namaste,
european woman opens her small red and black notebook
tears the himalayas from her map
her trail of tears
white mountain gods
blue sky, eagles, deep gorges, waterfalls, cold wind
raging rivers
presses it all preserving persevering
between lined white crumpled empty sheets
scribbles memory
down life's little road
with anxious nervous fingers
she presses a tin foil magic pill free
swallows h2o my
how did i get here?
what if i die here?
metta.
Namaste,
A man waits with a weight scale. A bag of potatoes. Cool shade. Dawn the down against red bricks.
He shines his black dress shoes with a newspaper.
A woman in a turquoise shawl decorates stone with her whisk broom.
A woman unfolds green stalk onions on a white plastic bag.
Boys slap Tantric wooden masks removing yesterday.
A light rain falls.
Sparrow wings flutter in your face. Directly.
Their air currents support six prop jets as curious enthralled tourists press their faces against plastic glimpsing Himalayan mystery and beauty.
Metta.
I entertained visitors, fished the Glen Malure river in complete solitude, peeled potatoes and carrots for stews, painted watercolors, discussed road adventures with vagabonds, wrote and played chess by firelight.
Pawn takes pawn as players attempt to control the middle of the board attacking and defending positions simultaneously. It was about position and material. We made the necessary sacrifices after the beginning game through the middle game to the end game.
Andy, a German visitor said India was once lost in a chess game between two kings. We played in the dark of night illuminated by fireplace light as peat fires roared their way up the flue. Quick moving violent storms pummeled the place.
“That’s a dangerous move,” he said as my knight escaped a pin.
“Yes, but it’s elegant.”
“We destroy ourselves eventually.”
“Yes, as long as we enjoy the process. Your move.”
In the morning Susan related a dream from literature she was reading, by Brian Merriman, a merry man while doing her nails near the river.
“Have you heard about The Midnight Court?”
“No,” someone said. “Tell us.”
“It’s about a fellow who falls asleep and has a dream where he is taken before a court of women who condemn him to be punished for all the men in their knowledge. How women should have the right to marriage and sex but often meet with disappointment and rejection by men who could easily have become their lovers and husbands.”
Children watched everything from a council bluff where Native American tribes of their nation gathered for a Ghost Dance ceremony. They shared a spirit vision of a Northwest tribe called the Kalapuya.
A hunting gathering people speaking Pentian, they numbered 3000 in 1780. They believed in nature spirits, vision quests and guardian spirits. Their shamans, called, amp a lak ya taught them how seeking, finding and following one’s spirit or dream power and singing their song was essential in their community.
An ancestor spoke to the tribes. “I speak in tongues, in ancient dialects about love. Dialects of ancestors who lived here for 8,000 years before where you are now. In the forest near the river all animal spirits welcome you with their love. They are manifestations of your being.
“I am blessed to welcome you here. You have walked along many paths of love to reach me.
“My dirt path is narrow and smooth in places, rocky in others. I am the soil under your feet. I feel your weight, your balance, your weakness and your strength. I hear your heart beating as my ancestors pounded their ceremonial drums. I feel the tremendous surging force of your breath extend into my forest. Wind accepts your breath.
“I am everything you see, smell, taste, touch and hear. I am the oak, the fir and pine trees spread like dreams upon your outer landscape. I am your inner landscape. I see you stand silent in the forest hearing trees nudge each other. ‘Look,’ they say, “Someone has returned.’
“I love the way you absorb the song of brown body thrush collecting moss for a nest. I am the small brown bird saying hello. I am the sweet throated song you hear without listening. At night two owls sing their distant song and their music fills your ears with mystery and love.
“I am warm spring sun on your face filtered through leaves of time. I am the spider’s web dancing with diamond points of light. I am the rough fragile texture of bark you gently remove before connecting the edge of an axe with wood. You carry me through my forest, your flame creates heat of love. I am the taste of pitch on your lips, the odor of forest in your nostrils, filling your lungs. It is sweet.
“I am the cold rain and wet snow and hot sun and four seasons. I am the yellow, purple, red, blue, orange flowers out of brown earth.
“I am an old dialect of Kalapuya tribes. I respect the spirit energies. I hear with my eyes and see with my ears. I understand your love for the spirit power guardian. I am the ancestor speaking 300 languages from our history. Now only 150 dialects remain. Language cannot be separated from who you are and where you live.
“I say this so you will remember everything in this forest. I took care of this place and now your love has the responsibility.”
Greetings,
May this find you. Find you well, dancing in the light. Delightful fall cool winds caress the ebony of laughter.
I am an unfinished symphony. I live with visual touch holding a small spinal kiss. Feathers on my skin. Shivers along my spine, because I loves this sensation. It is all sensation in my quiet world. This wild swan lifts off skin, its wings a flower opening a petal to light warming me.
Our love is voiceless. It is tenacious. It is the charity of lust and trust. Respect. Our silent joy is a breath. Exhaled. Released.
He comes to me in the heat of the day. I welcome him with my bright dark eyes. I welcome him with a gesture, a fingertip on lips..."quiet." We share brief moments. My passion is deep and strong. My language - a smile, eyes, hands, fingers, rolling sounds whispering:
Metta.
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