Mandala of Me …

MANDALAS.
So, there is a Secret Art defined…

Some things speak to us: they are intricate, scientific, complex, inviting, technical. I always understood mathematics – to some degree. Logarithms could be exponential, or just plain boring. “Algorithms” can be a matrix of proportional expressions that Google uses to judge a website’s worth.

Or an “algorithm” could be the matrix of your dysfunctional family’s ingrown communications protocols. The matrix we grew up in, is sometimes the matrix we still sit in, unless we’re truly “left home”.

Sometimes, you have to “leave home” to find home.

Or … let’s just say ALWAYS.

Mandala Aloe Verra
This Thing follows you around wherever you go…

A MANDALA, according to my momentary cauldron of uninhibited thought processes, is a symmetrical chemical arrangement, where eons of light have traveled through several Milky Ways, just to fall on your cheap computer screen and arrange “pixels” – made in China – in a way that reminds you of your innate and deep core or center.

I am awed by this sort of thing.

Partly because of the inherent beauty in such an easily-contrived mixture of bad photography and good computer graphics. Partly because it speaks of the Unlimited Arrangement of Things Possible.

Remember Drugs?

Remember what we saw through our Closed Eyes and Open Pupils back in the sixties? We don’t forget that because it spoke to us. Again: about the Deep Arrangement of Things that Occurred Long Before We Were Born.

And the Voice it spoke with is the Voice that is still speaking. The Deep Arrangement of Things. The Arranger. The Lone Arranger.

It’s kind of like the Inner Florist Shop of God. Contains all these Astounding Blueprints of Life. Molecular Chemistry that would blow David Suzuki’s Fuzzy Skull apart. Things Secret to us that are Beyond Sacred, known by All, Discussed by Few, Enjoyed by only a Handful.

And offered to YOU.

Judith’s Buddha-Land, Part III

We Continue our Hike in the Woods.

 Salt Spring Island- Above Clouds

We begin our hike – again – in a Kingdom of Clouds.
Well above the Waterways, the distant and indifferent
Oceans that separate these Islands from the Sun.

Elements: Sky, so Big.  Water: so far away, yet shimmering,
inviting, calming, serene – millions of sequins.

A Million Stars in the Field of Light

So, the Earth is Next.
As are the Standing People,
the Friends who grow out of the Earth;
Protecting, inspiring, uplifting us.
Helping us, Healing us, Guiding us,
Feeling us, Freeing us, Softening the Blow
of the Pointless and Nasty Architectures
of man-made creation.

Sometimes Flower Solitary

Sometimes it’s a Solitary Flower.
It just calls to you.

No Loud Songs, no Rock’n’roll.
Just a quiet little Entity: happily growing
where they are planted.
Happily adding their delicious and humble
tune to the vocabulary of the local gallery.

Always appreciated because of their solitude.
Their “one-ness”.
Their subtle but sweet
Mirroring of the Human Condition.

We are truly Alone in our own Sweetness.

AND THEN …

Upturned Roots.

Upturned Roots of a SkyRocket Denizen

I had to print this picture BIG.
It’s just so Luscious and so Green and so Edible
and so Incredible.

These sculptures are not arrogant “installation art shows”
by those who pretend to have “insight”
into Human Nature.

These pictures do not stumble over themselves
in Intellectually-Ordained  Descriptives
that need Dictionaries and Law Degrees.

They are simply Found Art of the most Noble Kind.
Jungle Animals whose Days have ended in Glory:
steeped in the Green Benevolence of the Big Painter.
Painter of the Sky.  The Oceans.
Dreams of the Trees in the Burgundy
of Dusk.

The country of your Eye.
The comfort and shadow
of the small resting place
you call “Home”.

Green Infinity, Onward We Go

Green Infinity.
Onward We Go.
These Open Paths
Are simply Doorways into Trust.
Walking in the Palm of Some Big Hand.
Lined with cotton moss,
occasional Crickets.
Eagles Soaring.
And the odd
Skeleton
of things
that Left
the House.

Inadvertent Vertebrae Thoracic

These are simply Bones.
They belong here, more than I do.
Perhaps a deer, a cow, a large mammal.
We have the same bones; these are in our back.
They are delicately sculpted, every facet and dimension
has purpose.

