yoga

"the cessation of whirling and twirling of thought, to reveal who we really are"

Lens Cap

I carry a camera
to get a new perspective on life,
although mostly I leave the lens capped,
just looking.

Tomorrow I'll take out the camera,
and take advantage
of my new vantage.

two full glasses of sea

It had been quite a trip, technically speaking.
It was a phenomenal journey, emotionally speaking.
An exhausting effort, mentally speaking.
And rather taxing, physically speaking.

But we arrived, at night, to an empty house
with a note that said "fire, beach, come."
We found two wine glasses and managed
to fit a whole bottle in them.

We sloshed it down to shore, by foot,
by rope,
by stairs
and steps, and then
Oh my god--

It was endless, and open,
and pulsating and dark:
the ocean, the sea at night.

It didn't beckon; it commanded
awe, respect, humility.
It pulled and pushed and flirted with the moon,
and invited us in.

But we had a goal: fire, beach, come.
And in the distance, a signal, a leaping, red port of call.
So we walked, not straight, but in zigs and zags,
drawn to the water, drawn to the fire, back and forth,
laughing and sipping away.

That must be what religious revelation feels like:
You have commanded, I am yours, what relief.

sun-dried

That's how I like my Augusts. Not burning or melting, not sweltering, oozing, just sun-dried. A little something sweet and wrinkly to keep things fresh.

Quiet Cakes

They're not silent, mind you,
but quiet for monstrous cakes.
Folded to my left (the preferred side
for folding), I let my drowsy book
droop, and focus beyond my
open window.

Different shades of darkness,
in stripes from earth to sky. I hear the barge
Bellow, low down in the night. One long, two
short, around the bend it's coming...
And like a painting escaped from canvas
it glides across my window.

Stack upon stack of white light candles,
twinkling in the black, waiting for a
happy chorus to sing. It's a veritable gateaux,
pastel, torta, slinking through my portrait.

Around the bend,
one more trumpet,
a last wink,
and good night.

Cracked open

Very slowly, I wrapped my uncle's van
around a tree.
With only a slight creak, the door
caved in, and I frantically
wiped the scratches with my tears.

Upon my confession, he chuckled, and looked away.
Well, not away, but at his sick wife.
And waved me off with a smile; Don't worry.

Wife's got more than scratches and the van
has no expected date of expiration. It runs fine;
her, not so well.

And my perspective shifted to match
his own.
___________________________
I saw her dying, a wrinkly left-over
peel of a person. In a tip-toe we watched
her slip away from us, suspended between
Just go, and Please stay.
__________________________
I heard in the hospital he told her it was
okay, that she could stop fighting. Through tears,
reluctant permission.
___________________________
Sitting in a quiet late-afternoon kitchen
with my hands busy, I saw him break open.
He cracked and fell onto my father, a wet basket
of desperation, and splintered into pieces in front of me.
My father said, That's what happens when you love
someone so much.

I went to water my face somewhere else,
and thought What a terrible risk.

Lesson 2.

Wherever you are right now, physically, emotionally, psychologically, is exactly where you are supposed to be.

10th Street, NW, Washington DC

soldados patos

(Eastern Market, Washington DC)

Lesson 1.

Tolerance of uncertainty.

Sometimes, I just know.
Like bungee jumping; a little hesitation, but once I'm
suited up, I'm cucumber-cool, and the jump is clear and easy.

Or tattooing; I worryworryworry up to that
phone call, appointment made. And then I'm
cucumber-cool, free and easy.

So maybe all big decisions are just a matter of the
first step, the grit-your teeth, the get-it-over-with.
And then all big decisions become the right ones, because you
made it, you took it.
And it's yours.

Home (?)

A nice petit villa
on the Mediterranean sea.

Simple food, lots of sun,
saltwater, sleek, cool floors.

Loud people, loud music,
a steady job (something light),

carefree.

Green Pants

They asked me if I wanted anything of hers,
and I replied: her green pants.
I saw her in them, before she withered and twisted away.
She was in my father's kitchen, and she was
glowing. Ready to battle, smooth as always,
a niece's dream.

