The Skin of Winter is an Old Woman dying in the arms of her lover, Younger Autumn. It is a time of hunger, grief, the slow clanging of church bells, the disappearance of the Living, the Eternal Silence of Glaciers.

It is also the time of Renewal, Hope, Planting and Sewing – the Interior Garments of Dreams. Dreams of Color, Light, Fragrance; the Full Moon.

The Promise of Spring.

Autumn is a time of change.

We feel it in our bones. It’s understood that seasons are moving on, but it is not acknowledged that we are moving on.

This is a short life-time; then we’re gone.

Some acknowledge that we’re only visitors. Others pretend to be permanent residents.

Street of Dreams, Feet of Clay; where oh where will you lead me today?

I have Now
My Time is Empty
Slaves gaze at Painted Horizons
Free men open the Eye Within
and One Nectar is Gathered.

Ask any Bee.
The Line Between Here and Honey
Is the Unwavering Prayer-Flag
of your own heart

The Notebook of Life is open
the Pen rests quietly on an Empty Page

this Pen has written on Many Pages
this Pen will write on pages to come.

This Pen now rests on an Empty Page
an Empty Page in mid-October Sun.

In Resting & Renewal, there is an Understanding
of Silence; a Gentle Marriage to the Still Places
of Life.

Inside these Still Places, there is a conversation
with our own Deeper Wisdom, our own Inner Friend;
A Drink from the Fountain that flows at River’s Source.

The Notebook is Open
The Pen rests quietly on the Empty Page
There is Nothing to Begin,
Because Everything has already Begun

There is Nothing to End

Because Everything is Over,
everything we ever Started …

The only thing Not Ending, and Not Begining,
is the Wonder Beyond Words
Which there are no words for, no pens for, no paper for;
no Formalities, Rituals or Celebrations
that Do Justice
to the Unsung Song.

The Pen rests in Silence
It’s tip in Wet Eternal Kiss
on Empty Paper.

All songs have been sung,
and no words have sprung
From this Overflowing
Vessel
of Song.

This is the end of September.

Another year, another decade, another bottle of the smells of summer, dreams of winter and the ‘sandwich’ of autumn in-between.

Sometimes, it’s just a walk in the Wilderness of the Moment, a Lost Morning – a 2-hour holiday in a Nameless Neighborhood, where all is predictable and nothing stays the same.

I have a camera and an eye, and a thirst for the Light Of The Moment.  The Longing of Now.  The expression of the Amazement of the  Beauty of Life, the one that escapes us because we’re moving too fast, going nowhere, around in circles, occupied by the mundane items on our day’s shopping spree.

So, even in this Same Old Neighborhood, named after a Queen long-dead, the light dances and plays and changes over the simple life-span of a Coffee.  The flowers that were lit are now deposed.  And circumstance has painted a nondescript veranda with the signature of Picasso.

So it goes.

And, of course, the Flowers speak their own language – this we know. They show us things we would rather not see, but we are suckers for Beauty and we grab the rose, thorns and all.  The flowers tell us of beauty, but they also speak of the Change Of Seasons.   In a day, petals worn and freckled.  In 2 days, petals kiss the grass.  In 3 days, the Clippers come and the Flowers are memories.  Frail, but Significant.  Beauty In The Moment, if it’s heard in its True Language, will also remind us of Mortality.  And mortality has its own Beauty  … not the Language of Cosmetic Appeal.

Besides Mortality: Change.  The inevitable.  If I do not take this photo right now, this photo that is screaming at me and staring me in the face and telling me all the sadness and wonder of Infinity – if I do not take this photo right now, in two minutes the light will change and the photo is gone.  This is “grabbing the moment” – this is “plucking the cubic centimeter of chance” – while it is right here, dancing before my eyes, Firefly of Infinite Pleasure, Butterfly of Only the Moment.

… and then it is Gone.  As certain as it Came, it goes.  And my steps move on.  Through Incredible Blue Skies and Hot Ephemeral Sun of September: neighborhoods are now quiet, kids in school, vacation over.  Quiet Streets, many shades of green.  Fall has not quite struck; we’re in Late Middle Age.  Still Productive, but Reflective.   The Journey is Afoot, no turning back.

