Vernal Haiku

spring in the garden
winter survived once again
dreaming Buddha grins

Aman Iman - Water Is Life: Teach Us Endurance

"Your only obligation is to live and be happy." - Camus

Part ll: Further Explorations on the Trail

Here in the North Country at end of winter, endurance is the quality needed most of all. The snow, cold, and months of overcast skies and darkness conspire together, challenging us to rise again as we wait one more day for the spell to be broken by Spring.

Frankly, folks are depressed here in greater numbers; 'checking out' in one variation or another; flirting with the darkness, vulnerable and susceptible to its sway. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about when I say our endurance is tested daily. Camus' "only obligation - to live and be happy" is tested, also.

So, as I often do, I turn to my favorite text - the dictionary, and ask the oracle to define 'endurance' for me.

Endure:

1) to carry on through despite hardships

2) to bear with tolerance

3) to continue in existence; to remain; to last.

Not an easy task, but a simple one: to carry; to bear; to continue.... Regardless, if you're looking at a long life ahead or have been told by some NOT-omnipotent human that you "have six months left to live," -- today's ability to endure, to remain, is a successful day.

Our obligation to be happy? First, one has to endure and from that ground we stand strong [or as strong as we are able] and aim our daily arrows at what might bring us some happiness - whatever it is our hearts find precious. What is your precious? Strengthen your bow arm, take aim and let your arrows fly....

With that in mind, I wanted to share with you this clip. It may seem long at almost eighteen minutes, but would I steer you wrong?! If at any point this past winter you've spent ANY time reflecting on "my life is soooo hard"; if you've spent one second questioning if all the hard work of facing one more day is within your capacity; if you've spent one dark moment thinking of alternatives to being 'here' - then this 18 minutes will be well-invested. Trust me.

I've watched this myself many times over the recent days since discovering it [thanks, Luis Alberto Urrea, www.luisurrea.com]. I'll let it speak for itself and just tell you that at 14 min. the screen will go black for a few seconds, but then continues and is well worth your last few minutes of attention. All I will say, is that from here on, whenever I think that my life is too hard, too challenging, when I question my ability to endure longer, I will remember the Touareg people of northern Africa, a tribe who unquestionably KNOW the definition of Endurance; and this group of musicians, Tinariwen, who have used music and the guitar as some of their arrows aimed "to live and be happy" beyond difficult circumstance.

Friday Night Riff: Mortality, Wealth 'n Art

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Your only obligation is to live and be happy. - Albert Camus

There's that joke about 'if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans.' Thought I'd try to give the Ol' Guy a chuckle.

In the year 2010, the average life expectancy in the United States is seventy-eight years old. Seventy-five if you happen to be male. That's AVERAGE. That would give me 20 more years - IF I live an average life span for a US male in 2010. A hundred years ago, I'd be ancient material at 55. Today, through the miracles of medical technology we've managed to extend that span - at all cost, sometimes at a questionable cost of quality. But that's a whole 'nuther conversation about how in the average last year of life, a person in the US will have 10 specialists involved in the care and management of their humble, mortal chassis.

I heard that daunting statistic the other day. Now, being someone who has had daunting statistics before in my doctor's attempts to define my undefinable life, I tend to place statistics out of my reach; they have NOTHING to do with ME - not when you are an Outlier - someone who skews the statistics. Still, average is average, and as non-average as I'd like to believe I am, I also have enough humility intact to know there is nothing special about me. Still, even with irony thrown in to stack the odds, averages prevail. But the complement of 'average' - on the other side of the tracks - is 'Outlier'.

Which brings me to a favorite art piece I saw in the Toronto Art Museum about average mortality statistics. Okay, hang in there with me; this is more elegant than dreary and frightful. In a window like you might see in a jewelry store - a display window - is a velvet-lined case that holds stacks of gold coins; each one representing a month. So 12 months X 78 average years = 936 gold coins TOTAL. Sounds like a lot. It is. Especially when you consider that there are still parts of the world TODAY where you are old at 40. The average life span today in Swaziland is 39 years - or 468 months oF gold coins; exactly half of what we receive in the US.

