wet

the journey..the actual..began on sunday..the 18th..
the rains began tenderly that dies solis..
~ no sun that day ~
seattle was in a spit, the drizzle - drazzle..
the gloaming was om-ing into the wet..

monday..the windshield wipers hit their max..
they never looked back;
looking forward was squint from the get-go..

re-reading the hobbit -
it seemed as though we were on the Edge of the Wild..
the days held no light, the sky hit the ground running..
mila and i were goblined up into the storm's wet mouth..
the breath, the wind was musty fusty ..
the only way 'round was through..

we scaled great heights over passes,
descending deep, deep into valleys below..
the roadways were soaked, sopping..
we skim-boarded slickery, fish-tailing swish slosh froth
the waters crashed into our windshield..
there was no seeing..

my eyes were popping..much like gollum's ~
fingers gripping the steering wheel white
the scene was grim, the light was dim..
singing every inch of the hiway

roads go ever on and on,
over rock and under tree,
by caves where never sun has shone,
by streams that never find the sea;
over snow by winter sown,
and through the merry flowers of june,
over grass and over stone,
and under mountains in the moon.

roads go ever on and on
under cloud and under sea,
yet feet that wandering have gone
turn at last to home afar.
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known.
          ~bilbo baggins

at arbuckle, the wipers were still..
blue..what is that?
light..how does it shine?
warmth..is that true?

thanks-giving

feet to tappin'

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age.  
In middle age I was assured greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ships's whistle still raise the hair on my neck 
and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, once a bum always a bum. 
I fear this disease incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself....A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we not take a trip; a trip takes us.” 
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America


'tis been a wee while since i've had a road trip
with my faithful and trusty mila rubie..
(see post june 25 2011 mila rubie)
emaho! has it been that long?
the prius of the century and a divine traveling companion..
even tho' she is a car ~

her tires are rotated..she loves that!
kinda like new shoes for imelda -
oil changed..all fluids topped off..
freshly washed..well, she will be..
loaded with traveling cookies, maps and toothpicks..

we are heading south to california..
saying ciao! to a life lived in seattle for a year,
long loved students of yoga, new loved practicing ones,
family, friends..the snowy mountains..
the rain will follow us, i wager..
& we be a' wandering into new adventures..
some skylarking, no doubt..
another chapter, another escapade..

a journey keeps the palm open..
and of course, the heart..
offers a new presence to emerge..
there is a pristine freshness to the each and every..
this certainly can happen while one stays happily at home..
if we be awake, 
alive, 
intentional, 
whole- hearted, 
engaged...(marry me?) 

ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort..
                 ~ jane austen

there it is, that must be it..
that the edges are strectched ..
the comfort moves into 
tighter spaces...
vaster places..
(whichever gives comfort a run for her money)

recently i've been dubbed a cliff-dweller..
when i tilted my head quizzically..
it was explained to me that i live on the edge..
ha! all this time i thought i was practicing 
the middle way..
perhaps they come down to the same thing..
the middle way of centering into the present..
the middle of not knowing..the edge..
(does anybody really know?)
a journey sends one down the road of insecurity..
the wisdom of insecurity..a.watts

when a great ship is in the harbor and moored, 
it is safe -
but that is not what great ships are built for ~
          clarissa pinkola estes

a cliff dwelling big ship ..
okay - i'll take it..
setting sail..
light a candle for me?

fall in love

fall in love in such a way
that it frees you from any connecting ~
....rumi

someone who goes with half a loaf of bread
to a small place that fits like a nest around them,
someone who wants no more,
who is not longed for
by anyone else.
 
they are a letter to everyone.
you open it.
it says, live.
....rumi

dance me to the end of love

leonard was in towne..
the man with the golden voice..

he was one of my main squeezes in the sixties..
southern california..sunset strip..
whiskey a-go-go ~

we painted houses..interiors.. for a living -
when i was in theatre school..
my boyfriend and i..

we listened to leonard constantly..
we always did the trim first..
don't ask me why..
we waited a day while that dried
and before we left each house
we would paint a quote or two or six
of leonard's on the walls..

love is the only engine of survival..

there is a crack in everything ~
that's how the light gets in..

i have tried in my way to be free..

hallelujah!

i love your solitude; i love your pride..

i shall abide until
i am spoken for ~

the clients loved us..
begged us to fill their walls with more leonard..
they'd wait for the paint..please and thanks..
for a week.. or two..

the concert was a love-fest
the oldies and the goodies..
we were the oldies...the music - the goodies..

here's the review:

Leonard Cohen, the gloomy Canadian troubadour 

who so masterfully conflates the sacred and the profane, 

performed more than three-and-a-half hours 

to a packed house at Seattle's KeyArena Friday, Nov. 9.


http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/musicnightlife/2019652128_cr11cohen.html

there are children in the morning 
they are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever  ~

shall we vote?

o yes, let's!

vote. vote. vote.

a year to live

a year to live in seattle..
it's a wrap....
from autumn to autumn

the long walk to myrtle edwards park
in the early, dawn hours..
the homeless who shared their morning light with me..
dogs, runners, cyclists..

volunteering at real change,
teaching at neighborcare health clinics,
the prison...

free concerts all year long..
inside and out..
the seattle art museum,
the seattle public library..
subbing for yoga studios,
practicing w/ marquerite and phen
at the foster white gallery..

shopping at uwajimaya,
goodwill and value village..
riding the bus..the ride free zone..
my orca card ~
walking the labyrinth..
first thursdays @ nord alley..

