there is clean air and green
the sound of birds here and
a fly buzzing by a couple of
cars in the
distance a tractor roaring
the sun dancing in blobby
patches on my upper body
light breeze whispering
through leaves in the trees
the shadow of leaves
on my yellow T minuscule
on my arms bugs a-whirl
under the leafage
a dog’s barking insects in
a plane droning overhead
in the sky—
the texture feels balming
like silk shirt rippling on
the fine dough of my body
in the early summer oven
I am the son of the sun.
when you sit down to meditate: ask yourself directly what you are expecting from doing it. where do you expect to arrive at. what psychological state are you in fact chasing. what are you actually after?
for me: it is basically a sense of feeling OK. a sense of being right there where I belong. a sense of being grounded in the given moment and place. among the people who matter to me and the people to whom I matter. where I feel satisfied with where and what and how I am. where everything’s in its place. where I feel integral to a whole.
or basically a sense of having a clear conscience. a sense of being responsible for myself and for my life. that I am not a burden on anyone. that I am not an imposition. on the contrary: that my presence adds something of value to the people and the world around me. that I am conducive to the well-being of the world around me. that my contribution matters. that my talents are relevant.
I expect to be relieved of the pressure of feeling guilty for who I am. I expect to be guilt- and shame-free. I expect to feel that my existence is of use and of value and that I am a PLUS rather than a MINUS (i.e. a useless hunk of mushy flesh—a waste of precious resources).
that’s basically what I expect to feel.
and then: I allow myself the feeling.
nowadays the attitude of enjoying quietude is a rather neglected aptitude.
each moment you can choose between opening up—or contracting around a trickle and shallow treat of yet another distraction.
the more you choose the latter: the less you’ll feel alive and well.
the heavy flapping of pigeon wings wrinkles up the smooth fabric of quietude.
the whimper of a lawn mower
a mile away
a car’s door slamming shut
the engine revving up
a neighbor sweeping their
a couple houses down the
a black ant reconnoitering
on my left knee
green apple snug on
the wet sand in front of me
a cockchafer riding the air
the train at the edge of the
town passing by
in the direction of the capital
when a sliver of a childhood feeling pierces me. the richness of it overwhelms me. to such an extent that it feels too much to take. without breaking down into sobbing. how simple it was. and how free of the mind. of the demands of the ego.
it was so pure and so simple.
the clouds morph into sky. the apple rots on the ground. there is coming and going. and a restless madness in between.
what a cruel joke is this. we learn how to properly live only in retrospect. we realize what matters only after it’s gone. we find true joy in the finality of our sadness.
being honest with yourself is difficult: precisely to the extent that you refrain from being bored—sitting in silence meditating on stuff by putting questions to yourself and inquiring—on a regular basis.
because the less you work out your honesty-muscle the more atrophied it gets.
the sun’s sons we are.
there’s church bell tolling and a
in a sty nearby (must be big from
the sound of it)
and the sound of the pen on the
paper I am holding
mosquito fixing to start drilling
near my ankle on my left leg
there is constant stirring.
stillness indeed is a shifty business.