Each month the artist visits their on-going, ever-changing art piece at the museum; opens the display window case; removes a coin from the neat stack in the blue velvet lined box and drops it onto the ever-growing pile next to the box - another month of their life gone: another gold coin spent. No returns, no do-overs, no exchanges - and perhaps most importantly - NO Complaint Desk; just a gold coin, a token of something much more precious: a month of life - hopefully spent well on things of value.

The artist makes you stop and think about the preciousness - not just in theoretical terms, but in the coins spent, never to be seen again. When I saw this piece, immediately I did the math adding up the 'average' left for myself, if I GET TO have an average US male lifespan of 75 yrs. That's 20 more years X 12 months equaling 240 gold coins of earthly life. A nice amount; a respectable amount; but still, not a HUGE amount. Rather, a FINITE, limited amount, much smaller than the 660 coins spent so far - approximately one quarter of the original total. IF I get to be average. Maybe I have more; maybe less. I could be spending my last gold coin right now and not even know it.

Lucky me! I have a gold coin in my hand today! Lucky you! You have one in yours also! How many more will I get? Where do I want to spend them? How do I want to spend them? With whom do I want to share the wealth with?

It's a precious gold coin in my hands; could be the last one - or maybe there's a dozen or 500 more left. Don't know, but any way you slice it - the one gold coin in my hand right now?: Precious. The only precious one. The rest of the stack is just a 'maybe', 'hopefully', or 'if I'm lucky.'

But luck's a funny, fickle thing. Everybody thinks they want the quantity of a big stack of coins; everyone thinks they want longevity - a hundred years, please. But if there's any chance of my ending up spending those last twelve months with 10 specialist doctors and hundreds of props as the 'average' US citizen with 'artificially induced longevity' will - PLEASE! Let me be mercifully struck by a random, stray bullet to the heart - perhaps while dancing! I'd prefer it.

But then, just as with jokin' on God with MY plans, I imagine my preferences bring a wry grin to the Mysterious One, also.

Bottom line: In the end, it ain't about how much you had in your stack; it's ALL about how you spent it and how much happiness it brought.

Fallow Ground

I hate the term 'writer's block'. It sounds so purposeless and broken; like a part of me that is important to myself has fallen into disrepair and needs remedy. I remember a favorite author and writing mentor of mine, Luis Alberto Urrea, at one time saying: "Then write about why it's difficult to write." This is my attempt.

At a time in my life when I was very broken physically, a teacher of mine told me I had to learn how to rest 'intentionally'. Up to that point I looked at resting as a necessary inconvenience - a collapse of sorts from my purposeful life. He instructed me to walk out into nature every day, find a place with few people, and sit. Intentionally. Not walk because it's good exercise, but sit, because IT would be good exercise if I did it with intention and purpose. I followed his advice and found myself sitting under a large oak tree every day.

I'd pry myself off my couch or bed, a place I had every right to be collapsed upon due to my condition and force myself to go elsewhere - just to sit there. To make sitting my purpose. To become the best dang 'sitter' I could be. Intentional rest.

It's not so easy. In fact, at first it's quite uncomfortable. The rest of the world seeming so purpose-driven while I was trying to accomplish what really looked like nothing - AND become good at it.

It's the same thing with the rest of my life. I love it when there's lots of energy pouring through me, when the fire is burning high and my only job is to keep up with stoking it. But then there are those times when I have no logs to burn. Limitation can feel painful, confining and imprisoning.

Last week I learned something about that through my own physical limitations - the funky nerves whose electrical circuitry suddenly go into a 'brown-out', the muscles of my legs that follow into weakness and then the joints that won’t operate properly and slide painfully out of place. I was in such a predicament last week; one of the worst episodes I'd had in a while. With that comes lots of opportunity to revisit past 'bad episodes' in my mind and to actively 'awfulize' my situation.

But this time, I refused to go down that road.

You see, I had a plan. I had to drive my son across the border to catch the train so he could visit his friends in Toronto. That meant not only driving - an activity that is difficult under these conditions, but I also had wanted to stop in Detroit on my way home to visit the Detroit Institute of Arts. I've wanted to go there for inspiration for several months. Finally, i was going to go. But then the brown-out happened.