A lonely white cat in a yard of Green.  White Cats have appeared to me here and there in my life.  They seem to be Silent Messengers, harbingers of sorts.  A metaphor for the Silent Companion that accompanies us all through life, whether we acknowledge or not.   Patient.   Knowing.  Trusting.  Persevering.   Partly in Shadow, partly Luminous.  Revealing, Concealing, Suggesting, Hinting.

Watching.

So, the Cat and I witness the waning of September’s Sun.  Thankful for this moment where we can Play, Pray, Stay, Stray.   Thankful for Mystery, scantily clad in the clothing of the Mundane.  Denizens of this Neighborhood, but also, members of another Lost Jungle, descendents of a Different Creed.  We linger for two and a half minutes, six photos, and a breath of fresh air.

Then she disappears.  Under a neighbor’s porch.  Who owns her, and what does she care?  We’re both slaves of the moment, and property of the Great Librarian of Time.  By chance we met on this Side-street of September, and we’ve already forgotten each others’ names.   Such is City Love, such is Changing Light.

We notice Picasso’s Porch as we wind up another Morning of Mystery.   Wind-Chimes, Bicycles and Flowers.  This is all one needs in Life, the Major ingredients.  The Song, the Journey and the Color.  Vehicle, Voice and Nature’s blessing.  The Trinity of September’s Virtue.  All a chance discovery, all a significant letter from the Beloved, to me, personally.

We are trapped in this moment, it seems.

No one believes this: we are Prisoners In Denial.  The Mind, in all its great capacity for Entertainment, Foolishness and Frivolity, distracts us to no end with everything from mundane excuses like Kids, Job & Mortgage to the exotically subversive: I was an exiled Queen in my Last Lifetime … we were originally one-celled amoebas from a Distant Planet.

Whatever.

Our reason for Avoidance of this sublime moment, is that it holds within its velvety hands the Sweet Juices of Infinity.  It contains the Light that can potentially blast the cobwebs, excuses and smelly Hiding Places out of our House of Many Mansions.   It has the potential to captivate, to capture and to free us from the slavery of our doubt and fear.  Our own achingly familiar and deeply pathological darkness.

The Molecules of NOW contain unlimited and unfathomable dimensions of Delight.   This is something we’ve forgotten … long ago.  This is something we unconsciously traded off in Childhood.  Innocence.  Sweetness.  Spontaneity.  Intuition.  True Voice.  Deep Knowing.  The thirst and hunger for the unfolding of truth in the moment.  All this was traded for Toys.  For Approval.  For Position and Privilege.   For the coveted layering and hardening of the Architecture of Adulthood.

We can go back.  We must go back.  And we will go back.

Because, when Illusion strips off her tedious disguise, you can no longer “buy” the makeup.  The pretense.  The promises.  The empty advertisements from a world trapped in the lure of sensory fulfillment.  The Cowboy Stories.  The arcade Games.  The promises of Bad Actors in a Questionable Movie.

The Jewels of True Humanhood are the Jewels contained within.  The only insight worthwhile, the only knowledge that counts, the only wisdom that proves itself again and again – this is the book written by the Hand of Eternal Sun in the daylight of our knowing, our consciousness, our seeking and finding the Fountain that truly flows, and truly nourishes.

We are trapped in this Moment, it seems.  With each other.  Yes.  Present … with Presence.  Present – with others who have found, acknowledged, and celebrated Presence.  It’s tricky.

It’s the fine, fine print that lies between the lines of Life’s Contract.  You just know it.  You don’t even have to “read” it.  Others are trapped in words… definitions … quotations … the liability of the logical footprint -  in the sand of the Ocean of Time.  Drawing boundaries in disappearing air.  It’s only about swimming in this ocean, not only buoyancy, but actually playing with the whales and dolphins, as it were.

The dance of the Dance.

You can miss it, because it passes by in a flash.

Just like us.

Be as quiet as the Heron.

And capture the Fish.

Be soothed, be nestled, be the infinitely small molecule of the mortal, in the infinitely massive and comforting matrix of the Eternal.

Hello.
“Island Time”, once again.

It’s luscious, it’s delicious, it’s a place to slip the senses into the tissues of time.