riding my bike all the way to elliott bay marina
past strong boy totem
past the railroad yard
past the graffitti - not worried
past baby raccoons
past osprey nests
past blackberries galore

flirting with the general public
on a very regular basis -
olde men, young kids,
tender grannies, tourists, locals,
babes in bassinets,
handsome fellas, funkie chicks,
wooing, cooing, sweet talking ~

carrying the john t. williams totem pole
rest in peace.. john t.
after almost dying in india
being alive back in seattle
being alive period

alive under the steady
sometimes cloud-hidden gaze
of tehoma..mt. rainier

traveling to anacortes every week
for saturday morning yoga class
being fed by the grace and kindness of the students..
gas prices..

abiding nowhere
early morning zazen
matcha tea

walking everywhere always
standing for peace on tuesdays

the cherry, the jewel, the crown..
walking to safeco field..
all season long ~
standing behind home plate
serving the fans..
watching the game..
i love baseball
go mariners!

~ just when i am handing back the key to the emerald city ~

circumambulating whistle lake

the circle of whistle lake is a pilgrimage..
it is the northwest - lake - manasarovar..
(created first in the mind of brahma)
the lake that purifies, clarifies, refines..
sees what needs seeing..
tells the truth..
holds the center..
i am hooped into the mind of the high holies..
the ancients, the ancestors ~

orbiting it sunwise..deiseal..
keeping the lake on my right..
~ the prosperous course ~

widdershins..being contrary to the sun..

almost never a wise choice..

pradakshina... the yoginis call it..
with the sun..with the light..holy on the right..

even driving to the parking spot
the mind finds hush..
as if the intention begins by the getting there..
the long road walk to the lake herself..

i open the space with the two grande trees..
rather, the two grande trees open the space..
thank you very much..
the seal.. the cloaking device kicks in..
ahh!
i stop at grandmother tree..
receive her blessing, ask for teachings,
offer her my heart mind for the ring 'round..

heading sunwise along the path..
this time of year the maples have dropped their finery
over the road, the lane, the trail..
bits of rusty gold weathered leathered
leaves and jewels.. shimmer and shake..
catch in the empty branches ..
held for just one moment more..

the light is flecked..
spiraling
thru dew
thru moist
that hoists the wind
that shifts
the light back to itself
brighter, kinder..

i have hidden small buddhas and bodhisattvas
in the trees..
the nooks,
the cranny of bark that harks the holy moly
 ~ see here!
some are where i left them..
some have had hands own them for their own -
which is right and good..

they herald themselves to me;
if i walk past without a pranam..
i am stopped in my tracks..
it's true..
i catch up with myself
and turn..
turn to see the very tree where
i have planted ganesha or yoda or  buddha ..
astonishing ~

the forest surrounding, abounding the lake
is lush and flush with every green..
fronds and bract and branch bush about..
creep the crawl to make dense the woodland..
it is wet. it is fresh. it is mushroom.
steamy, damp, dank with thick..
i like it.. i like it ALOT ..
~ it likes me back ~

the throne room, the serpent path, monet lane..
ganesha's ottoman, the stump of raven-kachina,
tara's yoni, handstand hill, sutra cliff,
mala dip cove, heartwish rock...
just to name a few of the roadside attractions
encircling the loch..

when i sit still  ~  perched on sutra cliff,
high, high up above the dazzling diamond waters of whistle -
when i begin reciting the heart sutra aloud -
small birds..a few always..flit to edge of a branch..
tilt their wee heads to the right..it seems.. and listen up..
form is emptiness, emptiness is form
always, most often, almost every time,
eagle soars heart level chanting skyward..
believe it!
emptiness is no other than form, 
form is no other than emptiness
without fail, inevitably, each time,
raven attempts to bamboozle me out of my mantra..
hoodwinking me out of my practice ..
om gate gate
para gate 
parasamgate bodhi svaha

fragrance is loud,
sound has aroma,
touch listens deep,
sight is tangible,
taste sees..
the senses bequeath themselves
one to the other..
the whole lake goes transparent..
the i goes translucent...
and the day..

a nimbus surrounds the entire universe
winged..grounded on the brunch-crunch-road
back to the car ~
wohelo!

what's for breakfast?

dias de los muertos

it is the day of the dead..
samhain..celtic new year..
the veil is thin,
space is filled with our ancestors..
we lean into the other side..it leans back..

the moon lights up hidden faces  ~
leaves rustle up the long past, trailing..
the threads, golden, luminous, dark..
weave the now into then and back again..

we carry our corpse with us 24/7
bowing to the bone,
the crack and cranny~
who lives?
who dies?

tell me - tell me..
then take my hand
and dance with me, baby!

task

duck is dead..
my dear pal from the long ago..
we were the 60's in the 60's..
he and B and me..
and a cast of thousands ..

he was diagnosed w/ parkinson's some 12 years ago..
o my o
6 years later he created a CD of his music..
16 pieces of song that sampled his life
to the very depth, to the pain, to the love..
6 years later
listening to it brought his life into view..
his heart and art of expression..
what a treasure..
duck lives!

i am moved to do the same..
gather and glean and offer
16 songs that tell the tale of a life lived ..
no easy task..
an exercise in tenderness .. in  economy..
how does one put a life in 16 songs or less?

quite enlightening to see
what  arises..
what falls away..

dave's  CD ended w/ taps..
mine will  close with...

row, row row, your boat
gently down the stream
merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
life is but a dream

and yours?