Inside Out

In every person’s eyes,

where all geography is dismantled,

what rests is never a matter of simple silence.

Inescapable tragedies and betrayals, 

and desires for revenge

are never worth that kind of effort.

Our vision is softened

by the migration of gentle shadows,

lovers’ whispers, babies’ laughter,

and friendships that lift us effortlessly.

Things seen and unseen,

rainfall and lightning,

births and deaths,

the transit of Orion,

the passage of time,

and doors opening to the sacred

all have their own pulse,

their own resonance and coherence,

and their own music that sings

of starry-starry brilliance.

From: Memories of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 23

On Knowing Nothing

I know that I know nothing.   

                        ~Socrates

It’s easy to walk into this,

a swirling mist,

and remember the stories

of no words, from the beginning,

the ones no one could tell us.

It’s the realm of the Great Unknowing,

of wordlessness and silence,

where mythic truths come to us

to reside in our hearts,

notoriously and sensuously,

intangibly and mystically.

We are nearly perfect here,

remembering a world

that was the impulse of wonder

and imagination, 

living from our hearts,

breathing the wilderness

where nothing is explained 

but somehow known,

where fragrances are seen,

flavors are heard,

but our tears will remain salty.

from: After All the Years of Gravity

Unpub. MS p. 4

Are We There Yet

Don’t give me a rational path to God.

Where would that take us? 

Inside boundaries and fences.

That’s not a good fit.

Desire and Imagination—think that.

Universal and Infinite—think that.

The soul’s joy would be found 

in the what and where of nature’s kingdoms.

Lose your preconceptions

of the sacred, the holy, the frightened, 

the unredeemed, the vulnerable, and the sinful.

Think the how of the sweetness of grief;

the where of the freedom of limits;

the why of the warmth of being naked;

the what of the art of eloquent silence.

There exists a barn of words

full of its own blue emptiness.

Does anything really need to be heard

from there?

Cultivate silence.

Besides, what is the answer to the question, 

Where is There?

What of simplicity?

Sunrises and sunsets,

water flowing down your throat

on a dusty day,

the passions of loving,

and ocean up to your knees at the beach.

Compare that to the tragedies

of drowning in whatnots;

of your feet stuck in the mud 

and your head lost in the clouds.

Where is There?

There is wherever your heart will take you.

From: A Preface To The Universe

Unpub. MS p. 24

The Silence Of Wild Places

Mill Creek Campground, 

Northern California

After two days of driving,

feeling odd and out of sorts,

finally camping, I craved

to know the silence of wild places.

That afternoon I put my ear to the forest floor,

listening for the rumble of Creation

only to come face to face 

with a bright yellow five-inch banana slug,

shouting to all the world,

Here I am.

Its eye stalks moved right and left,

up and down, independent of one another.

Its lower tentacles sniffed for food,

scraped into its mouth by its toothy tongue.

Down here it seemed so much larger

(along with everything else),

a little creepy but not so menacing.

It wasn’t intimidated by whatever

light and shadow I resembled.

It moved silently and fearlessly

over the forest debris.

That night, while gazing

at the mass of the Milky Way,

I thought the one thing I would like

to see before I died would be a supernova.

Yet I was astonished that the most elegant

thing I saw that day was the banana slug

and the reservoir of silence 

that was the forest floor.

From: Memories And The Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 16

The Not So Exhaustive Advice Of A Subversive Teacher (Retired)

Learn how to use solitude for growth and insight.

Look at landscapes and cemeteries;

notice the texture of things.

Get out of the desert in the fall.  Go someplace

that has fall colors.  Paste them onto your faces,

necks, and chests.  Walk proudly.

Laugh immeasurably.

Learn how silence opens the soul.

If you crave magic, paint with the brush of wind.

Walk along a river.  If it’s dry, walk in it.

Wish others well, even if they cut you off in traffic.

Do things that can’t be digitized.

Say things that have no questions.

Ask questions that have no answers.

Stand your ground when it’s right; 

compromise to move on.

Don’t live in fear. That’s living life half.

Kiss. Don’t forget to kiss. Add fire often.

Love passionately and fearlessly.

Stand naked in the rain.

Rejoice in the variety of life.

Seek spirituality.

As much as possible, remain loyal 

to your friends and family.

Proper grammar will not ruin you.

Do something creative often.

Make no more tracks than necessary.

Remember, there’s always a “work around.”

Praise the sounds of nature like music.

Never forget those sounds.

Read books.

Learn to cook.

No matter how old you are, 

you are always young and good looking.

Remember how the kindnesses of men and women

move through the universe.

Clean off the day with a prayer of gratitude.

Practice forgiveness and redemption.

Say, Amen! 

Often.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 17

Passages

It isn’t like marching nor ticking like a metronome.

Humans, animals, and the world have their mixed rhythms.

The passage of time, our perception of its passing,

seemingly slow in our youth, faster the older we get.

Even the silences of the Huachuca Mountains, 

the immense expanse of the Willcox Playa, 

the ebb and flow of tides,

and the seductive grasslands

have their own mingled cadences.

We play music to feel a steady rhythm, 

to step out of the push of time

that keeps us off balance and out of sorts.

And in our meandering, we take time

to think of the passage of lives,

of children to grandchildren,

of loved ones, the aging of brothers,

sisters, friends, and lovers.

The past slips away like fading light; 

the future arrives unnoticed in the here and now.

We let go our regrets; we hold on to our joy.

We sing, we dance, and the music plays on.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpublished MS p. 48

Silence

To some of us the world is blue with silence,

because silence is bright yellow, bright green,

and silence is wide and narrow,

full of prayers, full of good and evil.

And following along are the thunderous silences,

like empty sports stadiums, closed race tracks,

and shattering cruelties that surround us in red.

There are curiosities of silence, of the strong, silent type,

the quiet ones, those children who have been too quiet

for too long; the silence of the sulking, depressed, lonely,

contemplative, guilty, puzzler, wanderer, and lover.

There is the silence of love’s hidden work,

the burning silence of sunrise and sunset,

and when the music begins, silence deepens it.

For the troubled: outward silence; inward screams.

Make room for silence; live in the mercy of silence.

When you are in the noise of nature and you hear 

your footsteps and breathing, bow in that holy place.

Let silence be an art we practice.