Yet A Slave

Some kind of mental dust collects and settles over whatever clarity I've tried to maintain. Another dark dawn leads to an unalloyed gray. As a prayer for more light, I clean the living room windows with slow and measured intention. One can't keep waiting for the sun; the memory of its pleasure only brings pain. Teacher tells me to want what I have and care not for what I don't. It seems I am yet a slave to more than one master.


what flows between

banks of pleasure and pain -

love's clear expression of



Lately twenty sentences seem too many, especially when stumbling clear of confusion. Who doesn't read reveals an abeyance I am unable to reconcile. The compass spins. My heart protests. What remains unformed swirls around my spiraled heart cage like the melted wax of holy candles. I watch the flame drown in the pool of its own making and despite the effort to keep quietly alert to the real nature of Self, it is very hard to breath these days. Peace is a promise that must be kept.

At the window again, I watch the softer cardinal share the rhododendron with gray juncos. The jay bullies his presence onto the scene, scattering the trance and reminding me of the day's calling. Birds seem to reveal a presence of the undivided heart, singing songs void of restless meanderings and renouncing all that disturbs what is. I need them longer than I expected. Perhaps I am not ready for home.



letting go

yet frozen fog clings to branches

early declarations