A meditation

When uncertainty and doubt threaten to destroy you,
don't hide yourself from the world

Mother Earth awaits

Immerse yourself in the ever flowing waters

Cleanse your spirit

Your own wholeness rests within you

Be still and know yourself.

...

On a boathouse bench

I have been looking for a word to describe the feeling of sitting on a bench in the shade of the boathouse in Burcham Park, the wide open sky, brilliant blue, clear reflections on muddy ripples on the surface of the river ever so slowly flowing by.

It was only yesterday, already the memory fading. I could then hear the distant sound of cars and trucks crossing the turnpike bridge up river. A freight train rumbled by unseen on the far side of the levee across the way. A young man and young woman walked passed me, holding hands.

As I sat on that bench, I played for a while with a loop of string I had picked up earlier from the sidewalk as I walked to the river. Cat’s Cradle.  Sometimes a pattern of diamonds. Sometimes a tangle of knots. And then on the unseen air, I looked up to see cottonwood fluff drifting by on the early summer breeze.

I had been spending just an idling time on a sunny afternoon. And then my mind gradually became more keenly aware of everything around me – the sights and sounds, the light touch of a soft breeze – and also of a growing quietness in my mind. And there I was.

And yet, after more time passing, a moment turning into minutes uncounted, I stood up and simply walked away.  I had entered and left - a place so pleasing – a time so agreeable - all of it as ordinary as the mid-afternoon sun - and yet becoming an inexplicable wonder in my mind. 

I had been content - at ease - as I sat there yesterday afternoon, but the words here seem insufficient. And I could easily return to that place in Burcham Park on another fine-weathered day and yet not find the feeling I now only am trying to remember with this quick word sketch. Or one day – it might be any day at all - I will wander somewhere else along the river, just looking just for a place to sit. And then, perhaps, that feeling I am unable to define, will come to me, drifting on by like cottonwood fluff on an early summer breeze.

Sitting on a drift log on Willow Beach

Willow trunks, cut by beavers, had toppled, pointing towards the river. The trunks had again sprouted fresh willow leaves, quivering in a light afternoon breeze. I heard the soft lapping of water against the sand, water lapping softly against the sand.

And then I thought I heard a voice. And after an immeasurable pause – once again, a voice. It might have been you, whispering in my mind. It might have been the freshening wind, fluttering restless willow leaves, pale green against the silent gray-white sky. I searched the far bank.

Then a father and young son walked by from upriver, crossing behind the place where I sat. The son chattered to his father, his walking stick too tall for him by half. I watched them playing for a while downriver by the water’s edge.

A crow cawed. Young cottonwoods grew skyward through the sand. Drifts of driftwood. Willow leaves turning. River water lapping.

I remembered all of this from another time. I had surely been here before. I heard a voice. It might have been you, whispering in my mind.

And high overhead, I saw the silhouette of a turkey vulture, soaring on the wind.

Random thoughts

Does facebook replace face to face? Did radio and TV replace front porches? Do big boxes replace mom and pops? Do apples equal oranges? What about picking cherries or crab apples? Are clever phrases better than nuance. Do my thoughts negate yours? This is not an argument. And it's not both or neither. Or a little bit of one and a little bit of another. I had the best apple crisp I have ever eaten at a friend's house, oh, maybe it was a couple of months ago. Maybe it was last year. She's a little older than I am. But man, is she funny. I wish I could tell you how. But I'm not that good with words. Not even if I were talking to you could I tell you how she is funny. To tell you truth, I don't understand it myself. Anyway, I don't think I've known her for more than a few years. We're in a book group together. I usually don't read the books. But nobody minds. Sometimes we don't even talk about the book. But that's not the point I was making. I was talking about apple crisp. And my friend. Who I don't really know very well. I don't think she's on facebook. But she would be a hoot on facebook. She says 'hoot' sometimes. She likes me. This was never about the apple crisp, but it is. I don't want to talk about Eleanor, I want to talk to her. To Eleanor. But with this damn virus thing I don't know when that's going to happen. And there's this other friend. Well, she's half my age. I met her at the coffee shop that I hang out at. She's a barista. But the coffee shop is closed for the duration. As they say. But nobody says 'duration.' Anyway, Bailie says 'fuck' more than she says 'hoot.' And she has two daughters. And her older daughter says 'fuck' more than I do. I try to keep up. But there was this time.I was showing her this math trick. Did I forget to mention that I was tutoring her in math. Maybe I should tell you her name so I don't have to use pronouns so much. It's Cassie. Short for Cassiopeia. Not really, I'm making this all up. Well not all of it. Just the names. Now why would I do that? That's rhetorical. Anyway, it got to be that Cassie and I just messed around more than we did math. But I was showing her this thing with a Mobius strip. You cut it in half... but that's not the point. Anyway, she kept on saying she knew what was going to happen and I said keep cutting. And then what happened, happened and she looked up at me and said, 'what the f...' She couldn't even get the whole 'fuck' out, she was so surprised. I will never forget the look on her face. And I can't tell you how many times she looked at me. Never the same, but always her. Cassie. And Cassie keeps changing. I couldn't count the changes if I wanted to. You should have seen the look on her face. And I don't even know her that well. Do you know you can see Cassiopeia in the night sky if you know where to look. And when. And this is just rambling pointless nonsense. Fucking words. I get so goddam tired of facebook. You shouldn't have got me started. I should have quit when I got to Seymour. Get it? That's a lame joke. Bailie would have laughed. Did I tell you I go to a coffee shop to drink iced tea? That's the truth and a lie at the same time. And don't take that as my point. I don't want to make a fucking point. I don't even want to make an ordinary point. I just want to see someone. And not just anyone, And I don't even know who I want to see more. And why am I telling you this? Am I telling you anything? Something? I guess I should finish this. I've got laundry to do. That's what my Mom would say at the end of her letters, Or something like that. It's been a long, long time. Her name was Evelyn.

