Life On Weedon Island is different from man—made places. In the shade, beneath a tin roof at a green wood picnic table we sit and write among the living world: live oaks, saw palms, cautious… More
Brutus, Gus, a Slime Mold and Me
The Western mind draws a sharp boundary between humans and the rest of the world….for the Western mind, it is hard to recognize mind in animals, whereas for the Japanese mind, it is hard not to do so.~~Semiotician Yoshimi Kawade, written in 1998
That quote gets me to thinking…
Brutus, the lab mix that I often dog sit, sends me love with a look. He and I look directly, usually silently, into each other’s eyes each time we want to tell each other something. It’s simple. Direct. Clear. A type of mind reading. I’ve learned from dogs and cats how much can be said by the eyes.
With Brutus and Gus, the tiger-striped cat, words are seldom necessary even though I use them out of habit. Brutus and Gus hear me make sounds. Brutus looks at me patiently until I make myself clear.; Gus is less patient and will walk off unless I add a treat to the sounds.
I think, that people need dogs and cats for more than the unconditional love (well, conditioned as for Gus the cat)—we get sick and tired of talking.
Or we can’t stop talking around people and can only be quiet with our pets. Words are hard to come by. The right ones. Words can be so difficult to find. Those we speak are often the ones we repeat out of habit; they aren’t the words available, or even appropriate often, in the present moment, if we took the time to notice those.
People don’t listen for the most part. Dogs listen. They learn the meaning of words.directed to them. When I say “car” or “beach” or “cookies” to Brutus, he comes to a happy attention. Have we learned any language from other animals in the same way?
Our words come from minds filled with past and future, so how accurate are they? How wise? Meanwhile, my stock and trade is, ironically, words; I’m a writer and a teacher. However, I’ve been investigating the mind in the way of the as a Buddha and I am starting to see its limitations.
Intelligence in Nature, An Inquiry into Knowledge, by Jeremy Narby, an anthropologist, is filled with words for 243 pages. Since they are written instead of spoken, they have been carefully chosen and re-thought many times; writing can be a more clearway to use words than speaking. Narby writes about the intelligence he and other scientists, have discovered in creatures great and minuscule (like nematodes). “A slime mold,” he writes,” in a maze has the capacity to apprehend its situation and act on its knowledge.” He makes the point that there are more forms of intelligence than we ever dreamed of. A Western mind has to overcome hundreds of years of the myth of human intellectual superiority.
Recently I read in Narby’s book that “Information of one kind or another is consistently circulating in nature, in particular in the form of biochemical molecules. The world is streaming with signs. Not so long ago, some people considered the use of signs a specifically human trait.”
All this is to say, that I am searching as I write: what is nature telling me? What is it I am missing? Can I become better at reading the signs life is posting? We’ll see…
Inspired Writing: From Silly to Wise–A Four Week Workshop*, or “Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.” ― Einstein
*Not only for experienced writers. Join in even if you don’t think you can write!. You may surprise yourself!
photo from Google photos
Dear People,
During these trying times, it can help to be inspired by wisdom, humor and profound observations. For those who do not know me: I am a published writer, and have been teaching writing at the college level for the past twenty years. I’ve always found inspiration for my own writing from writers and thinkers, and so am offering a workshop to inspire your own writing.
In this four week workshop, we will read short inspiring selections from many wisdom traditions as well as by humorists, chefs, visual artists, philosophers, comedians, fiction and non-fiction writers and poets, then we’ll discuss one of these before we write. Some of the passages will be philosophical, some comforting, others just delightful, playful or funny.
Subjects will range from food to furniture from silly, to spiritual.
Our writing will be whatever we are inspired to say after our discussion. Sharing what we write will be optional, but encouraged. I will also offer writing guidance based on Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, and others.
Here is an example of the types of passages we could consider:
“As you unfold as an artist, just keep on, quietly and earnestly, growing through all that happens to you. You cannot disrupt this process more violently than by. looking outside yourself for answers that may only be found by attending to your innermost feeling.”~~~Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Here’s another: “You have to stay in shape. My mother started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She’s 97 now and we have no idea where she is.” ~~George Carlin, comedian
The first session will be free. If you choose to continue, the cost will be $60.00 for the four week workshop.
Begins once per week October 1st-November 5th (day and time be determined) via Zoom (instructions will follow)
If you are interested, please email me at andapeterson@yahoo.com, or leave a comment here.
What kind of courage do we need? We must accept reality in all its immensity…the only kind of courage that is required of us: the courage to meet the strangest, most awesome and most inexplicable of phenomena.~~Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
The Courage We Need is
to stand alone
on the dance floor.
The courage we need is
to stay steady
as we feel the foundation cracking
to see clearly
through lies
thick as heavy blankets
as the sleepers
pretend wakefulness.
The courage we need is
to refuse
the safety
of the trance.
The courage we need is
to love with a broken heart,
shed fears like leaves,
bend, bow
and continue.
Chicago, for Fred Hampton and Larvell Henderson, my Irving School Classmates
Today my hometown music
sets the groove
for the dance
soul sway
joy drum
beats
saxophone
shouts
in this coffee shop.
