Barry Garden Path

My mind seems drawn to distraction more than usual.   It may even be slightly preoccupied.  It is asserting itself so much so that I have been little immersed in the features of the moment.

I think of things that need to be done.    There are plants to cut down, screens to store, leaves to gather and put on the flower beds.  The demands of the season changes.

Also, my heart seems distracted by what could be.   Is this the loneliness that must haunt someone who has chosen not to be in a coupling?  This could be the ache of coming face to face with my aloneness.    I am stretching the scar I have nurtured and puzzled over all my life.

Planning seems a necessary part of life, I think.   Right now I am distracted, more than I want, by the planning and the possible.   I get hooked by the changing environment and the distraction of a longing that tugs at my sleeve for action.

I am only beginning to appreciate the  amount of attention and affection I give to invisible things.   My invisible world stretches and expands the more I understand how things have come to be and how they respond to me and one another.

So many things are invisible to me because they are too small, too distant or too obscured by other things.   Some of these I can see if my vision is improved by bending light.   There are tools I can use to make them visible to me.  They can make things appear larger or closer to me.

Still, most of my world is invisible to me because it exists beyond my senses.  Many wave lengths are beyond the narrow range of perception allowed by my eyes.   Yet they are as real as other things my eyes are capable of seeing.   There are sounds that travel on waves too high, too low or too weak for my ears to sense.   That makes them no less real.

I live in an ocean of real things that I cannot sense any more than a fish recognizes it lives in water.   The fields and particles rushing around me and thru me are as real as my hand.   Yet I cannot feel or see this ocean in which I exist and which exists in me.

Even though what they present to me is something of an illusion, I suppose I can trust my senses to a degree.   They can take me to the threshold of a wondrous reality that beckons me in.  I may see, hear and touch so much, but I can be aware of so much more.   Of this invisibility I am certain.

I don’t know for sure if my aged maple slowly nods its branches to acknowledge me when I pause to tell it how beautiful it is.   I’m told that the rocks I move around in my garden do not feel my touch and are unaware they have been rearranged by me.

The squirrels that I shout at hardly seem to know that I want them to behave better.   I think they must sense my intention, certainly my displeasure.   Some people say they are just being squirrels.

For me, all the world around me is alive, has within it a fire of activity and awareness.   It responds to my presence and in its own way knows it is part of my world.   I think it knows I am here and is affected by me.

I don’t pretend to understand the mind of a tree or a rock.   I shudder to think I could enter into the thoughts of a squirrel.   But I refuse to listen to those who say “No, no,” none of these trees, rocks or squirrels are affected by my presence, voice or touch.  I think  they could be wrong, and what a pity if they really are wrong.

I may not be absolutely certain that rocks and trees are changed, but I know I am changed when I acknowledge them, when I  speak to them, when I press my hand against them.   Of this I am certain.

This is NOT the first day of the rest of my life.    What a foolish and sappy thing to say.   I cringe that it is paraded again and again before the eyes of the naive.

Today is the only day of my life.   It is what I have.   It is my one chance to dedicate myself to what I yearn to do.

So I repeat my dedication to be a protector of nature, a healer of misery, a messenger of wonder, an architect of peace, and a fountain of loving kindness.   I’ll try not to blow it.

I walk through my world every day like a beggar.   My hands and heart are extended, ready to receive the wonders of the world.   My deep craving reaches out and I ask for what the world is willing to give.

The hard stems of flowers I cut, the smell of the earth, the eyes of a stranger, the touch of a beloved.   I desire them all and beg for their indulgence.   May I approach them, may I see them in all their loveliness?

I set my face not as one who is pleading, but as one who is gentle and welcoming.   My heart is in my visage, unhidden, unprotected.

If I have an irrepressible fear it is that I might die before I drain this cup of its last drop of intoxication.   I fear I may not totally avail myself of the sweet essence of this world.

I will become more earnest in my begging, in my vulnerability, in my open-heartedness.   I will not be afraid to ask.

I want my flowers to want me.  I hope they want me just as I want them.

I know what it feels like to want something or someone.   For me it is a desire, a craving that can affirm the reality of both of us.   It is a deep yearning I feel thru my whole body for the encounter of intimacy.   Do the trees in the woods feel the same thing?  Do the flowers in my garden lean forward to be seen, to be touched, to share their fragrance?

Without a doubt, I long for them, reach out, desire them and am prepared to love them, just as they are.   Do they feel the same?  Is it their nature to yearn and reach out for me, just as a lover does as they are about to meet with me?   Do they feel the same anticipation, the same longing, the same rush to encounter?

I think yes.   Yes, we are attracted to one another as two lovers, unquestioning, reaching out, uncritical, fully accepting, making real.  So it is with all my world

I touch my bell so slightly, and its voice calls out for space and time to respond.   I thought it was my ears that responded to sound.    But it is my whole body that shakes with the vibration from my small bell.   I have stirred the essence of the bell and it touches everything around with bellness.

The energy of my small tap is magnified in the wave that moves the still air and vibrates every nook and cranny of my room.   The high and ringing pitch of my bell penetrates and ever so slightly moves the walls of my room.   I have summoned the voice of the bell and it in turn calls us all to become alive and respond.    The walls shake, the air trembles, and my whole body quivers with the sound.   I am wrapped in the mellow arms of my bell.

I touch the sound of my bell with my whole self and it reminds me who I am and this is my home.

How often has the Moon Goddess risen in my life?   She has come then disappeared, leaving traces of joy and ache behind.  A hard but loving mistress.

My heart remembers and still opens to the memory of their names.   There is a lingering swell of both joy and ache in the memory.   When I remember, I once again try to figure it all out.

The memory lingers of how I love them, and I remember how they loved me more than I could grasp at the time.   Do they remember that I loved them, even as I remember their love?   How could they know that my heart still fills with joy at the sound of their name.

How could I be so lucky? How could I look forward to what lies ahead, as I do?   The horizon quivers with the glow of promise.   I think there are no limits to the ache and the joy brought by the Moon Goddess.

 

 

It’s really so simple.    I cringe when I think of all the things I miss because they don’t fit my imagination, when they don’t fit the pattern I have in my expectations.   I don’t see when something, someone isn’t what I thought I would see.

I imagine that a cup is a cup.   When I pick it up, I hardly ever am aware I am touching it, that it has smoothness, that it is warm, that it has shape.   I hardly ever am aware of its color, its weight.   It is in my awareness, the same old cup that I remembered, and instead of really being aware of it, I rely on my imagination of what it might be.

I often miss the pleasure, the bliss of an open awareness of simple things.

I would do well to remember that I bring something to every encounter with a person or thing.   Reality is in my experience, and I shape every experience.  My world is truly mine, and it is what I make it.

My imagination can be quite powerful and entertaining.   It can bring me joy, excitement, fear and apprehension.   It can seem so real, and I can choose whether I want to live in it.   I can choose how much I rely on my imagination as I  move through my daily world.   I can slow down and notice that world more on its own terms and less on mine.

 

I sometimes feel I am plummeting into loneliness.   It is the ache and chill that occasionally comes with feeling alone.   I begin to feel the pain of being separate, not part of the whole.

I want to befriend this feeling of loneliness, not turn away from it.   Allow the free-fall into loneliness become instead the feeling of soaring.

While I may be given companions to help me along the way,  I want to learn and enjoy the pleasure of walking alone.  All the while I will carry my companions in my heart.