Coronatime

I had been sitting at an outdoor table at my favorite coffee shop for what had seemed to be a very long time. Aimee’s is closed for the duration, of course, but I had to sit somewhere. I had brought a water bottle with we so I would have something with me to drink. It was water. In the past, I usually would have gotten the currant iced tea. Had it been last week? Last month? I was losing track of my days.

I just sat there in the shade of the building at my side on the sidewalk in the shade. I felt redundant. The wooden folding chair I was sitting on was a little bit uneven. I shifted it. It didn’t get any better. I tried to record some of the past week’s goings on in my journal. I stared as the blank page stayed blank.

If you can’t remember anything, does that mean nothing happened? Or maybe time has stopped? Or is it time that is passing you by? Am I waiting here for a bus that will never come? How long had I been sitting there, anyway?

How long had I been sitting there, anyway?  I had said that already.

Yesterday I thought it was Saturday. But it was only Wednesday. Or last week? Or next week?

We’re all living in coronatime now, people.

Limbo.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m even still actually alive. Actually still alive. What difference does it make? Are my eyes actually open, or is this all actually just a bad dream? Or both? And I keep hearing things.

Ground control to Major Tom. No. That was definitely last week. I think. Ground control to Major Tom. I wrote that in something I wrote last week. I think it must have been was another time when I was sitting here? I think it was last week. But I still keep hearing the refrain. “Do you hear me Major Tom? Do you hear me Major Tom? Do you hear me Major Tom ...” I’m pretty sure that was David Bowie. 1972. And I still hear the refrain going round and round in my head. And it's 2020.

I don’t know how to make sense of anything anymore.

I sat.

And as I sat there on a rickety chair not watching the world not go around, I thought I saw a young woman running by where I was sitting. She was wearing maroon spandex. One running shoe against the sidewalk. Then the other. A dark pony tail bobbing back and forth. And then she ran by again – only she was going the other way. Could that be right? Coming? Going? Is that how it’s supposed to work? Except that I was pretty sure that I saw her running in South Park on Wednesday. Or was it Saturday?

What difference does it make? Does it make any difference?  I am here. I think I am here. But I don’t know where I am. Or when.

It’s like getting hit by a bus. And then you stand up, a little dazed. But when you check yourself up and down nothing seems to be broken. And then you get hit by bus.

When will it stop? Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?

I sat. Empty pages blowing down the empty street. No buses. Only young women running by.  Back and forth. Up and down. Coming and going. And one guy. He was hardly sweating. He just went by and I never saw him again.

The stores around me were all closed. The coffee shop was closed. Everything was closed. Maybe it was New Year’s Day and we were all just really hungover. Hunkered down. Waiting for the dull throbbing ache in our heads to subside.

Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?

I had no idea how long I had been sitting there in front of my coffee shop? I looked down at my wrist watch to see if it might be time to go home for supper yet. But there was nothing on my wrist. Not for a hundred years. Nothing on my wrist. Nothing on my mind. Time had lost its meaning.

Limbo.

Nothing is real.

And then I thought I heard a marching band playing in South Park. I turned my head to look. The stoplight changed from red to green, but that was it. Nothing. I began to gather up my stuff. I couldn’t stay there at the Aimee’s. They were closed. And my water bottle was empty. I was sure I had heard something.

And then I heard it again. Voices. Drums. Cellos.

Nothing is real. And nothing to get hung about.

I held my phone up to my ear. It was the Beatles calling.

Strawberry Fields Forever  (Youtube Link) 

Listen to the song. If it makes you cry, you’re not dead yet. And if you don’t, maybe next time you will. Cry. All that we have now is Strawberry fields – forever.