Now covered in Moss and Straw,
it offers shelter to ants and small bugs.
And supplies yet another sculpture;
a true “installation” of true “art”
that someone gave his life
for the immortality of the Hills.

These things Speak to Us.

Just a Play

Sometimes, it’s just a Play.
Of Shadow, light & Love.
The things that Grow inside us,
and the crumbs we feed to our
only Child.

These things are Alone,
and they remind us of US.
They stay alone,
we pretend to “go” …
back to some place labelled “home”.

But we know we’re only travellers.

... and we will travel again.

And
We will Travel
Again.

Judith’s Buddhistic Paradise – Part II

Outdoor Plumbing The Thing about outdoor plumbing is this: if forces you to get in touch with your bowel movements.

Which is about Your Body, and its priorities.

Not your stupid iPhone.  Idiot Phone.  Text Messing.  What who’s neighbor is thinking about the color of your missing teeth or your mother’s favorite night-time fantasy.  Who cares anyway?

The Thing about Outdoor Plumbing, is, it’s part of slowing down and feeling the Breeze, the Breath, the Trees, the Depth.  The stupid silent and fragrant Wind that you’ve been ignoring in your Rush to get Nowhere.

The Thing about Outdoor Plumbing, is … it’s 100% organic, natural and gives back to the earth the very clay that we ingested mere hours ago.  Clay Hamburgers.  Clay Ducks.  Clay Coffee, Sugar and Creme.  Clay Pigeons and Parsley.

The Thing about Outdoor Plumbing, is that it’s You and You Alone with You.  Can you stand the thought of this Blind Date of Dates?  Can you sit comfortably and politely with Who You Are at the Smelly Center of Things and Celebrate Making More Smelliness at the Center of Things?

PART II of PART II – Hike In The Woods.

So, we go on a Hike in the Woods, on the second day of Arrival in the Lost Art of Now, in the Found Land of Buddha, on the Sacred and Unknown Humble mountain-top of South Salt Spring.

And we immediately find two Missing Submarines In The Woods.  The Beatles could have made a Song About This.  But, since they didn’t, I will.  “The Missing Submarines”.  Here we go.

SONY DSC

The Navy was Missing Two Submarines.
They were known to be “Items of Interest” to Captains and Cooks alike.
They fell in Love quietly, while playing with Whales,
and forgetting Guns, Warfare and Sailor’s Small-Tales.

They Eloped One Day.
The Whales helped Whisk them Away.
They ended up on a Mountain-top Buddhist Center
A little Rusty, Crusty and Old
but Thankful for being so Bold
as to Defy Logic, Proportion and Duty
To end up in a place of Magnificent Beauty.

And here they Sit, Passing their Time:
Poor as a Beggar, with Nary a Dime.
But their Hearts are Happy; Light as a Feather.
They endure Snow, Heat and Bugs…
(and all kinds of Weather.)
They Sing like the Whales – when No One’s Around…
They’re true-Blue Buddhists and their Bliss Abounds!

Runaway Submarine

Judith’s Buddhistic Paradise

(a Retreat atop an Island of Serenity).

Well, two days is not a long time to spend in Paradise.  Fortunately, Paradise has many forms, fingers and flavors.  It seeps into our lives through the Cracks In Things.

Judith has been care-taking at the KDOL Buddhist Retreat Center on Saltspring Island for some time.  She’s in charge of Gardening, occasional meals & errands and helping take care of the resident Lama, Lama Karma Phuntsok.

Besides her duties in taking care of residential business at the KDOL Center, Judith has organized a casual, “come-as-you-are” retreat for the end of August / early September  2013.  I was pleased to partake of 2½ days of sublime beauty, nature and gourmet cooking from the Mountain Diva Herself!

Judith Mountain Diva

One of the most pleasurable and spiritually-beneficial aspects of my stay on Saltspring was the delightful culinary creations, offered by Judith, any time of day that struck my fancy.

And being somewhat ‘city-lagged’, my waking hours were an odd combination of unpredictable sleeps, hikes, silences and star-gazing moonlight indulgences, that, all in all, had no rhyme, reason or season to them.

The women’s side of the retreat center, where Judith had staked out her territory, is a rustic village of small 1-room cabins, set around a temple or meditation building, and a kitchen.  The Kitchen was our favorite hang-out, basically because this is truly the temple of the digestive system!  And what offerings this temple does provide!