There are certain Fragrant Wishes that we water our pores with: Late Afternoon August Sun, the smell of seaweed; the gentle clamor of a peaceful evening tide; distant gulls, ferry horns a million miles wide in foggy blue forever.

Sun is sweet on the skin.  We are onions and we peel away our layers as the bright orb in blessed Blue Blanket bathes our Solar Plexus once again in Dusty Gold, Shimmering Velvet of the Moment.   Ocean winds carry delights.  Dead crabs and live seaweed are all part of the Perfume. We bathe in the gentle quiet of the lapping waves.  Boats with no names bob at anchor.  Everything – every little thing – in creation’s core is happy and content at this very moment.

We listen and talk to the Stones.  They are the Old Gentlemen of the Harbor.  They were there long, long, long before any of our famous Roman Chariots graced the streets.  Timeless things, solid and sturdy.  You rest upon them; they tell no lies.  Change comes slowly.  Rough edges are pounded clean by patient oceans in the twinkling of a million-year day.  We love and caress their boundaries, their orifices, their curves.

We have a hard time remembering Christmas; these Rocks remember Creation.  Something about the Space-They-Occupy: the Tableau of Creation’s Elements.  The meeting-place of Land, Sand, Water, Sky & Sun.  It’s all there.  We’re made of all that stuff.  The elements outside of us, are also the elements inside of us.  Do we know now why people love the Beach?  Worship the Sun?  Anoint themselves in Waves?

It is a re-union with the Lost Minerals of Bones, of Blood, of Breath. Interesting.  Mandatory.

We seek Balance.  In everything we are; in everything we do.  But – as it stands – we are precariously unbalanced.  People, neighbors, lovers, societies, nations, planets.   We stand poised for war, not soaked in peace.  We stand separate, disconnected, strangers to our brothers – a land of marginalized hobo’s.  Transient Vandals.  Gypsies with no violin.

And who will undo this anesthesia of the soul?  This forgetfulness of the very purpose, the seed, the core, the essence: of human life.  Who will remember what it is to be human – underneath the layers of cement, the obligation, the mandatory and mundane cruelty of the norm.  Who will dare to live, to breathe life, to dance and celebrate Certainty … in the midst of the Ugly Shopping Malls of day-to-day living?

We are held in the Arms of Something Vast and Protective.  Something we postulate and theorize about and “believe in”.   This is not our neighbor, this is not our dog, this is not Friday Night at the Movies, this is the crux of who we are and what breathes us on the Inside.  This is to be Known, not to be Hoped-For.

This is the helping hand of the Divine, clear point of awareness, Marching Drum of the Dance Going Home.

This Vast Stone, Giant Hand, Wholesome Heart, Melting Sun, Not-Too-Distant-Star … is what Rumi talked about when he said this:

” I will set you on my breath, so you will become my life”.

Every day, Life brings us Small Things to celebrate.

These are the things that save us.  Uplift us.  Remind us.  Nurture and Nourish us.

These small things are not small – indeed – but are truly significant pieces of the Puzzle of Life.  Significant, in that they have the capability to pull us into the magic of NOW.  This is the Kingdom that small children inhabit.  This is the origin of Play, Mystery, Delight, Dance and all spontaneity.  This is the quality that we – as adults – long for, strive for, emulate, imitate, and gravitate ~ towards.

It’s simply a small fragmented mirror, mirroring a small, fragmented piece of who we truly are.

Today, I wandered into Queens Park, after a day of difficulties, compromises, bad news and severe struggles.  Queens Park – one of the redeeming aspects of Life in New Westminster – has a beautiful little Rose Garden.  Bless the foresight of the City Council, that preserves some quality places for the senses of the Weary to Unwind and resuscitate.

Old Roses.

I have seen these Roses through only a few glimpses of their fleeting Life Cycle.  (“It seems just yesterday that … “).  We went there only a few mornings ago, to do some improv dance & video work among these flaming wonders.  It was a mixed morning: the magic of fresh rain on the flowers, but a grand-central-station of gardeners, earth-moving equipment and curious tourists, sniffing and inspecting every nook.  Already, the roses, bathed in teardrops, were beginning to show their mortality.

And now, this was evening.  A tentative summer’s evening in a Tentative Summer, period.  The Failing Light of July’s uncertain sky, illuminating these Gracious Old Ladies with a soft – sometimes unworldly – cast.

