and that is

Let me be

                      What

I am

carrying on

The breathing flowers

in front of Buddha’s hands

next to Madonna and child

photo of Thich Nhat Hanh

practice walking with monks

counter top broken incense

few remaining tea candles

waiting for new breath

wood matches at ready —

Once when breath carried

her body there were troubles

with divided mind at odds

with itself, so it seemed.

Now, no body, no mind apart

her breath drifts floral scent

over zafu and zabuton, along

shelves of books at meetingbrook

electric radiator and gas stove

glowing welcome for visitors

this cold morning; silence

breathing free of division

free to wander open door

to commingle all breathing

beings sound mind and sounding

body turning with recognition

midst all her familiars

for as long as there is breathing

we carry one another on

future tense

I can imagine a time to come when bullets will fly between trumpian loyalists and those angered by him.

Is what is wanted dissolution of government in favor of private wealth and business?

It will be a difficult time.

consequential segue

Candlemas, also known as the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus and the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, is a Christian Holy Day commemorating the presentation of Jesus at the Temple. Wikipedia

Candlemas. “Candlemas commemorates the ritual purification of Mary, 40 days after the birth of her son Jesus. This day also marks the ritual presentation of the baby Jesus to God in the Temple at Jerusalem. ... The festival is called Candlemas beacuse this was the day that all the Church's candles for the year were blessed.”

Imbolc or Imbolg (/ɪˈmɒlɡ/ i-MOLG), also called (Saint) Brigid's Day (Irish: Lá Fhéile Bríde, Scottish Gaelic: Là Fhèill Brìghde, Manx: Laa'l Breeshey), is a Gaelic traditional festival marking the beginning of spring. ... For Christians, especially in Ireland, it is the feast day of Saint Brigid.
(Wikipedia)

In maine today we celebrate rain and smoosh and snow and wind. Gray dripping February drear. Even the
Prison says stay away; they are overrun with flu. It will be memo-day in DC when republicans will attempt to bring down the fbi and Justice dept so as to raise up the current president from wallow of illegality.

Time, they say, is running out.

What will follow once time has gone?

All in one place.

Without time everything aggregates in a single spot.

It is a contracting without extension, an inseparate aggregate without wholeness.

I cannot see around this trumpian perfection— all is him, and only him, as if some grotesque revelation were at hand.

to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

This by William Stafford:

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

BY WILLIAM E. STAFFORD

If you don't know the kind of person I am 

and I don't know the kind of person you are 

a pattern that others made may prevail in the

           world 

and following the wrong god home we may miss

           our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, 

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break 

sending with shouts the horrible errors of

          childhood 

storming out to play through the broken dike.

And as elephants parade holding each

          elephant's tail, 

but if one wanders the circus won't find the

          park, 

I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty 

to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something

         shadowy, 

a remote important region in all who talk: 

though we could fool each other, we should

         consider—

lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the

dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,

or a breaking line may discourage them back to

          sleep; 

the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

William Stafford, "A Ritual to Read to Each Other" from The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1998 by William Stafford.  

howling bitter air

A hundred plus miles through whiteout snow storm.

Then blueberry pie.

Machias reward.

we don’t put an end to anything

“Delusions are inexhaustible. I vow to transform them.” (One of four bodhisattva vows, per Upaya Zen Center)

At table Sunday Evening Practice someone wanted to think about that wording.

So, it seems, did Roshi Joan Halifax.

Here’s what she wrote.

The second vow begins “Delusions are inexhaustible”. I changed the second part of the vow. Originally it was “I vow to put an end to them”, but my experience as a woman and a Buddhist is that we don’t put an end to anything. When we work with our delusions, what does happen is that we transform them. We even discover wisdom in their corners. This wisdom is the hidden treasure that rewards our most fearless and diligent examination of our own delusions. Now we chant, “Delusions are inexhaustible. I vow to transform them.”
https://www.upaya.org/dox/You.pdf

Wisdom in the corners of delusions?

I vow to transform the corners of the seemingly delusional person in executive position of highest office of this increasingly sad country.

being breathed

The breath.

When breathing stops,

does the breath go out and away?

Or does it go deep and hidden within?

Breath, the name of The unpronounceable One!

everyone you knew from back then is a success

Satchel Paige said

“Don’t look back” —

Good advice

(There’s nothing there).

He said:

“You win a few,

you lose a few.

Some get rained out.

But you got to dress

for all of them.” (SP)

Where’s my

Beret and

Walking stick

Allons

Marchez

Vers l’avant

There are

Elephants

Crossing a

Bridge of

Dreams