But her hill went up, and she went down.
All the way, until it was over. And I lost
the first person I was ever in love with.
I mean really smitten with, enamored by,
a late-night brownie-baking grace.
And I lost the other people who were in
love with her, they withered too, but remained.

But anyway, they asked me if I wanted anything of hers.
And I said Yes, please. Those green pants. Because
I thought they might make me glow, like she did.

For some reason, no one could find them. So I'm here
looking for other ways to find her glow.

Another Perspective.

When life is not perfect but good.
No.
When life is good enough to be perfect.
No.
When good is perfect enough to be life.
No again.
When life is just fine, and for me, it's perfect.
Almost.
When my life, just as it is, is perfect.

(The hard part is making that stick).

H.K.G.

I come from the HKG school of coping.
I am only recently enrolled, but let me tell you all,
it has been a revelatory experience.

The methodology is--and pay attention here,
because it was brand new to me and if you don't squint
you may have to review later--the methodology is:

When you feel like crap, be nice to yourself.

There it is! That's it! It's a phenomenal course of study,
and may not be intuitive, which is why it takes practice.
Some options are:

ice cream, toenail polish, macaroni and cheese (preferably Velveeta),
naps, a trip to the library, caramel macchiatos, wine,
great chocolate (the milk variety is really perfect for this),
new underwear, pajamas, hamburgers, movies.

I will forever be a student of HKG. Let me give deep, deep thanks:

Thanks.

Boots made for Swimming

My dad was saying
(while I was crying, and he was drinking):

I was out of the boat, in the water, and my boots were heavy.
And I was sinking down
and sinking down
and sinking down
and thinking, all the way down,
maybe this is the right answer.

Maybe things will be better
inside this rocky river
with the lures and hooks and the fishes.
Maybe my tackle box will follow me down
and I won't have to go back up. Ever.

And it was dark, he said (or maybe I just thought he did; you know
how memory can be). And that was almost the end, he said,
sinking down and thinking down in heavy fisherman's boots.
And then I thought of you.

And I swam up, with all the force I had,
I swam up.

Photographic Memory

The thing about photographs is:
Sometimes when you look, you remember things
that were never really in your memory at all.

I guess that's the thing about memory, really.
It's infinitely creative.

Like that one photograph bursting with balloons,
taken at a party in my father's office. In the midst of the rubbery celebration
my small face peeks out, and a striped arm, and a pink moccassin.

I saw that photo and now I can remember the moment,
being short, and thrilled, in a sea of balloons. I had never
remembered it before.

I guess that's the thing about memory, really.
It's infinitely creative.

It's a comforting thought; when I don't have the time,
or the money, or the patience, to do marvelous things,
I can always just remember

that I did.

Loose change

Pennies



Pennies don't fall from heaven.
Or whatever it is that people say.
They're right there on my mother's bedroom floor,

With nickels and quarters and dimes
that jingle-jangle-rattled when they fell from her pockets
and hit the wood.

Another sign that mom is home:
jingle-jangle-rattling of pennies as she removes the (uniform) blues of work
and gets comfortable.

I see them from low down
in my memory, from the floor, although my memory forgot
why I was there.

And the perfect complement to pizzicato coins:
my mother's steady breathing from her faux slumber, one eye open,
in bed.

Almost forgot the christening

With a favorite poem:

Ramón Budiño

i.
Pausa

De vez en cuando hay que hacer
una pausa

contemplarse a sí mismo
sin la fruición cotidiana

examinar el pasado
rubro por rubro
etapa por etapa
baldosa por baldosa

y no llorarse las mentiras
sino cantarse las verdades.

[Mario Benedetti]

Grass is Greener Syndrome

I'm working on it; it's a long, long road to recovery. In the meantime: summer is delicious as juicy, ripe tomatoes and sea salt; pesto (home-made) makes prosciutto even better; I'd like to go to Europe.

Eastern Market, circa 2005!