We need to say something about Roses here, in that Roses are uniquely Roses: nothing else comes close, nothing else matches, nothing can compare, all else in the Flower Kingdom is a mere squeak, alongside this noble Orchestra of Grace and Elegance.

Old Ladies, Queens, Queen Mothers, Sages, Crones, Witches, Whores, Ladies of the Night, the Day, the Evening – and all hours in between.  These flowers are the undiluted voice of the Divine, laughing, tempting, seducing, healing, calming: both calling and answering the unspoken longings of our deepest hearts.

And so we age.

Our spots also appear.  Our leaves curl in places that are straight.  Freckles, dimples, warts, crinkles wrinkles and wrappers: all seem a noble, unpretentious part of the gallant display of these Girls-Who-Never-Went-Astray, these denizens of the Courtyard of Kings.  These valiant musicians of the Unspoken Song; they were right all along.  Beauty sees itself in the mirror and it sees perfection and imperfection walking side-by-side.  The child in the Grandmother’s hand, dancing wildly through the disappearing land.

And so, it’s amazing how time flies.  You just planted them Yesterday.

Buds in the Morning.

Blooming at Noon.

Fragrance in the dusk.

And the next day: Age looks itself in the mirror, surprised, sad, nostalgic, reflective, sober.

We’re stopped dead in our tracks: the Reality Check of Time.  Mortality.  The Ticking Clock.  All the things we Should Have Done, Could Have Done, and ‘will do’.  The pleadings of Tomorrow, the Begging Dogs of Yesterday.  The whining uncertainty of the most certain thing you hold in your hand: the breath of life, sustaining you in the moment.  Your tricks are over;  your hiding places are gone.  You are back in the uncomfortable, but oh-so-familiar cradle of this moment of NOW.

AND you feel strangely at Peace.  Old Rose that you are.

Elegance.

Cheap.

There is no admission fee.  Who can charge for the sight, sound and smell that is a Gift from the Unseen Hand?

Beauty.  You can’t spell it, but you can Smell it.  Your tired and feeble mind shuts up at last, because it has no say in this world of sensuous delight.  You want to go to bed with these Total Strangers, you want to Drink, eat this Madness. sink into and Drown in some reservoir of forgotten delight, this Naughty and Lost Child inside, this Insecure Adult, wrapped in his profound and pointless mysteries of Money, Privilege and Fame.

And the Petals fall like Rain.

And no, they will not wait.  Tomorrow morning, they will be gone.  Dead, buried.  The Gardener’s knife will mid-wife another birth, another life, and the Garden will go on, long after you Stop.   Pick up a few petals, note the angle of the Moon.  The deep Emerald of the lawns, the singing of the Sprinklers, the Empty beds, promising Future Lovers their lost Eternities.

All this, from a few Old Roses.

Oh, what we know … and what we have Forgotten.

And so, Life Goes On.

Day at at time. Breath at at time.  Flower at a time. One Petal Falls.  No one notices, no one cares.  Drowning in Rain, drowning in Tears.  No one really knows us; these visitors, these stodgy tourists – they get so close and yet they are so far away.

They capture us with their cameras, and yet, they live in Prisons Themselves.

Who are these Humans, these passing Thieves?

They can explain the color content of a 24-bit RGB pixel, yet, they can’t explain what they feel …

when they see an Old Rose …

an Old Rose Like Me.

Yesterday, June 17th, was a significant day in my Young and Old Life. I would like to share the significance of that day with you.

Thirty-seven years ago, I ran into a man who was -at the time – a seventeen-year-old boy. I was twenty-one.

I had been studying Yoga in the mountains outside Sacramento, California with my girlfriend of the time, an aspiring Yoga Teacher. By ‘mistake’ (although nothing is a mistake, really) I ran across a communal house-type information center about the work of one young man from India who had mixed reviews as the sensational child-guru, a man who was named “Maharaji”. I thought I would check this out; why not? I was into checking out anything with a spiritual twist, anything from the East … anything which acknowledged the inner journey in life.

Well – that was the beginning. What I heard and what I felt and what I knew from spending that time in that old house in Sacramento, was the beginning of a lifelong commitment for me: a journey of the Heart, the longest and most significant relationship I’ve had in my life.