I remember
Chicago rhythm
and blues
how the projects
loom over expressways
the “El” clatters
shakes the rattling windows
of a tenement
screeching to a scheduled stop
from the eleventh floor, a five-year-old watches
big-eyed
as below cars speed
downtown
the refrain “Stand by me…”
fills the air from somewhere near
before the deafening roar of the train
passes the boy
I feel the
faith
not mine but
unshakeable
his brother waiting
sitting on the stoop
at noon
job denied
one more time.
In third grade Fred and Larvell were my friends.
When I was ten
Larvell's mother was shot.
When I was twenty,
Fred was shot in his bed.
In my car, Marvin Gaye sings
“Makes me Wanna Holler, Throw up Both My Hands…”
on the radio.
I feel faith between the notes, love
not mine, but
from a distance, mine too
as I drive to the South Side
singing, weeping
with Marvin
to my job at the welfare
warfare office.
Who Will Explain?
The brown-eyed children,
under silver blankets
that sparkle like Christmas tinsel
or gleaming party gowns
worn at country clubs,
sleep on the cold, cement floor
but do not understand
the wire cages,
their loneliness
the long, hot walk
through the desert.
Do they wonder,
as children will,
what they did wrong?
Who will explain
to them
this land that hates them,
these people who sleep
on silk sheets
walk on marble floors,
washed by brown-eyed women,
take cool rides
in shiny new trucks
through the desert
like cruel-eyed matadors
immune to the pain
of the bull,
drunk on their comforts.
Who can explain
why these people
never wonder
what they did wrong?
Amazon Author Page
The Dog Says Sit
Words mask meaning
which rises in silence
comes clear
with the attention,
the patience
of a dog.
We know this
but refuse to trade our talk
for wisdom.
Those who stop to still themselves
know how dogs know:
see the others’ eyes shift
flutter like a bird taking flight
how the mouth tightens
the shoulders rise.
Though we sit close to each other
we hear
from a distance.
Tender Work
Work with what you are
If you are a fawn
at dusk
you will
stand still as wood
in a field of tall green grass
at the edge of a forest
your dark eyes wide open
watching sparrows
flit and fly home
through the twilight.
If you are a fawn
your soft brown ears
upright will catch sounds
of wind through the pines.
If you are a field mouse
you will
scurry, slipping between
wildflowers
fawn hooves.
If you are a human
you will
see the fawn, the pines, the wildflowers
feel you breath as wind,
how your heart beats as
bird mouse, fawn
then and only then
your tender work
is done.
Tinney Creek
Tinney Creek, St. Petersburg, Florida
Tinney Creek runs past
under
and despite
the TJ Max
CVS, Target.
It travels back and forth
from Tampa Bay
rises and falls daily with the tide
feeds Egrets, families of Muscovy ducks and Mallards
who seek tiny prawns, mud crabs, bugs.
Feathery Java fern
rounded Moneywort
grow in it’s rich mud,
abundant
as if this was still The Garden.
Between snaking highways,
Dollar Stores
gas stations
condo buildings
Taco Bells
the creeks and their residents
carry on
as if this was still The Garden.
Down the busy street a ways
atop a pole advertising Beer and Low-Cost Cigarettes,
an osprey has built a roomy nest,
designed in the contemporary open sky plan.
A lone Roseate Spoonbill sometimes visits Tinney Creek
always in company with her Egret.
I watch as
Spoonbill lifts it’s comical Dr. Seuss face
twitches its white and rosy feathers
lowers its wide paddle-like beak into brackish water
sweep, sweep
side to side
poke, poke.
The ducks, Ibis, Egret, crows and I claim
this creek and the remaining
Royal Palms, oak trees, iridescent sunsets
as ours.
“I used to see many Roseate Spoonbills here once,”
a neighbor tells me.
My heart aches
as regularly
as it beats
these days
at these all too familiar words:
There were many here
once.
At night, arriving home,
my headlights sweep over the banks of the creek
lighting up a line of ducks, like fat-buddhas
heads curled into their downy breasts
asleep despite ambulance sirens,
the roar of traffic.
At dawn they will wake
waddle like drunks
raise their chicks,
the Osprey will hunt,
the Spoonbill and Egret will visit
I will marvel at how they float and splash
and the creek
feeds us all
as if this is still the Garden.
To Practice Seeing: a Chapbook
To Practice Seeing
poems by Anda Peterson
Acknowledgments:
Nest appeared in Salt Creek Journal, a publication by the University of South Florida, St. Petersburg, April 2018
Circumnavigation appeared in Sky Island Journal, June 2018
Table of Contents
Mermaid Visits Congress…..pg 2
Echocardiogram…..pg 4
Pushaw Lake, Maine, Late August…..pg 6
Lagoon…..pg 7
Requiem for a Dharma Bum Jack Kerouac, read on the occasion at the anniversary of his death at the Flamingo Bar, St. Petersburg, Florida…..pg 9
Nest…. pg 12
Tea Ceremony…. pg 15
Einstein, Buddha and Picasso Walk into a Bar…. pg 16
Chihuly Glass #1…. .pg 19
Chihuly Glass #2…..pg 21
Advice from a Live Oak…..pg 22
Boyd Hill Symphony….. pg 25
Circumnavigation…..pg 27
Tinney Creek, St. Petersburg…..pg 30
Tinney Creek 2…..pg 31
A Good Personality or the Play’s the Thing (with apologies to the Bard)……pg 33
Inhale…..pg 35
For Pema Chodron, Bob, and Margaret…..pg36
Surrender……pg3
From The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen:
“Is there anything I can do to win an immortal soul?”