Deer at the KDOL Buddhist RetreatWe share this idyllic setting with Denizens of the Animal World.  Actually, didn’t see much else than Deer.  And plenty of them. Apparently, there’s nine or so that frequent the hill beside the kitchen area.  Four pairs of Does & Fawns and one occasional Buck.

Judith offers them kitchen scraps, which they make a nightly pilgrimage for, and who’d-a-thunk?  It seems that this indeed is their “pizza-of-the-day” treat; they come from miles for their evening rituals.  They kind of look at you funny.  With those Big, Deer Eyes.  So Cute.

But nervous creatures.  Make a loud noise, and they’re history.  I tried my morning Elk imitation, but they weren’t impressed.

One of my favorite parts of the whole journey is the Ferry Ride.  It’s always kind of a “religious experience”, riding these huge white honking boats across the scenic channel of water that separates the Mainland from the Gulf Islands, and the largest island: Vancouver Island.  Nice on sunny summer days, but nicer still, in its own damp, oceany, “west-coast” way, when the seasons turn – when grey skies prevail and the cool winds sing in the sails (so to speak: ferries have no sails).

Ferry Ride to Saltspring Island

Ferry Rides, for those living in this part of the world, are some kind of Right of Passage. You leave behind some fragment of lives lived, and, face to the wind, breathe in the fragrance of the Unknown, the Vapors, the mists of Uncertain but Fragrant tomorrows.

It’s kind of like a “going”, with no easy and certain picture of where you’re going to.  Perhaps a mini-re-birthing session of sorts.  With onboard Starbucks’ and Boat Burgers to boot.  It’s a treasure-chest of rich sensations.

Opposite ferry in Parallel UniverseSometimes, you can even see another ferry going the opposite way, in a neighboring “Parallel Universe”.  All for a seventeen-dollar foot-passenger ticket.  Cool, eh?  It even gets better when you’re a decrepit 65 years of age: it’s free to travel the ferries on week-days!  Whoa!

So, that’s a little bit of “how we got there”.  There’s two ways from the Vancouver side, one is direct from Tsawwassen; downfall is it’s only 1-2 times daily, and it takes a long time: total of 4 island stops, Salt Spring is the last!  The other way is Tsawwassen to Schwartz Bay (near Victoria), a 1.5 hour ride on the Big Ship, then a short half-hour ride to Salt Spring, one stop. Advantage: many sailings throughout the day.

Well, back to the Retreat.

One of the lovely things about this location, is the view of the ocean, in both directions – north and south, along the east edge of the Island.  You’re far enough above the water – 900 meters or so to scope out a majestic offering of blue shadow and lagoon, enough to inspire an artist, meditator or photographer for sure!

Ocean and Sky Panorama, looking east-ward from the Buddhist Retreat CenterYou can click on the picture above, which will hopefully show you an enlargement of this fabulous view from atop the Buddha’s Hill.

MUCH MORE TO EXPLORE in JUDITH’S BUDDHIST MOUNTAIN retreat … stay tuned!
(“Oh to Live on … Buddha’s Mountain … with the Barkers and the Colored Balloons… you can’t be twenty, on Buddha’s Mountain, but you’re thinkin’ that you’re leavin’ there too soon … you’re Leavin’ There too soon.”)

Bus Shelter Ghosts

This day was kind of an odd day.

The sun was out today, which is always a blessing in Vancouver.  But in my little suburb of New Westminster, I took an early morning walk in the Amazing Rays, and – almost at my destination – I saw a curious enigma at a bus shelter located across the street from where I was walking.bus shelter ghosts

Here, the bus shelters are often constructed with clear plexiglass walls, sometimes with advertising posters sandwiched inside them.  This particular bus shelter, bathed in the long rays of April Morning Sunlight, had a very striking pattern of what looked like steam or condensation on the back panel of the shelter, behind the bench where people normally sit.

The condensation displayed itself as a “halo” or “aura” – outlining distinct shapes of 3 human bodies, almost looking like they had hats or some sort of head-gear on as well.   I found it quite amazing!

bus shelter ghostsSo I took out my camera, braved the traffic to get to a narrow concrete median, where I precariously balanced myself while swapping lenses on my camera, and took a series of shots from the concrete median.  Then a short time later I took more shots on my way back from my destination breakfast cafe.

