Epiphany, a Haiku

Epiphanic love

Acceptance of satori

Gratitude engulfs

The Day After, Part Two

The Day After

Pulling weeds is the worst.  Pulling weeds is the best.  It is cathartic, if you let it.  I let it.  For the first time ever, I let it.  Rake your workspace, prepare it.  Take knees to dirt and bend your back.  Hands enter soil and fingers grasp root.  It’s a gentle movement, to be sure, but firm and deadly.  Satisfaction as root exits earth like the head of a tick from beloved dog.  

Catharsis

“Why are you pulling these oxygen giving gifts of nature?” “Because pulling weeds is a metaphor for taking responsibility for all of the things in your life.”  Tears, tears, tears.  

Rereading a thousand times over.  I wrote the most beautiful thing I’d ever read.  

Freedom.  Learning.  Love.

The Day After, Part One

The Day After

I awoke to a blinding light creeping in from below the door.  Bare feet cold as they touch wood.  Ten paces to the door.  Another three to her room.  Light on but empty.  Moment of fear.  Another light from the kitchen.  Twelve steps.  It’s too bright for this time of day.  Where is she?  Perched on the couch.  Breath returns.  “I’m sick.”  We can work through this, she will be alright.  “What hurts?”  “Nose, throat.”  She is in the house.  The doors are locked.  She is covered in a blanket.  

First meditation on Gratitude

This year, I've been working diligently to cultivate the habit of meditation.  I've meditated in silence, alone, in front of a sea of students and colleagues, at the beach and in the mountains, in the dark with Abbey where I had a vision and we shared a seminal moment.

The monks at Shasta Abbey taught me to sit, taught me to hold my hands (dominant concealed by submissive), taught me to close my eyes and open my mind.  Courses in Mindfulness helped to keep me on the path.  

Eating well (thank you, Michael Pollen) and tending to my body better than ever in my life were meditations unto themselves.  Lisa and I shared an awakening in August as the sugar purged from our bodies.  Her mother and I watched as Sadie set the example of a lover of life.  

We’ve hiked on a trail of ice with the Columbia to our backs and adventure ahead.  And as we watched rivulets of water distill between mountain and shimmering ice, trees shook off their powdery burden, lovers kissed and a vow to return for good was made.  Poison Oak inches from genitals served as a badge of honor given after two days and 25 miles on The Lost Coast Trail.  The numbing waters of the Yuba River engulfed us as we dove through tunnels beneath boulders as large as a Volkswagen.  Rocks gamboled over water as the girls learned to skip at Lake Tahoe.

Sam Harris spoke of Islam and Christ and so solidified thoughts of Atheism.  

Floss, push ups, crunches, lists, priorities, ceaseless mind shifts and setbacks.  Beginning again with renewed vigor.  Intention.  Above all else, books and conversation.  The end of negative self-talk as memories flood back; first gentle whispers then a church choir.  

All of it a meditation.

Polka Dots, Stripes and Diamonds

The pain came from behind her eyes. An aura opened up all around; nothing smelled right and she was getting faint. Fluorescent lights shook her vision like an airbus plowing through a flock of Canada Geese. It was the first Wednesday of the month and Jasmine was going to have a migraine.

As the meeting droned on, Jasmine knew she couldn’t make it.  In an instant her eyes bulged and the sour taste of acid writhed into her mouth.  She wretched into the classroom trash bin as her colleagues looked on in sympathetic confusion.  It was coming on strong now, as the stars opened up before her.  Jasmine had to get out of there, to somewhere safe, to her mom.

The massive car door opened and closed.  Key slid into ignition.  Black.  She drove hard onto the road and bent the Cadillac to the right, then to the left.  Right and left over and over until the haze engulfed her and she barreled into her mother’s driveway.  

The couch was soft and her mother’s voice soothing.  “Are you sure you want to take these, Jasmine?”  “Yes!  I swear to God I will end you where you stand if you don’t give me those marijuana drugs! It’s either the drugs or a shotgun, and I don’t think the Pakistani wants to watch you clean up his daughter’s brains off of his fine Persian rugs.”  “Alright, you don’t have to be so descriptive”  “I was a communications major, mother.”

The THC exited the tincture in a bubble and landed softly below Jasmine’s tongue. She could taste the bitter Indica as it sullied her pallet. It hadn’t worked; the pain persisted.  Why hadn’t it worked and where was the shotgun?  “Give me the cookie!” Nothing. No thing. Stars...The Universe...Hell. No refuge from the insufferable. It was her first time.

“How are you doing, dear?” said her mother.  “I’m fine, mother, just dying” Jasmine said with nauseous repugnance. The couch got deeper as skin touched linen.  Now linen, now cotton, now velvet; ever smoother while sinking. Eyelids shade light but eyes see.

See! As sparks concus synapses and flood pathways.  Hear! The remote sounds of padded feet on the sidewalk. Feel! While soft wind brushes against earlobes. A karmic wheel of color splashed overhead and at once it was too much. Anything to make it stop.

Eyes open to light and solid shapes, firm and real. Her mother was painting, that’s right! she was an art teacher. She liked John Singer Sargent. Things were coming together now, she thought, as the second wave crashed over. A flurry of sights and sounds alight in front of her retinas just as tiny clouds pulsed from circles to muted gasps. Her field of vision blurred and circles gave way to thin bands like lines on a chalkboard.

Jasmine leaned into it, feeling the gravity of the room. Lines bent and fused. Triangle, oval, arch, crescent, diamond. Yes, diamonds, diamonds! If only Rick would leave her alone and let her buy more diamonds. Better yet, he could work more and buy her diamonds. That was it. He could buy her stripes. Not stripes, no, diamonds. She was good. Eyes closed. Fog ebbed and flowed as diamonds slipped from view and out of grasp.  

Her mother released her gaze on the painting to check on Jasmine. She was, after all, the only one of her daughter’s who had given her a grandchild. Two, in fact, and that gift could never be repaid. Jasmine had done everything right; education before marriage, marriage before career, career before house, house before kids. Her child, and she was still her child, was rigid in her plans. Running from ghosts will keep one in a straight line.  The old art teacher, with her white sandals built for comfort, craned her neck and set her sight on her daughter. “Jasmine!” she tried to yell, but the word lodged in her throat and offered up only a croak.  

Arms were reaching and feet were kicking, she had to help.  “Jasmine, honey, are you alright? Can you hear me?”  “It’s polka dots, mother.” “Polka dots, dear, what are you talking about?” “Make Rick buy me diamonds, mother.”

The years plowed through her mind like a freight train. Where had she gone wrong?  Calling for her husband was out of the question; this behavior would not do.  His years in Pakistan had altered the chemistry of his brain.  No, she could not call for her husband.

“Would you like me to call Rick, dear?” “Yes, Rick would be good and tell him to bring tacos.” “How many would you like?”

“All of them!”

2016 in 30 Words

Unexpected Atheism explodes into confidence as the rush of information restores limbic, and age of majority is reached.  Zen heart at 80 beats per minute while ruffians' words exile paralysis.