But I'm an ornery ol' cuss - and I was going dammit! I didn't care if all I could do was be there on my feet for only ten minutes. I was going - and NOTHING was stopping me.

Walking from the parking garage to the admissions was a short, painful walk. It looked like I wouldn't be able to be there for long. I paid my eight dollars and stood there staring at the folded up wheelchairs to the side, debating inside myself. Now, I've used the little electric carts before in the stores; those are fun. You can zip around in those like you're in an electric go-cart, but a REAL wheelchair, well, that's a different story - one that I resist. The woman behind the desk noticed me with my cane staring at the wheelchairs and said the most perfect thing she could have to a middle-aged man grappling with ever-changing disability: "Why walk when you can roll?" She made a lot of sense.

"SOLD! I'll take one," and she unfolded it for me. I hopped in and took off. Now, even though this latest hurdle of mine was a challenging one, as it is for most people when they find themselves in the position to use a cane or a wheelchair or some other 'prop' for everyday activity, I have experience.

When I was much younger, I worked in Special Education with kids with multiple disabilities of one type or another. As with all kids, life was playful and you play with what you have. We'd often have wheelchair races - kids against kids, or better yet, kids against staff. I became quite good at 'spinning on a dime', quick stops, ninety degree turns and going fast - really fast! It was a gas! A gas IF you didn't HAVE to be in the chair. Now it was my turn; my turn to HAVE to use a chair; either use it or just go home - AND I WASN'T GOING HOME! Instead, I took off like a madman on wheels! I had art to see. Matisse awaited me along with Diego Rivera and I'd kept them and myself waiting for far too long.

I flew from one room to another, from gallery to gallery, taking in old favorites and new ones I'd never seen. I whipped down the hallways excitedly to the next room, and the next, and the next.... It was a GAS! and I had THE BEST time I've had in recent memory.

Five hours later I looked at the clock and realized it would soon be closing time and I'd spent the day so immersed, so captivated in the Beauty and Creativity that my body with its limitations was nowhere to be found. What normally would have been painful walking to endure, had become a cruise through the best of what humanity has to offer. I'd forgotten my pain, my limitations, simply because I had surrendered to the wheelchair - my cruiser. I'd become so immersed I'd forgotten my body; I'd forgotten to eat, drink water or go to the bathroom. My bodily needs had become nonexistent. There was only art and my creative mind taking it all in. It was a piece of heaven on earth - and I'd only found it by surrendering.

I learned a lot that day about myself and about how art can carry us - a vehicle to somewhere beyond 'here' - especially when 'here' is difficult or challenging. I learned again that sometimes the path of least resistance has its own rewards. But it's also coupled with my ornery will, my stubborn determination that I WILL do it!

It was a strange day; one of the more crappy ones physically, yet mentally and emotionally one of the better ones. It could have so easily been otherwise.

So when the tide of creativity and writing seems to be in an ebb, I try to remind myself that these moments are equally as important as the highly productive ones; uncomfortable, but important. Sometimes we need to rest; to sit fallow and empty. That's the time of taking in inspiration; time to read, to go to the library, to look at art, watch movies and nature - take in - breathe in - INspiration. Later will come the exhalation, the breathing out, the expression. Fallow ground IS productive - as is INTENTIONAL rest.

I leave you with two pictures here. During the Depression, Diego Rivera was commissioned by Edsel Ford to paint a mural in the courtyard of the Art Institute. Rivera lived with Frida Kahlo for several years in the hotel next door while he painted what he considered to be his life's masterpiece: four large, towering walls of murals depicting Nature, Technology and its uses both positive and negative. There are hundreds of stories on those walls. The one at the top of this post is one small frame high above the floor. It got him in a lot of trouble with the Catholic Church in 1932: How dare he depict a baby coming from the earth! To me, it's a wonderful depiction of 'fallow ground' - purposeful, intentional incubation.

The other I just add for fun and interest; an honoring of the spirits of Diego and Frida that resound within those walls. Look closely to the right side and you'll see the two of them stealing a moment of 'love on the scaffolding.'

