Even with words

Pentecost.

I would like to say something about God.

But there is nothing to be said about God.

God is the saying.

The saying itself.

"About" which here is nothing.

Hence, silence.

Even with words.

Silence.

Tomorrow, fifty-first.

Saturday morning recollection

In the cowshed there's a basket on my bicycle over front tire. It carried home two small pizzas from ride to town the day it arrived. I am again in Brooklyn's 20th Avenue Met's Food Market, my Saturday schoolboy job, carrying boxes of groceries on delivery bike cycling this two-wheeled Mack truck to row house 2nd floor walkup on 67th Street down from synagogue diagonally across schoolyard. I am happy with 25 cent tip and empty oversized basket riding back. I will buy an egg cream from Archie's soda fountain on corner of 69th Street and scan across room new comic books.

But that, as they say, was long ago.

poetically embodying origin

What we recognize outside us as something judged inadequate or insufficient is the mirroring of an interior block inhibiting the passing through us or our passing through what might be called 'reality' or existence-as-itself.

As form is emptiness, as emptiness is form, it is the movement of each through each, the passage itself, that exemplifies impermanence and no-self.

What we are is the betweening movement of existence seeking itself becoming itself in an infinite equation of possibility formulating, situating, and transcending its-very-own on its way elsewhere.

We're seldom here because 'here' is an ongoing exchange between there and then with where and when.

And so, are we ever at home?

Home -- when experienced as this unfolding revelation of manifesting arrivals through which we explore energies vibrating with our names and particular histories -- is where the art is.

The eternal and infinite particularity of creative interchange with whatever is, wherever it is, and however it appears -- this is our holy project of encounter with what-is-called-God.

And so it is.

And so we are.

And so it is as we are passing through it all on its way poetically embodying origin.

We are story being written

I tumble.

In this story.

I am.

Being written.

With brook, with fog, with dew, with all within, without, and through. 

Returning with earth, walking with Rokpa

A friend writes from Liberty, Maine. He sends Richard Rohr.

"How we do anything is finally how we do everything. (Rohr)

No explanation, embodiment

Wind blows prayers from prayer-flags over sprig-green field,

Cosmos, intelligent beyond knowing, finds solace in thoughtfulness of remembrance.

The language of cemeteries is stone silence.

Meet me there.

Wordless.

In the woods on the mountain

Spring comes and dogs walk with man and woman on zig zagging trails.

You see, everything is between what it has been and what it will be. 

We are the movement of transforming emptiness as it becomes the next form moving through the between into new emptiness entering form again on its way through between-time morphing another appearance.

So lovely, light, and steep.

So far we've gone, and so asleep.

Would that we soon awake!

He watches the flowers and birds outside

He said his name was Lawrence.

That's all he remembered.

That's enough, don't you agree?

Do you remember your name?

Write it down.

Lose the paper.

Who put sleeping powder in the eggs?

At Sunday morning hospitality a bunch of sleepy animals.

A distribution of provisions from breakfast plate wakes up the room.

And if the barn were to give itself to living quarters, who would take the lower level? 

Guests who feed the animals get first choice!