maybe it’s not so easy living that meditation wherein we see ourselves in all we see.  clouds and trees and a lady opening her refrigerator door in the dark of evening time.  and gravity.  and home.  the pages of a book.
 
 
      what is, is. what isn’t, isn’t.
 
 
maybe I should say how writing began for me?
should I say prayer?  or say meditation, if that’s a more comfortable word.

      I asked what should I do next in life?

no break in the clouds, no ray of light, no god speaking from afar.  yet a day later one word came in reply to me.

      write

no italics.  no quotation marks.  no period ending dot.

just that one doing-ness to do.  nothing else.  nothing else.
not what to write.  poems were my choice.  not write well.  not write and publish.  nothing else.

not write and heal the world.  nor even heal me.  maybe one cat or a few,
but that’s not a poems realm, just my own.
not write and be well read.  certainly no fame.
not write and fix my car.
not write and do my laundry.
not write and change what language says.
not write and not grow old.
not write and fix my broken blood.
not write and live another day.  maybe today will do.
not write and be loved.  but maybe, maybe, writing -is- loving.
not write and be satisfied.
not write and be happy.

I think I know what was meant by that first word.

I’ve always likened it to father asking me to go mow the lawn please son.
and with gratitude, I did.  I do.

because I was asked.  because it is my honor to respond.  a very good word
is simply – yes.

now my living depends upon the medicine I daily take.  there is another layer in how I look, how I see the world.  invisible until you arrive.

maybe my words will break.  but not yet.  not yet.  and I think I’ll keep mowing the lawn.
 
 
maybe we are meant to live with our insides out?