Zen garden magic
Heart sutra
Swimming exercise movement breath
Tai-chi below blue surface
Float on back
upside down clouds
drink sky vision
calm water feels soft
yellow green leaves float
bird song wings light
hello blue sky
black butterflies
mating moths
blue water reflects spirit energies
pure clean radiant
Mandalay, Burma
Be a work of art or wear a work of art.
Art is what everything else isn’t.
Lucky survivors composed tongue bone oracles inside Tibetan meditation thangkas creating a Kalachakra ceremony with rainbow sand particles.
Mandala. Center. Release.
Silk weavers fingered golden threads. Miners harvested Blue Zircon near Ice Girl in Banlung.
Read everything backwards. Backwards everything read. Write right left to the imagination sitting on a Metro subway sandwich in Bursa,Turkey as sensations explored labyrinths without a center. Mystic Arabic dervish dancers spinning on the Wheel of Life rejoiced in ecstasy. Angels danced on a pinhead.
Give female orphans sewing machines and training and they’ll change the world with great job opportunities, low population growth, free medicine, clean water and quality education, said The Dream Sweeper.
Your needle leads thread, said Kairos. I am a compass without a needle, said Lucky.
The heart-mind gift of writing allowed Zeynep to meditate in the present as a stranger to herself:
Mindfulness gives me time and time gives me choices. Choices, skillfully made, lead to freedom. I’m not swept away by my feelings. I can respond with wisdom and kindness rather than habit and reactivity.
I love the crazies, it’s the fools I can’t tolerate.
A Zen writer is an artist, said Z the younger. They love making a big bright, beautiful mess, cleaning it up and making another mess. You are a Lone Wolf blessed with free your quality of life.
The world is a stage and we are but the players. The play’s the thing. A risk taking adventure using asemic language sensing joy and mystery winds down. A poem begins in wisdom and ends in delight. Visionary mystics blossom radiant beauty.
Water-stone. Yin-Yang.
Wear a star on your forehead.
Small powerful stars sing with their light.
Zeynep, a curious star visited a blue marble hurtling through space. What is Earth like? Are inhabitants gentle and compassionate? Do they share calm heart-minds? Do they create archetype wisdom art using multi-colored pigments on cream-colored paper dreaming with their eyes open spilling rainbows in meditative blissful silence?
What is life? Autonomy. Personal growth. Self-acceptance. Purpose. Environmental mastery. Positive relationships. Eudemonia.
Tribal voices spoke.
“Think of it as a small sacrifice, an offering, a form of suffering.”
“The river of life will wake you up,” said an elder. “You go up river and reach pools. They are as quiet as your mind in deep meditation. No people. Nada. Zip. Zero Homo Sapiens. You are water, stones, vegetation, soft green moss, animal skulls, blue sky, nature and sound. The sound is water. It is soft. It is all you know. You sit in the middle of everything pure and simple. It is all you will ever need.
"Water is the first thing an infant needs and the last thing an adult requests. To satisfy thirst for your dying father you will smash ice with tools. You will inhale his death and exhale his life. He was appointed to have you. You selected him to pay for awareness, to accept the responsibility of his life. You will memorize every silent sound and carry it with you. It is light and very portable.
"It will divide and multiply its flowing vibration around rocks in the stream. You are a rock and a stream. Amplification of clear water sound is a single bird throated song. Short immediate. It is heavy deep and real. HDR baby. It will wake you up, as I said. You pay attention.
"You fly away and we will never see you again. We know where you are and see you’re safe, blessed by the sound, pulse and flow being part of the river. Its magic spirit is strong. It’s flowing through civilizations, its adventure down, down, down. It’s distributing itself along the way. The stream is never ending, never beginning. As above so below.
“It is the stream of life.
“Listen to the energies. They will swallow you. You will be absorbed into the flow and you will be still. Stones sing with water. They sing their softness, their wildness, purity unimpeded, reflecting deep pools below open shadows. You are the flow.
“We move forward. Living in the past is time consuming. Nothing behind. Everything ahead. We pay attention. The road gives us our fate. Fire begins with one ember.”
“Funny,” said a child. “Someone along the way said it wasn’t the mountain they thought was difficult but the pebble in their shoe.”
“True. We will meet people and establish a mutual form of simple heart-mind language.”
“Is it paved?” asked one, “this so called road of language?”
“With good intentions, phrasal verbs, grammar, and simple present continuous obscure contextual meaning,” answered one.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said someone in shadows.