“No,” said the old woman, “unless a man were to love you so much that you were more to him than his father or mother; and if all his thoughts and all his love were fixed upon you…then his soul would glide into your body and you would obtain a share in the future happiness of mankind. He would give a soul to you and retain his own as well; but this can never happen. Your fish’s tail, which amongst us is considered so beautiful, is thought on earth to be quite ugly; they do not know any better, and they think it necessary to have two stout props, which they call legs, in order to be handsome.”
Mermaid’s Visit to Congress
It hurts to walk on land.
Once we dreamt
how glorious it would be
above the ocean
in the land of their power
Once we sang
to guide men home
from their foolhardy voyages
the battles they waged against
the tides, the swells
of mountainous waves.
We all sang our warnings,
Whale sang and dolphin sang.
Now we know.
Each step is a shock,
like walking on shards of glass.
We hear
the cries of those
who walked this way before us,
who forgot how it was
to glide freely
under sunlit water shimmering overhead
among playful fish.
How we wore seaweed dresses
as we danced in the deep
rising like arrows through the water
with dolphins and whales.
We sacrificed our mermaid tails
our shining fish scales
the fields of water flowers
our coral castles
for promises
made of mist.
Echocardiogram
What is the sound of water?
No, I mean, really…
Who can know more than this:
a rhythm
a beat, a pulse
that rises and falls
after the downbeat of thunder
when rain sounds
like fingers snapping
foot tapping
on the roof
until the swell of a deluge
builds to a crescendo
and ends gentle
with the slow brushing beat of a snare drum.
The musician searches for a cadence
plays the tempo
set by water
the full orchestra of a hard monsoon
or jazz bounce of raindrops,
single notes struck on a piano.
I heard the sound of water
during an echocardiogram.
then I knew
the gurgling beat of my heart
keeps time
with the whole great ocean
Pushaw Lake, Maine
It is late August
The bee flutters about a dandelion
gains its footing and does its work.
A man stands steady in a boat fishing
on the quiet lake.
The hammock, under two maples,
sways in the breeze.
I write these pictures
to capture the last days of summer.
This is a fool’s errand of course
Like trying to anchor the clouds.
But I persist
because I am in love with this moment
like a monk bent over his sand mandala
adding pinpricks of color in a corner of the whole.
He practices impermanence
the one lasting certainty.
The long-lived log
the swing of the ax
solidity split.
So I set these images
one word at a time
bent over the page
with reverence for:
The swimmer in the lake
who does a slow crawl through the evergreen water
the tall pines above her watching.
The black ant who climbs over the boulder.
A loon who rises with a haunting call
and geese
who talk a blue streak in passing.
For now, just now
I walk under the light of the moon
down the path to the fire pit
a full moon
will soon empty itself
become a sliver, a crescent
new.
Lagoon, Martha’s Vineyard
Here on an empty stretch of saltwater lagoon this gray morning
my bare feet scoured by gold-brown sand I walk mindful of the footprints of dogs and sharp shells, rocks, mud.
I come to meditate
which is simply just to stop
to practice seeing.
Damp translucent and neon-green strips of seaweed
stretch along the shoreline. The lagoon lies still
under the smoky-pale sky
its calm speaks of a welcome respite from visitors
as if its heartbeat is steady again so I feel an intruder I will be quiet, walk slowly take a seat on a weathered green bench.
It is high tide a few days after a new moon (said to inspire new beginnings).
A swan appears on the silver water, looks my way. A mate nowhere to be seen. I whisper an invitation. I hope she will come to me teach me about her solitude but, no, she is only here to remind me to be graceful and careful
to glide
serenely alone .
She bends her long neck like a ballerina
darts her beak into the water to catch a minnow.
She will navigate this lagoon following the movement of the tides
the moon and starlight.
To begin anew
is all she knows.
Requiem for a Dharma Bum Jack Kerouac
Read on the occasion at the Anniversary of his Death
Flamingo Bar (where he drank his last) St. Petersburg, Florida
Buddha Jack
sitting at the bar
buying drinks
for your demons
though you knew yourself
also as a jewel in Indra’s net
caught in illusion
yet clear minded
your contradictions
poems spilled on the barroom floor.
You hungry ghost
you beautiful man/boy, Jack
trapped between dharma-love and whiskey-death
on the road
to ruin
on the road
no arrival the right one.
America broke your heart
when it showed
it’s slave owning, lynching
money-loving-self.
In such a land
you were misunderstood
they loved your uncontrollable thirst
thought you dropped out
so cool man
lauded you for coolness
so cool man
jazz played the longings
you expressed for them
you seduced them
dark-eyed handsome man
they wanted to talk poetic in smokey bars with you
but go home sober
while you fell down the stairs pissing
shaking with the D.T’s
vomit and blood gushing from your mouth.
Far out. Far out
they applauded your shining, cascading words
like jazz
spilling out
breaking grammar
and rules
You were misunderstood
They thought you said nothing matters but sex
Like it was so far out
how far out you went
spirit searching
in a soulless America with your lost boys
high on themselves and you.
Jack, your Buddha brother
went to the edges too
as seekers often do.