Here's to Diego and Frida; here's to fallow ground; and here's to surrendering to the creative fire and how IT wants to burn.

December on the North Sea

Come aboard. This is Popeye's ride - crossing the North Sea from the Netherlands and arriving into Copenhagen. He makes an appearance at 2:09.

Now he sits in our living room watching television, catching up on 'pop culture', asking: "who is so-and-so?" some pop icon he's never heard of. He's been blissfully ignorant of such things while passionately engaged in others. Now he's recovering, regaining his bearings for 'the next thing' which still is yet to appear on the horizon.

His Love is a Tall Ship

Somewhere out over the North Sea our son sails tonight. Just as here, it's windy and cold; the first wintry days. Out on the North Sea tonight, both the air and water are around 45 degrees; the seas are fairly calm - as are his parents; both are subject to change!

After almost a year of building this brigantine tall ship, they set sail this week, beginning their journey as a green cargo ship. They are heading to Copenhagen to the Climate Control Conference for their 'unveiling' as an eco-friendly form of shipping, relying entirely on wind, sail and strong hands on deck.

His labor of love of this past year is complete. He says: "She sails great! She's fast and smooth!" This year he's lived in the Netherlands as a volunteer working/living with a team of 15-20 international, mostly young people. Everything you see has been cut, carved, varnished, sewn, rigged by their own hands - everything. His work has been as assistant rigger, learning to construct from trees, build masts and yardarms, blacksmith metal parts, sew sail, string lines, shrouds and ratlines - and now, she's complete. Now, he gets to enjoy the fruits of his labor, test her strength and his own.

This will be some of the toughest sailing he's ever done. He knows it - as best as anyone can know what awaits them in an unknowable adventure. It's not easy watching your child go off into the unknown, particularly a large, serious unknown - one serious enough to have life or death consequences. But then they all are, really; life lived fully is full of risks. As his parent, I remind myself he's a man, a man who must find his own, and I find comfort in Joseph Campbell's words about "following your bliss":

"The adventure is its own reward - but it's necessarily dangerous, having both negative and positive possibilities, all of them beyond control. We are following our own way, not our daddy's or our mother's way. So we are beyond protection in a field of higher powers than we know. Trials and revelations are what it's all about."

And with that, we place our trust in our son and in his higher powers that any trials he meets lead him to more and more revelation. At this point, the son is teaching the father; I watch with awe and try to have just a little rub off on me - that courage to leap forward into the unknown, to face the night with little more than the strength of will to remain standing through trials and storms and the exuberance to find joy in this adventure of living life to the fullest!

Godspeed, Tres Hombres.

Good luck, son. Tiahui! Follow your bliss!

And Happy 21st birthday! It's official! It's December 10th - your 21st birthday in the middle of the North Sea!

Blessings on your journey; our love goes with you - always.

Best viewed full screen: Tres Hombres maiden voyage.

MY LOVE IS A TALL SHIP

by Jimmy Crowley

My love is a tall ship and a sweet brigantine,
One of the old girls seldom now seen,
And she heaves to the wind, boys. See how she flies
With stars in her hair, boys, and mist in her eyes.

My love is a tall ship. No finer was seen,
For many's the ocean my true love has been,
And the wind in the rigging it whispers her name,
While brace on the bows watches over the main.

So blow your breezes; blow a fair wind to the Asgard,
And see that lady go o'er the dark rolling sea.

Haul on the sheets, boys. Make up the downhaul,
And step on the oars, lads, and mind you don't fall.
Stand by to brace, boys. Unfurl the topsail,
And we'd soon make her home on the watery main.

So blow your breezes; blow a fair wind to the Asgard,
And see that lady go o'er the dark rolling sea.

My love is a tall ship and a sweet brigantine,
One of the old girls seldom now seen,
And she heaves to the wind, boys. see how she flies
With stars in her hair, boys, and mist in her eyes.

A Place at the Table

My recent absence was partly due to my attention being elsewhere with four folks I know passing over these past few weeks. Grief and loss being a large part of navigating the emotional seas, I offer this in honor and memory of Tom, James, Ann & Robert [and many others].

