Bits of bright cerulean sky
from summers of our youth:
jagged purple hurtful shards
when lies are passed as truth:
yellow warmth of family,
comfort of friends and home:
dread scarlet of betrayal,
the grey of being alone:
indigo dagger of bereavement:
royal blue square of loss:
patchy greens of wet spring days,
and Autumn’s orange/brown gloss:
the glowing pink of a baby’s love:
dark green of love gone bad:
the amazing orange of growing old:
lucent yellow of all things glad:
together these fragments colour our lives,
and slowly form a picture
of who we were, and what we are
in kaleidoscopic mixture.
We journey through our lives with
this colourful maelstrom flashing,
as we stumble and triumph day to day,
crying, singing, crawling, crashing.
We cannot see the picture:
just too busy keeping on,
until one older morning
we awake-confusion gone.
Standing back, a little shaky now,
with Autumn sun shining through,
we see splendid magnificence
in the lives of me and you.
You told me that you farngblat,
and would never let me snarg.
I spoke to you of biglefamps
that walumed in the jerg.
My friend told me his marvenkik
was frammed beyond norvak:
I sorped upon such giggenhap,
While theathing dear kanbak.
Now if you chance to winklemump
while jerbing with the karmple,
just fik to nab magorium
and disregard the brangle.
The view from my verandah this morning
reminded me
of those children’s pop-up
three dimensional
story books.
If you could enter the book
between two of the panels
could you not have access
to a two-dimensional sideroad?
If our lives are like a 3D pop-up
just imagine the strange,
the wonderful, the terrifying
adventures that we’ve missed,
slavishly following
the arrow of time.
We become stupefied by what may happen next;
by who we are told we should be;
by where we think we must be going.
Could fulfilment not suddenly arrive
through the serendipitous exploration
of the laterals,
the mysteries and wonders
between the brightly coloured pop-ups?
In the 3D children’s storybook of my life,
I have explored the laterals,
retrogressing at times,
but the story,
the real, unimagined, unplanned,
and unanticipated story,
is not the original.
It is a construct in which I participated,
which I changed as the story progressed,
sometimes planned,
sometimes accidental,
but always engaged
in developing the lateral.
The book is different now:
some of the panels are faded,
with rips here and there.
Some brightly scintillate
with lives of their own.
The tale is, ultimately,
for all its change, wear and tear,
about happy endings.
And it is my story.
This is me, Now.
This is you,
and this is your
Now.
I do this in my Now
that you may read it
in your Now,
Tomorrow.
In childhood the long summer holidays,
in a younger world,
lasted forever,
all lakes explored
all roads travelled.
I have commanded Time
to slow,
and Time acquiesced.
The moss on Siva's flame,
appeared as moss on the back
of a Discworld turtle,
moving slowly through Forever.
And of all that ever was,
and of all that ever shall be...
this is me.
Now.
The Path is long,
and I am tired now.
I remember signposts on the way:
long summer days, and bicycles;
grey hitchhikers' highways,
stretching into the unknown;
looking for love, but not knowing her face.
So many winters, that lasted too long,
and so many queues, waiting for people
who would steal my time
to feed their quest for power.
Wise men who babbled nonsense,
and fools who spoke truth;
friends to whom the word
simply meant padding in their address books;
dreamers who dreamed big
yet functioned small,
dismissing opportunities
as distractions.
The Path has been long,
and I am tired now:
I knew who I should be,
but in effecting change
I became more of me,
and less of whom I should have been.
I am peaceful now
as I rest here before going on.
I am content now
as those who love me
love me without condition.
I am tired now, but the Path goes on,
and Change still awaits.
Upanishadic philosophy, composed in Vedic verse,
teaches us we are all part of a cosmic multiverse.
Immanent and transcendent, in everything dwells a trace
of the force named Brahman, which is all time and space.
The gentle Buddha's teachings, shorn of dogmatic spin,
counsel us to focus on that strength we have within.
Enlightenment is the knowledge this amazing cosmic dance
is fleeting: we accept our Now, and embrace impermanence.
Quantum theory teaches that the act of observation
may place one's Reality in different time, space, or location.
Born in the heart of dying stars are the elements of our creation.
The universe does not waste: death is only transformation.
Standing on my hill, overlooking quiet bay
I am possessed of the wonder that I live, here, today.