Siddhartha the sensual and bejeweled
then Siddhartha the starving monk
traveled every road
until he stopped
got off the bar stool
went to the forest
weary and done
like you are now
woken from the dream of being
and that is far out
so far out, man
so cool
so cool
Nest
To practice seeing
I choose an empty nest
fallen to the sidewalk
built into a Tillandsia,
the “air plant” that hangs from the branches of trees
round, bowl-like
A perfect scaffolding.
The plants tentacles intertwine
Round and round each other
The cardinal needs only scoop out the center.
For this, dear architect, did you use your clawing feet?
Your beak?
Both?
The cleverness of your construction should not surprise me
but I am human.
I have so many questions.
The answers are mapped in the mind
of a small, smooth feathered head which
pictured the design
remembered
shapes, sizes, textures
arranged each element
composed it all
into a unified utility.
How long, how difficult was the construction?
Thin, sliver twigs needed to be bent,
Bits of grape vine collected
Then inserted into the Tillandsia,
Threaded through the curls of grape vines
The stitching secures dry, flaky particles of Live Oak seedpods.
This builder knows how to balance beauty with practicality.
I attempt
to practice the same day by day.
What was next indicated in your plans?
Perhaps, you decided
To lift dry, gray Spanish moss
Lacy string by lacy string
carried in your beak, flitting back and forth
on labored wings
Nest to branch
branch to nest
you knew that
moss matted down, then mixed with dirt
makes a sturdy stucco
Was this an ancient knowledge inherited from
Your dinosaur DNA?
To the stucco, lodged as if glued is
A one-by-one inch square of plastic netting from a bag of fruit.
Architect, this raises more questions.
How was the perfect size of plastic netting located, then chosen?
Was this serendipity?
Or was it a memory of a bright white, crisscrossed thing you spied from the air?
This plastic web has little function.
Did it thrill or amuse you?
Who can say it didn’t?
And why did you place this swatch of netting
On only one side of your nest?
Was this a statement?
A signature?
Who can say it wasn’t.?
Or was it for fun?
Do you like fun like I like fun?
Who can say you don’t?
Woven between the Spanish moss, Tillandsia fibers and the fragile twigs
are three strips of cotton from an old cloth bandage.
Was this only for comfort?
Do you like the softness against your face?
Like I like softness?
Who can say you don’t?
Six strips of silver tinsel from an old Christmas tree
are inserted at the top of the nest.
Are you making a case for beauty?
Is this a sign of aesthetics in a life otherwise dominated by survival?
Like mine?
Who can say it isn’t?
The tinsel is fragile, not material for construction
but sparkles,
sparkles!
in the sun.
Do you and I both delight in things that shine?
Who dares to say you don’t?
Like any clever architect
You balance beauty with practicality.
I attempt the same
day by day.
I never knew all this about you
Your jokes, your artistry
Until you stopped my mind one day
and opened my eyes
when I found your home.
Tea Ceremony
The steam from Thich Nhat Hanh’s teacup
rises as a cloud
returns to earth
as rain to quench the thirst
of tea leaves.
Thay teaches how clouds appear in teacups and how
to drink
moonlit rain.
Picasso, Einstein and Buddha Walk into a Bar…
Picasso takes a swig of whiskey and says
there is blue in the horse
Einstein agrees.
Buddha nods.
Yes, blue is in the horse.
If you look beyond muscle and haunch,
Buddha says, sipping his tea,
you will see
atoms that sparkle like a million small diamonds.
Einstein smiles
and drinks his beer.
Picasso says,
they want me to make sense
draw the mouth on the face
they say, where it belongs
they don’t want the eyes on the forehead
they tell me to look at statues
to understand the body.
Einstein and Buddha laugh.
“That’s a good one!” Einstein says
“As if we aren’t particles,” Picasso says
“As if our cells are static.”
“As if we are solid bodies,” Buddha adds.
At this their laughter grows uproarious
the customers look askance.
Einstein says,
“Did you hear the one about the two monks who pointed at a gingko tree and a cyrpess?
One of them said to the other:
‘They call those just trees! and the two monks fall on the ground laughing.’”
“Good one!” the three agree.
The customers shake their heads, concerned.
Since they sound so crazy
and one of them is wearing a sheet and no shoes
another hasn’t combed his hair for days
the three are thrown out of the bar
onto the street
accompanied by a gingko tree and a cypress
all arm-in-arm
they stroll into the night
sparkling.
Chihuly Glass #1
A Chihuly glass shell
is formed,
as are we all,
by a sacred geometry
etched precisely
by water and fire.
These secret equations
that set the exact beat
of our hearts
might be understood
by calculating
the blazing suns
of eons
saltwater tossed rocks
ground to sand
turned hard and translucent by time
curled and bent
to correct angles
surfaces divided
into harmonious parts
fragile as glass
smooth as the bone
of a seashell
or your spine.
Chihuly Glass #2
This is the mystery
of energy enough to ignite
colored shards of glass
into a fountain
of blue and red
yellow and orange
into a fused stillness.
The same mystery
waits
in the candle wick,
the match
the dry kindling.
The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way…As a man is, so he sees. ~~William Blake
Advice From a Live Oak to the Owner of the Mercedes Floating Down the Street in Miami
Listen,
says the Live Oak,
Yes, you there
in front of your winter home in Florida
watching your Mercedes float
like your yacht
down the avenue
You seem surprised
that concrete crumbles under your feet.