A Place at the Table

how did this come to be?

that you would cross my path

at this particular time -

this time like no other time

entering as an old friend walking through

the back porch screen door with the tear in it

that the cats go through.

and there you are standing in my kitchen

looking for your favorite coffee cup

the one with The Incredible Hulk on it -

and your seat at the morning table with the view

overlooking the side yard.

it’s all so neighborly familiar

only thing is usually the neighbors aren’t

that friendly here but you

you’re another story with your

1970’s gigantic glasses still worn by

you and Carol Channing only

your odd quiet ways both comforting and discomforting

at the same time

your powwow hat with the chemo sucks button challenging those

who’d rather not talk about that cancer of yours

that cancer that never could own you

but in the end hovered over you and whispered

in the night that it would not be going away -

not until you went away also

and when that night finally came

and your breath exhaled:

one

last

time

coyotes wailed

owls hushed.

we didn’t realize that you’d gone

and would not be coming back.

but you are gone

gone gone

gone.

but still

when we set the table

we try to remember to give you the cup

with the Incredible Hulk on it

and the seat with the view

of the side yard

and the peony

garden.

A Little More Delusional Optimism

Excerpted from "Quantum Psychology" Chapter 7 - Taking the Mystery out of "Miracles" by Robert Anton Wilson:

According to Brain/Mind Bulletin (May 1988) John Barefoot of Duke University has found a negative correlation between suspiciousness and longevity. In a sample of 500 older men and women whose health he monitored for 15 years, Barefoot discovered that:

(a) those who scored high on suspiciousness, cynicism and hostility died sooner than all others;

(b) this high mortality remained constant when compared by age, by sex, by previous health, by diet and even by "bad habits." [Those who smoked and remained generally optimistic lived longer than those who smoked and worried about it.]

(c) those who scored highest on hostility had a death rate more than six times higher than others.

In a related study (Brain/Mind Bulletin August 1988) Shelley Taylor of UCLA and Jonathon Brown of SMU refuted the conventional idea that those who score high on "mental health" generally have a fewer number of illusory beliefs. Among the most common illusions of the mentally healthy:

(a) overly positive views of themselves;

(b) convenient "forgetting" of negative facts about themselves;

(c) illusory beliefs about having more control than they do have;

(d) "unrealistic" optimism about themselves;

(e) "unrealistic" optimism about the future in general;

(f) "abnormal" cheerfulness.

><><><><

Kinda puts a different spin on what might be viewed as mental health; this might be called Survivor Emotional/Mental Health.

><><><

"The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitude." - William James; 19th century pioneer of psychology.

Please Pardon the Mess - Under Reconstruction

This is a sign I've felt could be tattooed to my forehead in recent years. As I told someone the other day who was warning me with concern about the Great Armageddon coming in 2012 [or a theater near you]: when you've survived your own personal Armageddon you tend not to fret over possible 'End of the World' scenarios. I've fought bigger battles. I'm still standing. I'm not special. I know others just like me.

The 'end of the world' can come in many forms: death, illness, divorce, job loss, estrangement - collapse of the world as we knew it. In this world of the temporary, we've all experienced and will experience many more endings of the world as we know it; that's how this place runs - endings and beginnings. Cycles. One era ends just in time for something new to begin. In between the ending and the new beginning is difficulty and challenge; it's messy. There's debris, old and new boards, nails, tools and a film of construction dust covering everything. It's not attractive or even of sound construction - yet.

><><><

el poquito is a trickster. He'll say 'yes' when you expect 'no', 'goodbye' when he greets you and 'hello' as he leaves. Since the day he arrived at my door he's been playing his tricks on me. Most recently was when I was writing here about 'Restoration' - a conception of healing. I thought this would be written quickly. I had it all mapped out 1-2-3, a project that after having spoken most of it hundreds of times in various ways, I thought I could complete with ease.

I was in the midst of writing about the Emotional quadrant of the Restoration Wheel when teaching became learning from deep inside the lesson; lessons that I thought I already knew well. Hah! Guess I was going to be given a review -- boot camp style.

