There is a pitcher.  Everyone alive has such a pitcher.  A pitcher that something fills with precious fluid.  I keep pouring mine out on the ground, leaving me holding an empty pitcher in wonder.  The pitcher is refilled for me.  I do not know what the fluid is for.  I want to do something with it.  I pour it on the ground and wonder.  This has been going on for more than forty years.  I am no more aware of the purpose of the precious fluid today than I have ever been.  Still, the pitcher is refilled.  It is not refilled because of any merit on my part, I know.  I continue to pour mine out on the ground and stand holding an empty pitcher wondering what this has all been about.  This is my story.  And still the pitcher is refilled. 

 I have learned this much.  Each time the pitcher is refilled,  I can feel the fullness within it and that feels good, I know.  It is satisfying, I know.  It took a long time for me to understand this much.  I lived many years ignorant of the feeling of satisfied contentment available at such a trivial price and with so little required of me.  Those years were chaotic.  I lived in dread most of the time.  I was trying mightily to achieve some goal or other that might bring me satisfaction and peace.  Nothing I tried brought more than a fleeting feeling of excited pleasure that seemed always to dissolve even before the goal was reached into another faraway goal to be reached.  All the while,  this feeling of satisfaction was lying inside as a refilled pitcher of precious fluid, refilled for me time after time by some unknown source that must have been taking an interest in me even though I was pouring the precious fluid out on the ground.  

In truth, I have explored possible ways to use the precious fluid and none have seemed to be anything other than simply pouring it out on the ground and standing rather foolishly, embarrassed, in apologetic wonder.  I have heard of people who are able to do something worthy with their pitcher of precious fluid.  They use it to grow some lasting fruit trees that continue to produce good fruit.  I must admit I  do not have evidence of it.  Only stories. Whenever I have attempted to locate one of these people they elude me.  Like smoke they elude me.  So, I am left here holding a pitcher of precious fluid that has been refilled by grace without my deserving a drop of it and , not knowing what else to do,  am  pouring mine onto the ground to stand again in wonder.  How are you doing?

A STILL MIND

Once man saw himself dead he was afraid. Maybe what spurred him to create language was the urge to converse with others about his fear of losing his life and plan ways to resist death. It has had no real effect, has it? Perhaps it has even increased the fear which is so often expressed by killing someone. Strange. They say those who most fear death are enjoying life least. Weird.

I am aware that we are being spoken to by the whole world constantly. Are you?

Of course, are you listening?

The stars, the wind playing tunes on so many flutes, the calls in the dark night, the paintings in every sky are but a few of the whole world’s many songs. What are we being told? Why did we let fear take our attention? Can we get it back? What is anonymity, really? How precious is it?

Are you aware there are humans alive who are really happy who have no fear of death? They tell of a happiness, or joy, that removes any worry about it. And, they never kill anybody. Never hire anybody else to kill for them. What is anonymity, really? How precious is it?

I sometimes see children in reading circles at school being taught the effective way to learn and digest all that fear. The fear of lack is the fear of death. 

We have two minds, all of us.  One is still.  The other is very busy thinking.  The one that thinks is not the anonymous one. The one who fears is a person who thinks he has something to lose. Now we are near to it.  It is clear that there can never be wholeness as an experience when two minds are working. Join those who have only a still mind. Listen for your invitation. 

A New Day

It is a new day. The old way will not serve us now, never did, as anyone of us can tell.

Yet there are a million voices coming from that  dead, defunct, most hopeless time.  Mechanical voices calling to everybody else “follow us” as if they are certain we are certain 

we must follow some body.

That’s the same bus full of nuts that brought us to want to close the shop and give it all up.

It’s these identical parrots from the museums and crusty old school houses groomed in the old way to stand apart as leaders who want to ask us to give another chance to what has never worked, I tell ya. It’s a gaggle of authors, musicians, actors, film makers, therapists, entrepreneurs, politicians, scientists, all of them afraid not to be bosses. They must think us inept.

To top it off, these gangsters turn profits that satisfy paltry, selfish motives by capturing on legal documents the ownership of all the art made and being made by lonely, devoted individuals who go venturing into the deepest recesses of life to keep promises each remember were made to life’s giver at the moment of first breath. Do you recall you made such a promise? If you do, this is a new day for you.

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so free one's very existence is an act of rebellion.    Albert Camus

Miss Understanding dropped by again today.

She's wormed her way into the hearts and minds

of all who think because we walk upon two legs

we are bound to know the way.

Life At Home

For most Americans, life, like trash, is loads of fun,

and, anyway, who needs a Sun, it's chicken, can't it

take a joke?

We need our toys, we're afraid to be alone with our minds.

Who needs sunshine?

Where's my phone?

Who said children can't be made to work?

Who needs sunshine?

My age? not important.

neither young nor old am I

as fresh as a morning glory

what perceives but is not itself perceived

sees everything new in unspoiled glory

from the soul of my third eye

and an unseen wave flashes rhythms to the nameless unexplained for those awake who listen a stone shall call their name

and the lightening and the thunder accomplish all wars, all trials and tribulations, resolve the agony of more than a million witches, put away envy and ambition, unload boxcars of bad tradition, leaving simple people singin' from the soul of real gospel

bringin'...

toss all weapons in the ocean,

lean on Mother Nature's motion

you ain't afraid a nuttin';

wives remember tenderness,

husbands forget failures' bitterness,

no need to blame a pregnant wife no more, no more, and

a child shall lead them home…

come,

follow me