Nearby, as if in a dream,
you hear someone saying words like
limestone, aquifer, rising sea levels
But you do not understand any language not spoken in banks.
You shouted your mantra
Fix it! Fix it!
Let me explain.
This is how you got here:
You looked at me through blinders and called me a tree.
Then you named me:
Live Oak.
You wrote the name down in a book
as if it was truth.
I became a fact
to dismiss or use.
That was your first mistake.
When you cut me and my sap ran
you did not recall
the stickiness of your own blood.
So, I knew that our reunion would have to wait
until we had no choice.
You were too busy
conducting a war against
all that stood in your way.
You dug mines
drained swamps
smothered the soil with cement
slashed the forests and fields
forced water where it did not want to flow.
Your hand shakes now
as you grab at your pockets
for your rosary of coins.
You watch the news:
Coyotes leap over the walls of guarded houses.
Panthers roam the yards.
Alligators traverse your golf club.
Black bears rummage through your trash
swim at their leisure in your Olympic-sized pools.
Your homes are hidden behind steel gates
but the animals still enter
they know these woods and marshes
have mapped the paths in their veins
feel the contours of the land in their hearts.
For the first time, you hear the alarms.
Your senses open like a deer’s listening for the hunter’s next step.
Listen
You mowed when it was time to sow.
Demolished what it was time to save.
You understood only how to ravage
but not how to prune.
Listen
You did not see who shared these places with you.
That was your biggest mistake:
Yet, if you look east, west, south, north, up to the stars, down to the valley
you will see that what they call you is not what you are.
Your name is only a thing on paper
our roots, our veins inseparable.
Listen
to what speaks quietly
in both of us:
Live
live
live
Against this cosmic background, the lifespan of a particular plant or animal appears, not as drama complete in itself, but only as a brief interlude in a panorama of endless change. ~~Rachael Carson
Boyd Hill Nature Preserve, St. Petersburg, Florida
This land feasts on fire and flood
where lightning strikes
scrub pines flare like torches.
Crackling pine needles
play a fiery staccato.
Snakes, squirrels, mice
(who’ve learned from their elders)
burrow together in tunnels
built by the able gopher tortoise.
The truce between predator and prey will hold
below the conflagration
as mouse and snake listen together
to the racing current of flames overhead.
They wait for a drenching deluge
to cool the charred tree trunks.
Grasses turned to ash
(a rich burnt compost)
will nourish sandy soil
needle thin stalks will push up through dank mud
towards the steamy sun.
Soon thickly green
vines wind around vines.
Branches cross one another, reach
in every direction.
After fire and rain
Mockingbirds, thrush, kingfishers, hawks
call out emphatic declarations
while under darkened canopies of oaks
frogs and turtles sleep.
Upon the humid air floats
A symphony of scents
honeysuckle, magnolia, fiddlewood,
rise in sweet crescendos
In the thorny brush
a rustling
as mouse jumps
from the grasp of snake
white clouds, backlit by the sun
grow into mountains
portend the next fire
the next flood
and gopher tortoise casts a wary, wise eye skyward.
Circumnavigation
Really there is no edge
from which to fall.
We are like ancient sailors
still
trembling at the horizon.
Everything is a circle
your eye, the earth
the path is not straight
as you come round
and return
as we do
as we all do
to where we started
which may look like
A mandala
constructed
of your recollections
in hues of every color
collected
in circular order
the stories
we spent our lives
repeating
looking for
the conclusion
but finding instead
A Sufi dancing in a circle of light
round of white
skirt
Whirling
Spinning
Precisely
Like a planet
and the sun
illuminated circumferences
all circadian rings of light
that cross over
over
And around
the globe.
Like the
deep round sound of the
drum, or the
singing bowl struck awake
its overtone
resonating
Resounding
Like the echo
floating in a canyon
gliding up and down
the rocky basin
returning to its origin.
Tell me then
what you fear.
Tell me,
where is the beginning
of this moment
or the end
of the ocean?
Tinney Creek
Tinney Creek runs past
under
and despite
the TJ Max
CVS, Target .
I live next to Tinney Creek,
across from a mall
along with the ducks, egrets, and crows
and the occasional hawk.
Tinney Creek
travels back and forth
from Tampa Bay
rises and falls with the tide
feeds Egrets, families of Muscovy ducks and Mallards
seeking tiny prawns, mud crabs, bugs.
In the muddy bank grow
feathery Java fern
rounded Moneywort
verdant, abundant
as if this was still The Garden.
despite
the insults of a styrofoam cup,
a plastic bag.
Here
between snaking highways,
Dollar Stores
gas stations
condo buildings
Taco Bells
Here
hawk has built a nest atop a pole
advertising Beer and Low-Cost Cigarettes.
The ducks, Ibis, Egret, crows and I claim the remaining
palms, oak trees, creek, iridescent sunsets
as our home
Tinney Creek #2
Low tide at Tinney Creek brings
a rare pink-and-white-feathered surprise.
The Roseate Spoonbill
sweeps its ladle-like beak
through the shallow water
ignoring the styrofoam cup floating past
Urban detritus
comes and goes with the tides.
The Spoonbill lifts it’s comical Dr. Seuss face
to me for a moment then
twitching its white and rosey feathers
lowers its wide bill into the water
sweep, sweep
side to side
poke, poke
with open paddle mouth
for shrimps and insects.