Life lessons are never easy, especially when they involve endings. Without enumerating my own recent ones, I'll just say it's been challenging times and I had no words to express emotional restoration. I was in the midst of being buffeted by various storms and felt I knew absolutely NOTHING about emotional balance; to write on the subject seemed fraudulent, misleading and arrogant. Plus, all I could do was to try and keep my eye on my own road. The best I could do was to document for myself and for you the miracle of transformation - the Monarchs.

It's all metaphor: the endings of one stage; the leap forward into the unknown chrysalis into the dark; the waiting and the more waiting; the restless waiting, the anxious waiting, waiting for things to change, to get better, to be something different than they are - and then finally, the birth of something completely new and different. The monarchs say it all, everything that I have no language to express about the journey we all must walk, the emotional labyrinth of being human. In some ways, when in the midst of the throes of emotional upheaval, worries and fears, we seem as fragile as a monarch butterfly. But then the metaphor continues. The beautiful, gorgeous, newborn butterfly that seemed so fragile, makes this huge act of courage, flying thousands of miles; a ridiculous act of delusion, a delusion their very survival depends upon.

All I can give you is metaphor and the concept that much of my navigation through is also the result of a delusional optimism that my very survival also depends upon. Perhaps oddly, my emotional navigation has two flags I sail under: Delusional Optimism and a tough, no-nonsense Pragmatic Realism. The QUALITY of the survival is dependent upon that: Delusional Optimism joined with Pragmatic Realism - a tough match - a bridge between the heart and the mind. Emotional restoration, it doesn't happen without the pragmatic tool of the mind at the helm. As best as I know, wielding the power of the mind is the surest way to add ballast in the emotional storms. More on that as we enter into the next quadrant - the mental.

More lessons, courtesy of el poquito: Yes means no; no means yes. Goodbye, it's nice to see you again. Hello, I'll be going now. ; )

Kings of Optimism

The kids went out on a sunny day last week to release the last of the newly hatched monarch butterflies. Gathering around the aquarium, they lifted the screen top off of it, the breeze tickled the fresh wings, and for the first time they flew into the open air.

To catch a glimpse of a group of children freeing a flock of butterflies on an autumn day in Michigan - well, it doesn't get much better than that.

Hopefully, the brilliant, regal Butterflies will make it south before the north winds push down upon them from Canada.

There's a lot to be learned watching monarchs grow through all their changes - transforming into an ultimately beautiful, and both strong and delicate creature. They're vulnerable to the cold, the rain and wind. Their odds aren't necessarily the greatest. That something so delicate flies thousands of miles through adverse conditions homing in on a place its never seen before is nothing short of amazing - worthy of being called a miracle. From a 'reasonable' point of view, the hope and optimism such a journey requires is beyond the imaginings of most. Yet year after year the journey continues - and many do make it. But of course, some do not.

Such is life.

One chrysalis of this group never hatched. Perhaps a draft got to it, but then why did the others hatch? The little caterpillar died before its final transformation. Of those that did hatch out of their chrysalis' to stretch their wings, some sat on the bushes, not ready to make a move; others took to the skies immediately, quickly lifted up and flew higher and higher above the treetops.

You can imagine which ones will make it to Mexico and which ones will eventually end up covered by the falling autumn leaves.

There's a lot to be learned from these ambassadors of change - fragile, yet strong and persistent. Delicate fierceness.

what is hope?

what are wishes?

what is a prayer?

a monarch flies south against the odds

defining optimism

or delusion

or both.

My friend Marco called today from Texas. A big ol' monarch was in his flower garden gathering nectar and resting as we talked. It had been a long flight from the North. He was one of the ones that made it - that little delusionally optimistic creature. How does he even come to think such things are possible? How ARE such things possible?

I guess it's one more mystery to add to that Big Ol' Pile of Mystery a.k.a. 'The Great Mystery'.