The photos are all quite striking.  I couldn’t help but think of the three people who lost their lives yesterday in the tragic bombing incident at the Boston Marathon.  My poetic rambling self thought, “well maybe these light-halo enigmas are the three souls saying good-bye to us and awaiting their ride out into the Light… “

Whatever the case, it was incredible.  I didn’t find it eerie or frightening at all, just mysterious and somewhat magical.

When light and shadow meet, you get some really interesting metaphors arising as The Art of the Found Moment.

You can see the gallery of my Bus Shelter Ghosts by clicking the link on the side-bar to the right, or by clicking HERE.

bus shelter ghosts

Winter’s Ways …

There’s something in Winter Branches.
Maybe the Cold Rain.
Maybe the Pearls of Wind hard diamonds of Sun
Stray Light of a Season Lost
A questionable friend with Bright Eyes
and Frozen Limbs.
Branches of Winter, Hands of Spring
The Way of Wood
Tears Lingering are now Ice
The memory is a Leaf that Died
The smell is sweet rotten Love;
the Life that Lied to us, Fed us,
Renewed us, Spit us out, Held us
We have nowhere left to Run.
Jewels of Winter's Frozen Fingers
We Multiplied and became Freeways
we Died inside our Cars but loved the Movies
that guided us to Stars
and drank from our Already-Empty Cups
We were cut by our own Blades
and Melted inside our own sun
Cooked to Perfection in the Big Karmic Kiln…
discontented Freeways of the Heart ...
There’s a Million Pearls
And a Million Stars
Sun seems Distant
But it’s Not Really Far
the Light you see now
Has already died
Unless the Light you’re Looking At
Is the Light Inside …
A Million Lights Have Died, except the Light Inside ...
That tree, you see,
is the Tree of Life
It grows on the Island
that knows no Strife.
“Pretty” is a word for parrots
and it won’t take you home.
These words are useless because
they leave you all alone.
This word, and this Tree,
and all the lights ever to Live
are all Switched On
Me Tree, Inside the Seed of Life ...
Inside of Me.

Prisoner of the Fall …

We are Leaves.
We are Trees.
We understand the Small Words
Between the Sentences of Things.

Red Rubies - Prisoner of Autumn

Leaves are Alive in their Demise.
Laughing at Eternity and it’s Approaching Fingers.
We all go There.

Some with Less Color.
Others with Loud Voices.

Laughing Leaves - Dying Season

I talk to you about Escape
And  you tell me  your Dreams are too Comfortable.
I point out the Holes in the Fence
But you refuse to Bend and Fold

if only to crawl Hands & Knees
into the Arms of Beauty

Caught in a Cage

I have Wasted Only a Day
In the Kingdom of Flowers
in the Dignity and Dying Embers of Fall.

these Colors I take Home
and serve New Gravy
on Old Casseroles
to the Guest …
Scattered Soldiers of the Sun

… who Comes and Goes with the Wind.

Doorsteps & Footprints …

 

Raining Gold, and No One Knows...

The Call of Fall.

It speaks and we Listen.

There’s something reassuring about this.  It’s the smells of dying leaves and the colors stirred by November’s winds.  Perhaps a Childhood we once knew.

It speaks of Cycles.  Old Age.  Endings and Birthings.  Nature’s voice – again – among our many Trials and Distractions.  We settle into the warm winds and let them take Umbrellas for a ride.  Like Mary Poppins we Fly.  Over trails, worries, hills, dread, sabotage, relinquishment, hibernation, dreams.

And the familiar song calls us back.  “Us”.  Our Life.  Our Path.  Our feeling of wholeness, belonging, resolve, rest, arrival.

Doorsteps for our Footprints.

It’s a beautiful time of year.

Our region has been blessed this fall with some Days of Sun.  This is the Best Way – in fact the Only Way … to truly see the beauty of the season.  Vancouver’s perennial rain has taken many tolls on many souls.  We won’t get started on that.  Let us instead, dear congregation – sing the Hymn Of Autumn Sun.  Spectacular!  Uplifting!  Cinematography at its best.

The Homely Ancient Wine of Autumn-Land ...

So, the Triumph.

The war with no battle.  The win-win situation of this Elemental Nature that gives and gives and gives.  Our only challenge is to engage in it and bathe in it and delight in it and drink from it and revive our tired tissues in its fragrant and nourishing breezes.