The Spoonbill is a “gregarious bird” according to the website
“who spends time with other large wading birds,”
It arrived with an egret
now at its side
and likely enjoys the company
of the Muscovy ducks
resting like plump buddhas on the grass.
“I used to see many Roseate Spoonbills here once,”
a neighbor says.
My heart aches
as regularly
as it beats
these days
at the all too familiar words.
There were many
once.
And yet
The Roseate Spoonbill came
to Tinney Creek.
And at night, arriving home,
my headlights sweep over the creek
lighting up a sweet stretch of sleeping ducks
despite ambulance sirens
the roar of car engines.
At dawn they will wake
to waddle like drunks
and raise their chicks
though hawk will seek them.
The creek still feeds them all
And so
My heart resumes its song.
A Good Personality or The Play’s the Thing (with apologies to The Bard)
I usually congratulate people when they tell me, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
~~~Eckhart Tolle
Did Buddha have a good personality?
We would like to think so.
Without it who would he be?
How would he feel without it?
Free?
Perhaps.
Let out of identity prison?
The prison
constructed, cemented
as he was constricted in his crib.
Conflicted adult
arrives on the stage
having learned his lines
face thick with make-up
mask in place.
The audience enthralled
the performance was so real!
So authentic! Like real life!
I really believed he was…they say.
Would Buddha have been a star
of the stage and screen?
No. He’d be a flop.
Most certainly.
Look
He forgot the role
he was assigned
misplaced the script
left his costume at home.
On his way to the theatre
Buddha got lost in the forest
Still trying to wake up
until he finally heard
suffering—his alarm clock
then
his personality shed like his actor’s mask
bare-faced, he knew
If we only trust what our eyes can see
we will believe the play is the only thing
and a mirror is a window.
Inhale
notice
hands on keyboard shoulder aches
a crowd of thoughts, elbow each other.
they are like drunks
shouting trash talk
thinking they makes perfect sense.
A car backfires a mindfulness bell of sorts, reminds me to breathe
Until ideas, images, words
grab me by my breath, hold me hostage and I am lost
pushed and pulled
between yesterday, tomorrow.
Then I inhale
reminded
again, again
after the exhale in the pause
before the next breath
that flickering moment
that quick bright peace is real.
For Pema Chodron and Bob and Margaret
Even though Bob and Margaret, lost both of their children
even knowing such tsunamis
are unpredictable
sometimes I still think I stand firm on this
shifting earth
my plans laid out like railroad tracks
viewpoints arranged like books on a shelf
where I can reach them quickly
to prove their validity
(when necessary, of course)
absolutely.
What’s up is up
and down is down
It’s obvious.
I see the clock
I know the time.
I don’t need a weatherman…
Certainties crowd out
my senses
but I don’t mind
I navigate by thought alone.
It’s religious, a sustaining belief
in what I cannot see
what is ephemeral,
my thoughts and assumptions,
In those my faith is absolute.
Then I step out of my bunker
away from the tracks, the bookshelf
I go to the beach, let’s say.
Nowhere important at all
not like the places where my mind is in demand
where I use my thought-training
like a karate master.
I am barefooted
so it begins
first reminded
of my body
as toes grip sand
then, beyond my control
a deep breath rises and falls.
More senses open
seeing and hearing
causing a
slight imbalance
brought on by
the sight and sound
swooping, circling, crying sea gulls
the wide vistas, the vast sky
I stand at water’s edge
dig my feet into the heavy wet sand
anchored, safe again
until the sand slips
beneath my feet
effortlessly carrying what seemed my dense body
and I sink
an inch deeper weightless no viewpoint to grab
to steady me
pushed off the track
unsettled
pulled by the tides like a pebble.
Surrender
is like
grinding out the last cigarette under your boot heel
this time for good
this time for good.
Like leaving the key on the table
and shutting the door
that door
quietly
tightly.
Surrender is like a fist opening
the grip loosening
from how it should have been.
Surrendering
is like untying yourself from the chair
to discover you tied it
you can stand upright.
Tear-washed eyes
are willing now clear enough
to see
the wider horizon.
an angel put its arms around your shoulders
and you felt held
and you are certain
it was real.
Surrender then
is a lavender sky at dusk
a sweep of feathery light
illuminating
spaciousness.
A Music Video Poem
Great White Heron Selfie
Great White Heron Selfie, original photo by Carol Kay, %22selfie22 by Anda Peterson
To capture
a Great White Heron
in Florida
on a log
in the Hillsborough River
but really
in a frame
on your wall
take a picture
of a picture
of a heron
a selfie
of hands
capturing
all
the beauty
they can hold.
Dukkha
In the Zen tradition, dukkha is often translated as “suffering,” although more often it means dissatisfaction or the nagging sense that something is off, or sometimes even existential angst. It seems that dukkha is discussed more explicitly in American Zen than it commonly has been elsewhere in the Zen world.~~Konin Cardenas, “Understanding Dukkha,” Lion’s Roar 2017
That got me thinking…
Dog sitting is my part time job. While walking Paco, the Min-Pin-Chihuahua mix, in the sauna-like humidity of Florida summer, I was experiencing dukkha, because my bum hip hurt and I was uncomfortable. I was also feeling guilt about my cat, Gus, home alone even though I went back daily for a few hours with him. Then there were the nagging questions common to dog sitters: what did I need from home that I forgot and what did I leave at the other condo that I need at home.