I want to be a good student of the monarchs. A creature that has earned a royal moniker probably has something to teach us. I try to cultivate their internal compass of delusional optimism. I'm pretty new at it; kinda clumsy sometimes. Too easily, with a knee-jerk reaction I revert to old habits of doubt, worry, fear and a boatload of other useless pursuits that don't aid my journey south [or forward] one bit. It seems a worthy challenge to try to emulate their innocent trust in the instinctive process - the bold transformation whose outcome is partially beyond our control. They show us the persistence required: that with will, consistent hard work and not giving up - that maybe - just possibly, with a defiantly, delusionally optimistic and unrealistic attitude, I might one day find myself also in a southern flower garden for the winter.

Seems worth the effort, yes?

Pleasure Haiku

first taste of flower

first wind under her fresh wings

nectar on the tongue

>!< >!< >l< >l<

tender monarch feet

mariposa newborn breath

ever so lightly

>!< >!< >!< >!<

flower nectar joy

fills ecstatic wings lifting

now levitate home

>!< >!< >!< >!<

Emergence: spreading wings

As the monarchs come close to emerging, the chrysalis darkens, turning quite black like they're sapping the last juices out of it; remember, they haven't eaten in a couple of weeks.

And then....

Suddenly they emerge in their new form. This one has just stretched his wings out for their first time. He hasn't pumped them up strong yet; the wings hang limply as he still clings to what once was his secure protection where his transformation took place.

The rain has broken here finally; sunny skies and fair winds prevail; they're eating nectar and exercising their wings getting ready for the long journey south.

Soon, open skies.

Metamorphic Magic

Harvest Moon.

Figured you're all some folks who'd appreciate this not only as the extremely cool window into nature that it is, but also that other window of metaphor of the chrysalis.

Today we went up to la po's 'home for shorties' to check in on the monarch butterflies her class has raised from tiny larvae to plump and juicy, big-time poopin'-machine caterpillars, to pupae hanging in chrysalis'. They start out feeding on exclusively milkweed leaves - and lots of them, hence, the immense quantities of poop. They fatten up big, then attach themselves hanging upside down in a 'J' shape.

Next, the really trippy stuff happens: they split their backs open. They don't manufacture their chrysalis like a cocoon, they SPLIT THEIR BACKS OPEN!!! Somehow the chrysalis emerges from out of their big ol' juicy backs and wraps around and encloses them. The bright green chrysalis' then develops gold drops decorating the edges. They are truly one of those golden-magical corners of nature:

metamorphosis.

They've been growing in there around two weeks now; you can see in the single chrysalis below, the butterfly wings faintly showing through the stretched surface.

They will emerge this coming week, pump their wings, pumping fluid [butterfly blood?] through the wing frames. The wings stiffen up and then take flight.

YES!

more info: Journey North Monarch Butterfly Migration http://www.learner.org/jnorth/monarch/

RiverSpeak

Sitting by this river, my mind slows; spirit follows. Jaw unclenches; breath eases, deepens, and becomes full.

The rivers speak - the Kalamazoo, the Huron, the Rio Grande - waters moving through, pouring their wisdom of time and patience - their never-ending song, into me.

Quietly, my mind unwraps itself from around the every small thing it thought was important, crucial and urgent.

None of it was.

None was more important than this quiet peace and solitude I too easily give away.

Turning away from your screeching, screaming, self-important machinations of nothingness, I turn toward true Nothingness - the one that fills me with rushing river, scent of dry autumn and touch of warm breeze, carried here to me from somewhere more fully aligned with human soul; soul no one can define or describe, but that is felt rising above heaviness like the lotus rising above mud.

I am the mud. I am the lotus. I am the rising.

Those secrets the river spoke?

They are mine.

Now go - --

find yours.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hushhh,” the river said,

“leave your fretful, worried mind

here among the reeds.”

Aniversario

Four Circles Around the Sun:

Four Haiku

First Year: YaY!

precious, precious life

no one will turn down the light!

not ever again!

><><

Second Year: Admission

autumn chill falls hard

memories flooding the ground

life never the same

><><><

Third Year: Fighting

live strong, viejo

build the new man from within

your labor's not lost

><><><><

Fourth Year: Redefinition

write a new story

paint a color not seen

recreating 'here'

><><><><><