prayer chant before meals

from tara mandala..

this is the new grace @ my table ~
(sometimes it's not what you eat
but how you eat it!)

i receive this sustenance gratefully,
appreciating all the forms of life
that have offered themselves
for my benefit.

i eat and drink with awareness
in the experience of  one taste -
realizing my body is a sacred mandala.

may all my actions be beneficial
and relieve suffering.
may all beings, without one exception,
have happiness and the causes of happiness.

BON APPETITO !

good grief!

o so many friends..
friends of friends..
family friends are
making the transition
moving across the threshold
some whisked away
by disease
olde age
some making choices
to say sayonara
and free themselves
of body, speech and mind..

as hafiz says so graciously -
death is a favor to us
reminding us of our mid-air flight
from vessel to wine glass to..clay..

those of us..
left behind in bones
and flesh
and heartache
reel from the news

let go..
~ our only instruction
at the time of our birth ~
let go..
of the umbilical cord..
let go..
of the wee fisted palm
let go..
of our bladders and bowels..
let go..
of the milky breast
on and on...
letting go -

until we let go of the very shape
and bone and heartbeat and memory
that we have called home for..
how many years?

clearing out my mama's closet
one morning after her death i found
the black cordory jumper she loved to wear
for fine dinners and outings ..
i drew in the fragrance of her..
and found myself slipping the
open arms around my neck.
- it embraced me like the cape
of some action figure..
i wore it all day..
this tender cloak of my mother -
witnessed by a bemused neighbor
as i emptied the recycling outside..
it was dusk when i realized
i had been en-wrapped in her all day..

i step out of her essence
let go
place it on the pile for soroptimist

AND
 that same day..

making applesauce
peeling, coring, cutting
my fingers working
fleeting fast
much quicker than my mama's moved
toward the end of her sauce days
knowing the slowing
will come to my own fingertips
i stop
find my age
this moment
let go
and pace myself


grief..good grief..
these recollections
birdwings rumi calls them..

your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you are bravely working.

expecting the worse, you look and instead,
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.

your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
if it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.

your deepest presence is in every small contracting 
                                                                    and expanding,
the two beautifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

phones....keeping quiet...

phones killed the sexiness of the streets..
     - joel meyerowitz

walk the streets in any city,
the paths of a wooded land,
the trails along oceans and around lakes..
aisles in whole foods and co-ops..

where is the
appealing,
beguiling,
enticing,
foxiness
of the human race?

glued
plastered
affixed
pasted
to a
smart phone in hand,
blue tooth in ear..
eyes - glassy
ears - listening
to a
small voice
on the line
in a box
while all the while
we have gone AWOL
for one another
in the flesh..
the flash of a smile -
the catch of the eye..

chapter 12
ON TYRANNY
- timothy snyder
make eye contact and small talk

instead we are eavesdropping
on hundreds of conversations
that have nothing whatsoever
to do with us..

she told him NO a million times..
use the big orange saucepan -
don't tell mom about this, promise?
i sold all my shares this morning -
where is the toilet paper you just brought home?
how many downdogs can you do in a day?
pick up the mess in the front yard before i get home or i'll...
cancer, i think..?
i looked at the house..way too much money..
meet me in the deli by the olive bar -
she's on some kind of drug that makes her..
what a sunset! you are missing out here..
alaska?

remember the days when we would actually
meet someone new at the car wash?
on a bus?
in the cereal section?
tree-dancing?

'tis time to put the thing down..
leave it in the car..
leave it at home, for that matter ~

get sexy again..
even if you are olde and broken..
make it real as santana advises ~
fall in love
with the sound of the waves
the rasp of the streets
your very own footprints


keeping quiet

now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

this one time upon the earth,
let’s not speak any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

it would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.

the fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.

those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.

what i want shouldn’t be confused
with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
i want nothing to do with death.

if we weren’t unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,
if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.

now i will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and i’ll go.
                 ~ neruda