“Is that a detour sign up ahead?” said a forward observer (FO). He was so far forward it scared some of the tribe. He was out there, testing frequency shifts.
They suspected he had a psychic ability to see stuff that hadn’t happened yet and they were at a loss, trying to figure it out. They had to trust him. They released their fear, healthy doubt and uncertainty. It was beyond, well beyond their comprehension. He mumbled things like, “You can’t step in the same river twice,” sharing stories, histories, legends, myths, dreams, and illusions.
Omar, Ahmed, and tribal survivors didn’t know if he just made the stuff up out of sheer boredom or if it was the truth of history. Much to their amazement while others carried a lot of stuff like emotional baggage, fear and generic uncertainty, he kept it simple.
His pen sketched and scribbled notes. Pencils and colors danced across Moleskine pages. They noticed in their simplicity and sympathy he carried a kid’s watercolor set. He used river streams and tributaries to mix paints. He splashed pigments left, right and center.
He loved making Fibonacci spirals. They couldn’t figure him out with their subjective abstract sense data perception tools so they relied on trust, instinct, blind faith and a crazy thing called love. Love, a blind whore with a mental disease and no sense of humor drove bus #11.
Passion creates and destroys.
They were blessed by their imperfections. He used life to create art and used art to celebrate life.
Many adults in the tribe being programmed and conditioned cynical skeptics didn’t get it. Indigo kids were clued in to his natural wild mind and trusted him. Implicitly. Their collective language transcended words. There were 6,912 known living languages on Earth and he spoke every one.
He was cognizant a spoken language on the planet perished every two weeks.
“We have a huge responsibility here. No language no culture,” whispered FO. “Culture is what you are and nature is what you can be.”
They sang oral traditions.
They experienced seasons, celebrations, ceremonies, rites, and magic. They created and exchanged clan and tribal myths. Children heard, memorized, chanted and recited songs of their ancestors.
Memory spoke: After they cut my tongue out during my re-education through shit labor experience I started writing script. I found a compressed black Chinese ink stick with yellow dragons breathing fire.
I added a little water to a recessed gray stone surface. I placed the ink in the center. Then, using my right hand, as Master Liu in Chengdu taught me, I rotated the stick in a clockwise motion. Black ink ebbed into liquid as a drop of water rippled a pond.
After collecting ink I selected my white wolf hair brush. After soaking it in water for three minutes to relax it’s inner tension I spread out thin rice paper. I placed my right foot at an angle, left foot straight, with my left palm flat on the table and fingers spread.
I dipped the brush in the recessed part of the stone to absorb ink and slowly dragged it along an edge removing excess. I savored the weight and heft. My brush has it own personality and character. There are 7,000 characters in my written language.
My Chinese script is about unity of mind and spirit.
I have much to see and a long way to travel with this unknowing truth.
My teacher recited a poem.
A mountain loses its spirit without cloud,
loses its peculiarity without stones,
loses its elegance without trees,
and loses its life without water,
and in painting,
one should concentrate the mind,
and hold the breath,
with concentration of the mind,
serenity is maintained,
with the breath held up,
preciseness is attained.
One should be as serene as an old monk in meditation and be as precise as a silk worm in spitting silk.
The spirit and real fun of painting are from nature and beyond brushes and paints.
I stood up straight inhaled three deep breaths and exhaled into emptiness. I centered my unconscious on blank paper filled with nothing. Respect white emptiness.
My wisdom mind of intent became water. It was quiet, calm and still with concentration and focus. I listened to brush, ink and paper. I am a conduit. Be the brush, be the ink, be the water, be the paper.
Each essence is pure, free, clear and luminous.
Burma
The heart-mind gift of writing allowed Zeynep to meditate in the present as a stranger to herself:
Mindfulness gives me time and time gives me choices. Choices, skillfully made, lead to freedom. I’m not swept away by my feelings. I can respond with wisdom and kindness rather than habit and reactivity.
I love the crazies, it’s the fools I can’t tolerate.
A Zen writer is an artist, said Z the younger. They love making a big bright, beautiful mess, cleaning it up and making another mess. You are a Lone Wolf blessed with genetic DRD4-7R. Free is your quality of life.
The world is a stage and we are but the players. The play’s the thing.
A risk taking adventure using asemic language sensing joy and mystery winds down.
A poem begins in wisdom and ends in delight.
Visionary mystics blossom radiant beauty.
Water-stone. Yin-Yang.
Wear a star on your forehead.
Small powerful stars sing with their light.
Burma
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