Zen Diamond Bowling

You will be happy to know the Zen Diamond company is near the Cosmic Magic Bowling alley. No lie butterfly.

So, you set up your cosmic pins made of diamond dust and roll the dice, I mean roll the heavy orb of planet Earth along a wooden incline inside a spiral galaxy. Strike!

The diamonds explode into a sky wearing a full moon. The healing energies manifest themselves into wisps of sage cleansing a small room where a sick person once lived. He suffered greatly and we won't go into his neural nervous neuron condition here except to say he was ill. So we saged past schizophrenic lives away, out of the room opening winter windows allowing full moon light to mix with embers from a Kiva ceremony.

We have serenity, sanctuary and simplicity evolving into new space place, teaching, - learning, helping others realize their language potentials, while spashing ink on paper. This gentle kind transition welcomes peacock feathers, mountain visions, snow, clouds and elevations.

We enjoy Snow White blizzards cascading from a bright blue sky.

Have bamboo will travel

Well, it's time for me to open the little Moleskine and share some musings. A work of art is never finished. It is abandoned.

Once upon a time last week to be exact a traveller went to the main bus station in city A. Sticking out of his worn green satchel was a single bamboo. It was green with a fine strong shoot near the top. It's root structure was in the early stages of escaping from the base.

Anyway, he was taking the bamboo to city B, his new home. It was important, having given away bamboo, roses, ferns, cactus and flowering life to friends in city A to carry one along with him. Now, the normal idea of taking the bamboo was really about beauty and nature and companionship. He'd nurtured bamboo, roses, palms, violets and growing species for the last six months after moving to A from China.

Before leaving the Middle Kingdom for the country of Turnkey he gifted twenty plants to Chinese teachers and friends. People who'd be staying. Naturally, he was leaving - he was continuing his wandering ways, his adventure. So it goes.

Obviously, people in the bus station stared at this vision of a man carrying bamboo. This sense of green life, growing amazing beauty allowed and created a magic feeling to permeate their being. Maybe it gave them some comfort.

He got on the bus, took seat 16 and propped the bamboo into the meshed seat container so it could rest against the window in the light.

They travelled west together for six hours. They passed snow fields where brown thick feathered hawks waited, then passed astonishing silver-white trees on a hill sparkling in light wearing crystal-like diamonds back lit against a clear blue sky. It was a scene of mysterious clear magic - all the white and blue!

After the winter they continued through steep mountain valleys into landscapes without snow, like autumn. One leaves seasons, the winter becomes fall in reverse; green moss, fields of fruit trees, a farmer plowing soil - "Ah," whispered spring - "I am coming, I am ready for the turning. I feel tires and weight and blades in my furrows..."

Then the pure joy of seeing distant mountains with silent snow peaks, where we will live. They are high and rolling as late afternoon light plays with red wispy cumulus clouds. They easily remind him of the Colorado Rockies and more recently the Himalayas in Tibet.

The bamboo is happy in it's new home where it can grow free.

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.