Prem Rawat – given the honorable title “Maharaji” at a young age, became my Teacher.   He had come over to the West from India at the age of twelve; initiated as a teacher by his Father/mentor’s passing at the age of eight; instructing and inspiring as early as age four.

And now: I’ve been a student of this Master, this Teacher, for 37 years.  Yesterday marked the 40th years of Maharaji’s work in the west. From a humble start of a few hundred western students in 1971, there are now over a million world-wide who practice this gift of Knowledge, and who have seen it transform their lives from the inside out.

Maharaji – literally “Great Teacher” – is celebrating 40 years in the West, as of yesterday, and what an amazing 40 years it has been.   What a miracle, in a world of hype and packaging, a world of innuendo, protocol and sales pitches, that this timeless message – both ancient and contemporary – is not merely sustained and kept alive by a privileged and eclectic few, but is practiced, available and acknowledged all around the world – in every nation, in every walk of life. From prison colonies to pastors to prestigious colleges and seats of government; from winning awards in community TV programming years in a row; broadcast on thousands of networks across every continent as Words of Peace Global to addressing record-breaking crowds of a half-million in India who sit in pin-drop silence, drinking in pure inspiration, word by word.

For a world saturated with violence, deceit and struggle; for cultures inundated with valueless material and commercial gratification; for individuals perplexed by a myriad of  convoluted “spiritual”, religious and philosophical offerings; for societies in which position and acquisition become the calling-cards of merit — what an amazing gift it is that this man humbly presents to us: the gift of an inner connection to one’s own heart. A sanctuary, an oasis, a well-spring of nutrition and wisdom that each of us can draw from, thrive from, express and celebrate in our own unique individual ways.  A sweetness, a sense of purpose, meaning, and direction that we can truly own and call our own.

Prem Rawat continues his work around the world, gifting both individuals and societies with the products and by-products of consciousness and humanity.  The Prem Rawat Foundation (TPRF.ORG) has been awarded the highest merits of all charitable organizations, both transparent and effective in its mandate, and operating in and out of partnership with well-established institutions in providing disaster relief and food and medical support to some of the poorest communities on earth.

Prem continues to inspire, instruct and remind us of the most important connection in our lives: the connection to our own hearts.  Whether in an intimate group of 200 or a vast throng of a half-million, the relationship between student and teacher remains paramount, and the one-on-one connection magically triumphs: a unique grain of sand in an ocean of love. One of the few connections in the world that truly deserves the title, sacred.

Although Maharaji doesn’t need or ask for acknowledgement – he’s doing this selflessly as service both to the human race and to his father & mentor – I need to acknowledge him.  His work, his excellence in everything he does, his patience, compassion, humor, respect, kindness, wisdom, insight … and his ability to “show up” to the nth degree, to bring unending sparks of light into the cauldron of seething darkness that this humanity is emerging from.  This is my gift and privilege: to share the same gift and privilege that has been bestowed on me.

Thank you Maharaji, for all that you are, all that you have done, and all that you continue to do: the gargantuan effort, the mandate of forging a pathway through what no one else in the world could even conceive of.  A pathway, not just for your footsteps, but for all of us who seek clarity and inner purpose.  A journey of potentially unspeakable difficulty has been made attainable and enjoyable by the work that you’ve dedicated your life to accomplish.

And for me, I’m reminded every day, that no matter the shape of the “world”, no matter what storms come and go – fair weather and foul – there’s a safe harbor inside me: warm and dry.  There’s a beautiful rain falling every moment – for the thirsty – a rain of Gold, a rain of Sweet Music; a small and huge Womb in the arms of the Infinite, that I have the privilege of entering – through the most intimate of doorways.

It’s there for me.  It’s there for you.  And because of the efforts of this amazing human being, it’s there for the whole world.

Thank you Maharaji, for turning  my hovel into a Mansion.  Thank you for revealing the gold mine inside, and for injecting true meaning, sweetness and clarity into my humble existence.

Maharaji’s personal website contains short samples of his writing and music: www.maharaji.net.  Words Of Peace Global (www.wopg.org) is a resource for introducing his teachings on the inner journey.  TPRF.org (The Prem Rawat Foundation) spearheads charitable work and disaster relief in ongoing projects, world-wide.