100*

The Dark

I wind my way downwards,
Going deeper into winter.
This storm season whipping up the sediment,
Turning me into myself.

Through the cracks in the windshield
I squeeze perceptive glances.
Wayward, spinning as I have been,
Viewing the world and it's players
through a veil of topsoil,
Buried.
As if there was no other way out of this theatre
But through the lobby
(At intermission no less).
So crowded.

I step into the still dark pool,
It's surface silk-smooth.
This is where 'I' drown,
Free at last.

As always, asking too much of the world,
Searching for magic and retribution
Out there
Where there is none.
Instead I learn
To find stillness in the greenest blade of grass,
Unspoken for in this quietest of seasons,
Left to grow wild into the dim afternoon light.

It is the minutia that kills us,
Imperceptibly.
The ever chattering mind
Throwing knives at itself like there's no tomorrow,
So relentlessly that it can be hard to see
All those sharp edges
Whipping by.
So many
Hitting their mark.

Slow it down.
Pause the tape at each moment,
Notice what has been happening all this time.
Observe the ten thousand things that arise
From the single drop,
Rippling out, wantonly percussive,
Out of control.

Take them in on the breath,
Breathing out kindness, patience
Despite the slow pace of things.
Teaching the mind to interrupt
It's rumination.
Learning to see again,
Eyes closed.


*This marks my 100th blog post. 4.5 years of the Art of Staying Put.