I happened upon an acquaintance, a resident of the building where I was staying. “How are you doing these days,” I asked. She answered “Going to Maine soon. I just bought a condo in Portland.” And I felt the hammer of dukkha come down hard on my mind. Envy. Dissatisfaction.
As everyone knows, Buddha said life is full of suffering. What people misinterpret is what he meant by suffering. in addition to suffering death, disease and old age, there is the suffering brought on by our desires. This suffering is called Dukkha and is less about actual suffering, but more about unease, a sense one doesn’t have all they need. It’s about being attached to certain outcomes, desires and being disappointed when they don’t come to fruition. It’s also about the niggling little irritations, the small pains, the irritations of bad traffic or bad weather, aversion to inconvenience and craving for pleasure. And change. Most people will avoid change like the plague. We wait until our ass is on fire before we finally change what the problem may be. Dukkha can be defined as difficulties.
Some of my friends are on vacation in cool, beautiful places. Some even have lovely second homes in those places. They have financial well-being. I have Dukkha.
I’m not proud of it. I’m not homeless, I just have a lower income than my better-off friends. I don’t have much to complain about.
Like so many others in the United States, I suffer from dissatisfaction. It arises out of a belief that I should be happy. That something is wrong with my life if I am not happy. This is the burden we inherit from the myth of the American Dream. We suffer from having too much and not enough. We even have the house, the car, the income we are told will make us happy, and yet…
So…because I am a writer, I write to face and understand things. I have ample opportunities to practice lessening the impact of dukkha on my life because I am an American. What helps other than writing? Seeing through the myth of the need for constant happiness.
Try the attitude of accepting difficulty instead of getting aggravated by it. It’s a lot more peaceful.~~Rick Hanson, Phd. from “Just One Thing”
Alan Watts and Gus
To understand music, you must listen to it. But so long as you are thinking, “I am listening to this music,” you are not listening.~~Alan Watts
That gets me thinking…
Gus jumps up on the window sill. A bird or fly has flashed past.
I find myself gazing out the window with him, notice the sky, the clouds, but in the next second I have left–gone into the past or the future. My body sits in the chair, but I don’t know it. I am looking at the sky, but do not see it. There are sounds outside, but I do not hear them. Gus is tuned to the vista, its colors, shapes, movement. I am not here.I come back to the present with a start–as if an alarm went off to wake me. I do not know what alerted me to life again, but usually it is nature or some creature. We acknowledge that we need dogs and pets for their unconditional love (well, maybe conditioned in Gus’s case…) but we may also need them because they bring us into the present. They offer us their presence in a way most humans cannot, see us as we are now, not as we were or could be.
I stroke Gus’s soft fur and come back into my body as I notice his warmth on my lap. Gus, I think, must always sense his body and mine. I, however, do not inhabit my body while I am lost in thought, and I am almost always lost in thought.
Gus and other creatures, it seems to me, are examples of minds that are in tune with the “primary consciouness” that Watts describes here and that Buddhists would recognize as an awakened mind:
The “primary consciousness,” the basic mind which knows reality rather than ideas about it, does not know the future. It lives completely in the present, and perceives nothing more than what is at this moment. ~~Alan Watts
What if the present moment is full of pain or grief? Ahh…That is for the next blog…
Watching with Meeko and Brutus
With Brutus at His Water Place
Brutus is a big, bulky lab mix with a weight problem, but he is also graceful. And slow.
He is a slow walker who usually trails behind me.. It’s not that he is too old or sick to walk. He is just slow. Periodically he stops to say, with his big brown eyes, “Which way now?” However, when we are heading for his special water place he becomes a fast dog trotting in front of me, pulling me down the blocks across a small bridge, and through the neighborhood to a street that ends at the bay
He climbs down the crumbled pavement into the water, over the stinky piles of seaweed until the water covers his belly, then stops. He stands and gazes out into the bay, occasionally turning his head to check that I am still there. His tells me how much he loves this place. He says he wishes we would come here daily. I hear him. We all know how clearly dogs can speak. I take a breath and follow his lead into the present moment: sky, water, seaweed, dog. Peace plenty.
Mindfulness with Meeko
If you came to this earth as thousands of cells that want the experience of being an American Eskimo dog, you are snow-white and have a fan-like tail. You are alert to the smallest gnat that flits past. Your ears stick up straight and open, so no sound can escape your hearing. You zoom around your big yard on dainty, thin legs and feet, but you are not a dainty soul. You take no guff from passers-by, especially other dogs, and bark in short bursts of passion.
You are like Buddha in that you dwell in the present moment and watch life with exquisite mindfulness. Your ears twitch, small black eyes search and scan the air, the ground. You love the outdoors where everything is happening, almost too much to take in. You love being outside so much that you leap into the air at the closed kitchen door until I open it.
Meeko and I love being outside, looking around. Nature reminds us to stop.Be attentive. It says here is beauty, check it out. Here is life living itself, notice. A yellow butterfly flits past Meeko’s black nose. A mockingbird swoops down to keep us away from her nest. A lot is happening but humans in houses tend to miss it all.
The exact balance of sun, air, living and decaying things settles us. Where can there be more peace than here where Meeko and I are held in the hammock of nature? No hurry, no achievements. Just being.