Ground control to Major Tom

It’s the age of the coronavirus. It’s a time of uncertainty. And so I did what I often do, I walked to the river.

The sun had tried to come out earlier in the afternoon, but the day had turned gray again. Light jacket weather. For me the river is a reminder of constant change – and the endurance of things. Sometimes I just watch the water as it makes its way to the sea.

On my way to the Kaw River Bridge, I stopped at Aimee’s Coffeehouse for my usual glass of iced tea. Cary, the owner, had reopened only for delivery and pickup orders. I sat outside at a table on the patio. I scribbled a few notes as I savored my tea. Mostly I just watched the few scatterings of people wandering along the sidewalk.

A man about my age I recognized but didn’t know by name walked up and got a cup of coffee and a pastry at the front door. He sat down at a considerable social distance from me across the patio. As a courtesy, he asked if I minded if he had a cigarette. I didn’t. I joked that he was downwind anyway.

Then an older woman wheeled up behind her walker along with an older man in a cowboy hat. She said that they were living at Vermont Towers, a residence for seniors. They had walked to the bank. Now they were heading back. She ordered two coffees – one with cream and sugar and one black. We sat together on the patio, slightly closer to each other than the recommended social distance, but it seemed to be a small risk.

Joanne quickly introduced herself and soon we had all met each other - and in the lyrics of David Bowie we were  “sitting in a tin can/ far above the world/ Planet Earth is blue/ and there's nothing I can do.” It was just the four of us, old and getting older, simply chatting together as people will often do at a coffee shop. Phil told a joke - not that funny, but funny enough. And then he told another one. Joanne made point of saying that she and John weren’t a couple. They were just friends. She laughed and said that she had always hoped to find a man with blond hair and blue eyes.

I asked her if Robert Redford might be her type.

Oh yes, she had replied. In fact she said that she had nearly met him once when she was younger. Nearly. A friend had told her that Robert Redford was going to attend an Eagle Scout ceremony at the Mormon Church. Joanne wasn’t a Mormon, but she sure went to church on that day. She was sitting near the back when she saw him come in through a side door near the front. She laughed as she recounted how she had spent the entire service looking at the back of Robert Redford’s head.

I sat there, leaning up against the iron patio railing and imagined that in her day, Joanne might have been quite pretty, with soft blond hair and blue eyes. Now her hair was tightly curled and gray. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed. My guess was that she laughed as easily then as she did with us.

The times have always been uncertain. A little more this week, perhaps, than last. John told us that in the time he had lived in Vermont Towers - not really that long - three residents had died. Phil pointed out that none of us will get out of here alive. A kind of punch line. I had to laugh a little.

I looked across the street at the Granada, a concert venue closed for the duration. The marquee  read: Stay strong, Lawrence. Be kind. Be well.

And then I had finished my iced tea and said my goodbyes. As I walked down the street Joanne called out to me: take care of yourself.

When I got to the bridge, I saw that the river was a little lower than the day before, although still high for this time of year. I could hear the honking of geese echoing off the Bowersock Hydropower Plant. As I headed back home, I looked over the railing to see a pair of Canada geese feeding near the south bank of the river – making plans for the future.

So the world is changing. Some things will stay the same. And some of us won’t make it to the other side. But here’s the question I have to ask: will we be able to laugh with each other when we get there?

Poem: a spider ...

......................................................................................................................................................................................... 

a spider

dangles from

a silken thread

the ice moon

drowns

in my garden pond

don’t wait up

Still life at Wheatfields

I met a friend for breakfast.
I hadn't seen her in a long time.

She ordered coffee and a couple of eggs.

I had the cinnamon roll and ice water.

We sat and talked about this and that.

And then she got up 
   and put on her sweater and hat.

She went one way.

I went the other.

Crossing over

I have tried for some time to write poetry. I have looked carefully at the world around me and have considered my words. I have tried to reach some unknown reader.

Then the other day, I was walking back from the river. The air was cool. The sky was a late afternoon blue. There was a thin scattering of clouds like fish scales and I thought ...

... and then I stopped thinking that thought.

All this time think that I had failed to understand. Being a poet has almost nothing to do with the unknown reader. To be a poet, I should write words, nothing more and nothing less. My subject might be banal, my metaphors lacking, my words ill-crafted – my poems might not make any sense to anyone else in the whole world whatsoever – and be clunky.

Or maybe, just maybe, my poems might be good. Who’s to say? To be a poet, I think that I should just forget about all that.

And so I finally crossed over.

Here’s one of my poems. I didn’t write it for you, but you can read it or not.

I was walking back from the river.

The air was cool.

The sky was a late afternoon blue.

I saw clouds like fish scales –

and then I knew I would never find the words

to say what I wanted to say.

I miss you.