Embracing every moment and the magic that it brings,
the Answer is Now clear to me, and my Spark of Brahman sings.
Erosion
Grey wrinkles on a pallid face,
eroded by the wearing pace
of life,
and the arrow of time.
Deep pathways carved by tears
for loved ones gone for years:
in memory
living proud and strong.
Captured on our aging skin,
echoes of love that dwell within
carve deep
our sense of loss.
Ancient canyons wrought by grief,
as time rushed by us like a thief:
a monument
to loss, and love.
I had one of those “moments” this morning; a moment of profound and peaceful realisation. Charlotte Church was singing the beautiful “Carrickfergus” on the Big Magical Wall Screen.
The plaintive and nostalgic words brought the realisation that so many of my friends, relatives, and acquaintances long for a return to past days: days of childhood, the teenaged years, the years of young adulthood, the days when their children were babies, or the days when the kids first went to school; days when parents and grandparents were alive:-to quote The Moody Blues, “The Days of Future Passed”. A longed-for return to a simpler past.
In thrall to the music, I reviewed a hardscrabble childhood on the Shore, followed by near poverty in Timmins. A childhood of taunts from peers, because of my accent, because of my poverty, because, it seemed, simply for being me. Confused teenaged years with no sense of direction, no understanding of who I was, or where I was going. Confused with the happiness that some found with a religion that I could not accept or understand. It seemed that my life was simply a stumbling along, without the tools, the education, the understanding, to ensure a future niche of belonging and contentment.
As I reviewed the long journey, I realised that of course there were good times, there were numerous treasures for the soul along the way, but there was always the feeling, the knowledge that there had to be more to it all than what I had seen so far.
And there was. I realise now that, waiting for me here on my hill, was my destination: that place to which my body and my mind, my very essence, had always been bound. Here is where I want to be. Here is where I am supposed to be. Here is where I have found myself. I can, from this nexus, review all the aspects of my past. I can revel in all that is, be astounded by all the endless variations that are. I can study, meditate, accept and discard.
I can be. Here. Now.
Thank you, Charlotte.
Listen to Charlotte sing at this link...
Carrickfergus
Follow old traditions
that best served another day.
Follow any charlatan
that claims to know the way.
Follow each and every law
our masters claim is right.
Follow superstitious mantras
that may help you sleep at night.
Follow all the game shows,
and reality TV,
and follow self-help gurus
who teach you what to be.
Vote for all the buzzwords
that spin doctors have designed.
Always think the facile thought,
that doesn’t tax your mind.
Ridicule but don’t discuss
all topics that arise.
Repeat vapid platitudes
that others say are wise.
Look to celebrities
to guide you as you go,
on how to dress and what to buy,
and what you ought to know.
When our lives are over,
and our sojourn here is done,
will we have cause to regret
our short time in the sun?
Will we shed a bitter tear
at a call we did not heed:
why did we simply follow
when we had a chance to lead?
On a rock at the head of the cove
an American bittern stretches his neck.
Six Canada geese feed in the long grasses
near Frank’s boathouse:
one goose, alert, is on point
guarding against danger.
American and Iranian gunboats
play chicken in the Straits of Hormuth,
while attack dog Israel strains
to be let off the lease:
Armageddon shimmers
on the near horizon.
The dog explores enticing scents,
flushing a colourful pheasant
from the long grass.
Crickets lament summer’s passing.
A gang of perpetually adolescent bluejays
play boyish, noisy bird-games,
and empty the feeder.
In the Canadian North
ice levels are the lowest
in recorded memory:
the Prime Minister will make his annual Arctic junket,
so all will be well.
Chinese interests aggressively pursue
Canadian resources, while corporate interests
gleefully check their projected bottom lines.
The school bus drops off older children,
while mothers wait with siblings in strollers.
Old men walk slowly down the road,
reflecting on different days
with younger horizons.
Religions, whose prophets taught
peace, respect, tolerance and inclusion,
are controlled by madmen and zealots
who compete for new, more abhorrent ways
to spread a message of hate and death,
while adherents are conditioned
to obey, not question.
Compliant media spew propaganda buzzwords,
professionally designed to ensure complacency,
and dull the mass mind.
Across the bay, a loon laughs,
while the old hippie on his verandah
sips his coffee
and finds much beauty, and a personal peace,
but very little
to laugh about.
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