Contemplating Wisdom, Featuring Gus and Brutus, et al
The Western mind draws a sharp boundary between humans and the rest of the world….for the Western mind, it is hard to recognize mind in animals, whereas for the Japanese mind, it is hard not to do so.~~Semiotician Yoshimi Kawade, written in 1998
That quote gets me to thinking…
Brutus, the lab mix that I often dog sit, sends me love with a look. He and I look directly, usually silently, into each other’s eyes each time we want to tell each other something. It’s simple. Direct. Clear. A type of mind reading. I’ve learned from dogs and cats how much can be said by the eyes.
With Brutus and Gus, the tiger-striped cat, words are seldom necessary even though I use them out of habit. Brutus and Gus hear me make sounds. Brutus looks at me patiently until I make myself clear.; Gus walks off unless I add a treat to the sounds.
I think, this is one of the reasons that people need dogs and cats—we get sick and tired of talking.
Or we can’t stop talking around people and can only be quiet with our pets. Words are hard to come by. The right ones. Words can be so difficult to find. Those we speak are often the ones we repeat out of habit; they aren’t the words available, or even appropriate often, in the present moment, if we took the time to notice those.
People don’t listen for the most part. Dogs listen. They learn the meaning of words.directed to them. When I say “car” or “beach” or “cookies” to Brutus, he comes to a happy attention. Have we learned any language from other animals in the same way?
Our words come from minds filled with past and future, so how accurate are they? How wise? Meanwhile, my stock and trade is, ironically, words; I’m a writer and a teacher. However, I’ve been investigating the mind in the way of the as a Buddha and I am starting to see its limitations.
The book Intelligence in Nature, An Inquiry into Knowledge, by Jeremy Narby, an anthropologist, is filled with words for 243 pages. Since they are written instead of spoken, they have been carefully chosen and re-thought many times; writing can be a more clearway to use words than speaking. Narby writes about the intelligence he and other scientists, have discovered in creatures great and minuscule, like nematodes. “A slime mold,” he writes,” in a maze has the capacity to apprehend its situation and act on its knowledge.”
He makes the point that there are more forms of intelligence than we ever dreamed of. A Western mind has to overcome hundreds of years of the myth of human intellectual superiority.
Recently I read in Narby’s book that “Information of one kind or another is consistently circulating in nature, in particular in the form of biochemical molecules. The world is streaming with signs. Not so long ago, some people considered the use of signs a specifically human trait.”
All this is to say, that I am searching as I write: what is nature telling me? What is it I am missing? Can I become better at reading the signs life is posting? We’ll see…
http://paypal.me/walkswithyogicom. Any donations/love offerings to this writing project will be gratefully apppreciated.
After Listening to Tiokasin Ghosthorse
Name yourself the Lakota way
see how
streams reflecting sunlight
run in your veins,
stars shine
on your brow.
Go to the forest the Lakota way.
hear roots
whisper wordless
under the the soft-handed canopy
holding you as you
sleep.
Know this boulder the Lakota way
and you will understand
something solid
Is not
but glows and glitters
with light
like your bones
like boulders,
that by constant motion joined,
speak your name.
wonder
Wonder Pomegranate Each sweet seed counted Equally in its pod Magically mathematical Lotus blossoms arranged In a circular dance Rising from mud Open in time As if to music Tiger cat Stripes half inch by half inch Up the tail Gold and white Like wedding rings.
Motherhood
A tree birthed me.
I climbed into her arms
Protected fromHeat and harm.
Hidden by leafy tendrils
Birds and I sheltered
While she nourished earth
Swept the air clean.
With age
The skin on my limbs
Resembles tree bark
Years etched
Storms weathered.
I recall childhood
Her green canopy.
In autumnHer fiery, falling leaves
My joy.
Weedon Island #5, Neruda
You will ask why his poetrydoesn’t speak to us of dreams, of the leaves,of the great volcanoes of his native land?Come and see the blood in the streets,come and seethe blood in the streets,come and see the bloodin the streets! ~~~Pablo Neruda, “I Explain Some Things”
We have
Apple Fritters
apple slices, Jarlsberg cheese
Water, coffee.
So we taste the sweetness,
talk and laugh to keep from crying
Before we write.
The season is turning
dry now
but the ditches will be filled
by a flood of tears,
blood of those murdered in the streets.
Our President says our votes won’t count,
our voices will be silenced,
So he can win. He must win.
His dead father still punishes any loss.
He laughs
at the anguish
of a reporter shot with a rubber bullet in the knee.
Calls his pain a thing of beauty.
His followers laugh with him
Feel joy rise in their ranks
The certainty of violence,
o seductive, easy.
The simple answer
they long for.
He rallies them
To feel
the power of bullies.
“Dad, he made fun of me…”
Why the fuck you cryin’…
I’ll give you something to cry about.
Here, take this gun,
He’ll crap his pants..hahaha…
He’s a loser
Don’t be a loser
Show him who’s boss
Kick the shit out of him
Don’t be a pussy.
Suck it up.
Make your old man proud.
“Her? Fuck her, that bitch,”
she asked for it.
Long ago I heard Pablo Neruda
call out to his nation,
“When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.”—-Pablo Neruda
These words once seemed so distant from my home.
These words once seemed so distant from my home.
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