Sometimes I feel too tired to be spiritual.  Eyes droopy, body creaking, brain dull.  This is the human part of my morning.  Stuck in mud like molasses, resistant to the Light or lightening up.  A blob that types mindlessly.  Wondering about the purpose of it all, feeling useless and small.

Doesn’t matter really.  I insist that I am as true and clear and brilliant as a patch of grass.  Or a tiny cedar with flat hand branches showing off jewels of tiny cones.  I am as firm as the moss that covers south and north of trees in these forests.

All of this in my mind’s eye as I sit in a cluttered mess of a desk.  Yet every single paper, pen, toy, cards, clips, keys, poster, old printer, stapler and tiny pencil-topping Buddhas have evolved with as much use and integrity from this green-blue earth.

I stand for every piece of paper I clip together today, honoring it as the tiniest part of the smallest bit of the most eternal me.

From
Greenlake to Sandpoint

My feet trace

            the hill

                        once

                                    washed by

                        waves.

            Up and down,

Pulling in,

                                                pushing
out.

Salt water

                        rippling

                                                rushing

            rubbing the rocks to

Sand.

                                                My
own sour tears

                                                Polish
me smooth.

                                                No
edges to grip.

                                                The
finest sandpaper:

                        Pain

ktk, 1990

My dad was going to be one of the first married deacons in the Catholic church years ago, but my mom thwarted that by dying before it happened.  They always played games on each other.

I’ll tell you the story tomorrow.  He was closer to the Divine than I ever realized.

Like the Ark, so many different animals of us–and not necessarily in pairs–we crowd this ship together.  Bonded by pain and hope, we meet to trade notes on our progress.  We laugh at the idea of perfection, tell jokes about being sober control freaks and being managers with unmanageable lives.

We may profess to be powerless, but we are aligned with an ultimate strength: each other.  I lean on you and you lean back into me and like an archway, we stand and stand and stand.  Beyond and through death, on the other side of disease and loss, and together doing the happy dance about another day watching the grass turn green.

Sometimes I feel we are a ship of fools, but then again, we did all choose to be here.  Whether it was going for the golden ring or the crazy idea of the rock-o-planes of life, I am deeply thoroughly completely tearfully–in every cell of my body–thankful that you are on this ship with me.

What if death was just a gal at the keyboard with cold fingers?  She knows she has a job to do, and geez, her fingers are cold tapping the keys programming the end of life for those on the slate.  Perhaps everyone already has a timetable they arranged before they got here, and she’s just doing her job making sure the docket gets attention and duties are fulfilled.

Yeah, what if death is just a paralegal trying to the get attorney to the next action.  “Time for another life, we have a deadline here, can you sign the contract please?!”

Actually, I think it is more that we just get a bit tired of these bodies, or acted out the drama we chose, or set up the dominos just so–ready to topple in an neverending one after one after the other, mother-daughter-mother-daughter-sister-brother-father-son down the line.

Like we all hold hands across the sweet blue-green world, across the galaxy and sing.

Today I let the Tao speak for me.

The Master
does her job

And then
stops.

She
understands that the universe

is forever out
of control,

and that
trying to dominate events

goes against
the current of the Tao.

Because she
believes in herself,

she doesn’t
try to convince others.

Because she is
content with herself,

she doesn’t
need others’ approval.

Because she
accepts herself,

the whole
world accepts her.

Tao Te Ching

My department was labeled “useless” the other day.  Yes, I certainly took offense, but managed to keep my warrior down to a snotty message to my boss about how I’d like to “clarify” my “use” to this other snotty person.  I did not maim anyone.  I am so spiritual.

“To be of use” is a title for a Marge Piercy book.  Can’t remember much about it, but it reminds me also of “Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut in which the whole earth was evolved to finally produce a small essential mechanical part for a stalled spaceship on the backside of the moon.  The Great Wall of China was a message “help coming soon!”  And the whole earth was being used.

Since I really can’t be sure of the meaning of life, I have to allow this to be true.  I eat plants and animals, why wouldn’t some greater being be cultivating me for dinner?  Would it be so bad to end up as a great piece of steak and home fries for a satisfied customer?  Can I love my life with the tweetering spring birds, eager perfect flowers and blueberries from South America if I really knew I was a small gear in a gigantic sportscar?

Again this proves that in this moment, gentle clicking keys, off-hand conversation with my loved one, wet sleeve from making chili in the crock pot, soft meowing of the cats, that I claim my existence as exquisite.  Right here, right now that makes any and all “results” moot.

Hurray for me today, hurray for whatever thought all this up, hurray for being a part of this sweet earth.

There are so many stories out there, in here.  Stories about religion, god, purpose of life, reason for living, why we cry, what is love, etc.  You’ve got to appreciate Battlestar Gallactica with their intricate and twisted philosophies getting the heart and mind searching and researching.

I find that nature is so much more reliable.  Seasons upon seasons declare an elegant recycling of soul.  The birds that tease dawn up over the dark hills dance with their song to a bright new day.  Spring flowers bursted blooms droop in freezing frost, and drink it up by midday.  Death is just a pause and a laugh.  The soil sprouts and bursts with life.  Plants eat sunlight, animals eat the green, humans eat animals.  And we all rest easy in the soft soil of Gaia at the end of the day.

This soothes my heart, and opens my silly busy mind to that brilliant stillness of grace.

Sit.
Still.
Sit.

Breathe.
Deep.
Breath.

Slow.
Walk.
Spring.

Root.
Stand.
Open.

Cellular ease.
Soul over body.
Spirit soothes mind.

Sit.
Still.
Sit.