest-ion. A journey. We will engage fear, trauma and imaginary terrorist threats of unknown origins. We will discover trust and love, companionship and community. We will evolve into our real authentic universal being.”

“What kind of journey?”

“Who knows?” said Raven. “We’ll find out. It’s the only way. Step by step. Breath by breath. The road is made by walking. Every heartbeat contains the universe.”

“Is there more than one way?” wondered a child turning a compass without a needle.

Seeing, not watching. Active awareness.

hyohakusha

wow, said elf, what an amazing year, all 365 dreams. we celebrated beginning in cambodia.

in march we celebrated snow altitudes in nepal. in cambodia we celebrated summer heat. laos called in fall and wa-la, presto magician, here we is. again. 

once upon a whisper paid attention to sensations. a heavy deluge increased density of murmurs. ideal voices sat silent.

it's hyohakusha, said a zen monk named basho. one who moves without direction.

metta.

vairochana

In Boudanath, Nepal he chanced into the Saturday Cafe. Was it Saturn Day? Perhaps. Decent breakfast. Stupa view. Bookstore.

 

A woman sat at a table with her laptop. Typing. A traveller stood in the doorway. Are you writing a book, he asked. Pasang looked up, smiling.

No, I'm beginning a bi-monthly newsletter. Community. 

He sat down. They talked. He offered to help her. Everyone needs help.

 

They became friends and he'd journey over from Bandipur weekly to suggest all manner of ideas: focus, tone, editing, developing resources and so forth. It's a one-woman show.

 

He gave her a copy of his walking meditation prose poem from Lhasa travels. He revised it. She published it. O joy. In June she prepared to publish the first hard copy issue.

Pasang sent her web site URL. It has a great feel. Here it is. Give it a look-see. Share.

www.vairochana.com

rhythm

Namaste,

when I learned the alphabet
late in life toward primordial birth

infinite moment before now and then

air whispers sang
from my trash collector’s plastic bottle
pulling my rolling cart filled with cardboard
singing a muscular rhythm
stirring sonomulent dust on broken stones

in a deep forest

Metta.

June danced

Namaste,

june said fare-thee-well o little
one dancing inside a red mask
celebrating innocent language tongues
flapping in himalayan winds

waving her sword of knowledge
cutting through ignorance
children scatter laughing
adults ran crying

Metta.