The Flight of The Words

The thunder crackles.
Lightning sears the horizon.
Startling, but utterly timeless.
A little gasp, heart flutters.
I never cease to be surprised.
You'd think I'd realize that
It was sneaking up on me again.

The soft touch of a beloved hand.
The quiet whisper of a breeze at dawn.
Crickets knitting a slumbering quilt.
A brook laughs past me,
Against the haunting, dusky,
Call of a turtle dove.
Waking to rain and snuggling back.

It is all a bit of a vicious circle,
Or, perhaps, more a mandala.
Somehow an awareness
Of the perfection of the universe
Flashes across the millions
And millions and billions
Of synapses in your brain.

And you want to capture it -
That celebration racing inside.
Along side a quiet trembling,
Colors and tastes, sounds,
Emotions, cascade in the
Exhilarating symphony of life.
And yet, all the right words have fled.
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A Williamsburg Ramble

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Having again fled the discord of the 21st century, we are, for awhile, ensconced in Colonial Williamsburg, a town forever caught in the 1770s. This is a place that still articulates the America that was dreamt of a few hundred years ago.  I usually find it invigorating. But against the backdrop of the venalities of contemporary politics up the road in Washington and the global insanity that drives the constant braying of the unending news cycle, today I wonder if any compassionate social movement can ever succeed. It seems that we can only unite around huge generalities; freedom, peace, equality, things like that. Does the fact that even those universally condoned endstates seem always beyond our reach, prove the social impotence of the species?

Lately I have considered that perhaps a successful "social movement” shares the qualities of a secret: it can only truly be realized by one person.  Hence, I muse, if you would mold the world, concentrate on yourself. Strive to be your own best self.  Notice I say your best self - not some idealized self advocated by a politician, prophet, or philosopher. We are flighty souls, prone to missteps, especially when we seek to follow another's path. If we keep our eyes on the heights, our heads in the clouds, our focus on sunrise and sunset, it is inevitable that we will occasionally lose track of our feet, that we will stumble.  So be it.  To do so is to be human. So, get up. Smile. Better yet, laugh. Think again of your best, most harmonic, self, and walk on, perhaps even skipping a bit, if you remember how.

Still, I would advise against turning your personal skipping into a wider movement. There will be those who, while supporting the concept of skipping as a good thing, will question whether it is wise to start on the left foot, or perhaps the right foot. And arms, my god, what should one do with the arms!?  So while they stand behind skipping 110%, they, sadly, cannot fully support skipping as you have chosen to define it.

See what I mean? A movement of two will make you crazy. So - be your best self. The only chord you can tune is your own.  Skip on!  That is the objective.  If your skipping inspires another - well, consider it collateral Harmony.

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Mapping Meditation

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Music makes maps for meditation.

So every night I slip into my headphones

And glide off across the meandering paths

Of space and time.

It is not like piloting a speedboat,

Though no eddy of the universe

Is beyond reach. Still,

Even a currach lends greater control.

On these nightly voyages,

You close your eyes, open your heart,

And shove off, letting the music lead.

Such musically augmented meditation 

Means surfing on someone else's Harmony.

They created it, you are just borrowing

Some of the better bits.

Through the lens of note and lyric

You glimpse again the stuff of memory.

Precious places and people take your hand,

And then are gone again.

Your deepest hopes, and hidden fears

Are revealed in a stranger's words.

And then you are saved by a symphony

Or some new age noodling, 

Music's answer to doodling,

Sound that is somehow quieter

Than silence.

You slip down an arpeggio,

Sheltered by a minor chord,

Momentarily confused by a

Rush of rain, inserted no doubt

By some Moog accolite.

And then quietly, without you 

Really being aware of it,

You are someplace quite calm,

Quite peaceful, and the music

That you brought along, gives way

To the Harmony within.

And there you are,

Finally flirting with transcendence.

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