Tone of Mind

I couldn’t let go
of the desire to feel
something intense
anger at injustice or
anger at not doing what I should,
using that intensity as the drug,
to hang my hat on that knobby stud,
while really immobilized by fear
of being inadequate.
Stuck in the spider net
which won’t let go,
won’t let go.
But which really won’t let go?
the web or me?

I couldn’t get my
mind around
the carnal openness,
the magnetic freedom
from the known,
the rawness,
the rage,
starting there
and opening more
to the size of suns
burning the rage
to a diamond core.

We cannot live in blame.
It is false fuel.
We must change our
inflection
from the screech
of accusative addiction
to a longer melody,
a catchy strain,
a tune hummed
inside heads
while standing in line
to buy daily bread,
a smiling tune
of forgiving harmony
to carry all counterpoints
with heartfelt sundry,
a Beethoven’s Ninth
to warm us against
the cold heart of hate.

I look for a tune to soften
the tone of the mind.

Technorati tags- , , , ,

Garden of Growth

The seeds grow in gray, rough soil.
Most will perish in fruitless toils.
Their compost holds kernels of mealy progress,
micro machines, tiny books of dreams
to clothe tender roots, trichomes,
which suckle death’s fruits to renew and redeem,
to claim their stake of beauty, or weedy nonchalance.
This war marches on and the drama rolls dreamy
each rising and falling in a seasonal dance.
I used to cradle those leafy twigs,
laughing and crying at their rhythmical trance.
I fiddled and darted, lost and ready
to control that volume of verdant folly.
Never did I stop to see
nature would have its way with me.
I staked stems, preened buds, willed red berries on holly.
I coveted and thrashed, sprayed and mulched,
beamed with delight at delphiniums blue night
but daily squished aphids with no melancholy.
I toiled from dawn to dusk to clutch this magic.
The branches of Hinoki would finally reach an archetype,
which deemed necessary the scene be balanced
by the tragic hacking of nearby Hamamelis.
Miscanthus had to clump here, always just so.
Trailing Nasturtium must ramble freely
over carefully chaotic, moss tufted patio.
Cardinal Richelieu finally gave up the ghost
after five uprootings, a necessary evil to aptly pair
his wine purple rose with more heathen hosts.
Temporary solutions were compulsive conditions
to conquer the moment, cling to its passing.
My love for the machine was a frivolous desire
for mighty dominance, a narcissistic persistence
to reign with sturdy diligence over ancient fires.
This chimera dwindled with thousands of hours
of pushing days in a stubborn wheelbarrow,
driving my load to pattern and style this living sculpture.
Time ground me down in its meticulous way.
My back and a bad hip took the fun from the play.
As I feared, things went wild, they flattened
and ruptured, and cheated my rules.
The Lungwort took advantage
and had its way, finding time to mat and
colonizing a corner with spotted progeny.
At first I complained and planned my revenge
taking solace in winter’s clutch of frozen sheath.
Then, tough rubric knots let loose their tether
as my life became twinned by other events,
and the Plumbago’s happy rush beneath
pink Asters fence seemed their own private
dispute, their outcome, their worry.
I grew accustomed to this unkempt gloss
as the garden grew daring and shone a soft gleam.
Now that I merely watch this scene from afar,
I am more in it than I was before
as roots can grow deeper and top more secure.
Five years have passed since I relinquished power.
Ten years before that I clutched at this stream
while its crumbled message flowed through my fingers.
These quiet stories have matured with age
and their gravitas draws my eyes to wonder
at authority I could never imagine,
from my hubris grew this quiet lesson.
The constance of change has more than one page.
I come away sage, having learned not to confuse
dreams of perfection with nature’s carnival muse.

A few days ago I promised a report on how my garden defines me. It turned into this.

I would like to dedicate this to my father, Francis Hugh, whose ripening wisdom grows regal with age. He turned 78 on September 26 while I managed to miss that important date. I sent him a card saying if age is a contest, he’s winning.
Technorati tags- , , ,

Empty Nature

Empty nature whispers its secrets more clearly, uninhibited by our inhibitions.
Empty of paper, we free trees, and grow with them.
Empty of water, we die. Water is sacred and must be cherished.
Empty of land we fly, light as air.
Empty of air we suffocate. Breathe with respect for air also breathes us.
Empty of fire, our hearts grow cold, unable to burn love.
Empty of mind, we know everything.

Love’s Font

Here is a wonderful, spiritual post from Meredith at Graceful Presence. This is beautifully honest and heartfelt musing inspired by yogic philosophy. Later she quotes the New Testament, capturing the true presence of the spirit of Jesus, in the colors and mood I think he intended his teachings. It’s worth reading the whole thing. I love how she gently explores the different layers of inner spaciousness, starting with time, then breath, then emotions, and through compassion to infinite love.

When I meditate, which unfortunately is only occasionally, I find the first thing I need to do is relax the tension in my chest, around my sternum and heart. Almost instantly, I feel a warmth spread through my limbs. It’s almost as if a space is literally created around my heart to allow it to feel what it always yearns to feel: unbounded love and forgiveness.

Presence: In quiet moments of solitude, I have been turning to the spaciousness of the present moment. I have been allowing this feeling of spaciousness within me expand, just to see how far it can go, and observing what the experience of it is for me. The intensity of this experience is subtle. In the simplicity of observing the present moment, noting what thoughts come and go, hearing the flies buzzing by and the soft clucking of the chickens, feeling the warm breezes on my skin, and observing my own breath… there is a prevailing fresh quality of resting in Presence. I still don’t know the answer to that question or how far this can go yet, because there is no end to the in-the-moment experience of this. In other words, each moment of feeling spaciousness is a new moment – I feel it expansively and freshly. The experience of this for me is of open possibility, and a quiet peaceful serenity. Though occasionally disturbing thoughts surface in the present moment of observing, I am becoming practiced in just allowing these troubling thoughts dissolve. When I realize turmoil, and then become less absorbed within it, I feel a humbling compassion toward myself. This is fertile ground for love.