This is the “church” of the “god” that really DOES exist.  The jubilant voice of Nature, within us and without.  Pay attention to the within … and you’ll be blown away by the without.

Without the within, there is no without, or the without – at most – is just passing scenery, a foreign movie by an unknown director.  Within the within, there is the Director, Producer, Cameraman and Audience … all-together-now breathing in unison … this infinite, momentary, delicious and delightful nugget of the sublime: one moment in the passing fad called “My Life”.

Noteworthy, I assure you.

Appreciation.  Of this time we have.  And it does pass by faster, as we age.  We’re told this, and we acknowledge this.  Something about the cycles and seasons and Wheels of Fire that spin us: they burn an important message into our heart: “Mortality”.

Mortality.

*Hmmm.*

A friend recently narrated an experience she’d had at a party, where the hostess made a sarcastic remark about looking in the mirror and seeing the signs of age progressing.  But after that off-handed dismissal, the subject was changed, and not re-visited.

And she wondered why.  And we shook our heads.  Well we know why.  It’s one of those unwritten, but blindly obeyed rulings about what we can and can’t say.  The “approved discussions” at social gatherings include, movies, politics, the weather … but not Mortality.  Well, isn’t that peculiar.

Astounding Morning Invitation to Sip on the Nectar of the Moment ....

We all celebrate the Day We Arrived.  Every year. And others’ Big Days. The congrats and confetti.  And may you enjoy many more.  But that “other” big day … the one that awaits us all … *uh* … let’s not go there.

Well the TREES GO THERE.  Look at that one right above us.  Those leaves are not coming back.  And in their passing, Their Mortality … they Dance.  They Delight.  They speak beauties indescribable to the eyes.  They literally sing.

Perhaps they’re humble.

Perhaps they haven’t accumulated SUV’s and RRSP’s and little picket-fence cabins on the Lakeside.  They don’t boast and swagger and hesitate and doubt and waste endless time pursuing fantasies of an endless “mind”.  Perhaps they’re just obeying their innate blueprint.

Perhaps the only problem is that we don’t know the sweetness of our Mortality, something like the smell of November Leaves.  The sweetness of our Mortality is that it’s touched by the Breath of Our Immortality, the immortal within.  Without the knowledge of this, then, all we have is religion, beliefs, the mascara of the mind, the man-made perfume of the pundits and priests.  That Old Musty Smell.

Doorstep Yet To Travel

So, my Blueprint Sings on this Quiet day.  Another setting sun.  Another leaf departs from another branch, never to return.  Never to look back, to lament to regret, to grieve.

This is one Doorstep all of our Footprints will pass over.  No need to knock. But something in the Dance of Life carries us, loves us, informs us, whispers the Essential Notices in our ears.  And our True Nature Speaks.

We Listen.

The Drag Queens of Westminster Spring

Well, it’s about time.
We’ve been waiting for the Show for fifteen months,
shivering in Vancouver’s damp, dismal, grey
Rain-soaked Stratosphere.

Now they’re here. Yay!


These are the Queens of Spring, and more importantly – the Queens of New Westminster’s Queens Park Neighborhood. They show up every spring to party for a week or two, and then leave us panting on the edge of our seats, hoping that Summer will be half-as-much-fun as this Great Drag Show of Spring.

They are shocking and unapologetic, for their shameless excess. They are right-in-our-face with their glory, their thinly disguised Macho Femininity.  Their bravado with overdone makeup, mascara and pink, pink, pink … enough to make Callgirls Blush.

Yes, brothers and sisters of the Sidestreet.  They are Magnolias.

And they have been decreed, by the Great Gary Gustaf Bandzmer, to be the Official Drag Queens of Spring.

These Volatile Hipsters won't negotiate with anyone ...They come in various shapes and sizes.  Mostly of two persuasions: Pink and White, along with permutations and inter-marriages of the two.   Some are “auto-erotic” – like the Pink Floozie in the upper left Boudoir.   Others do it in two, groups or whole-tree orgies.  Yes, I’m shocked as well.  But … bear with me and I will do my best to explain the juvenile behavior of these wayward blooms.  Be warned though: it may overcome your senses to the point of intoxication.   Find a designated driver for the trip home.

When the Season finally arrives, well … these young princesses are hardly what one could call “shy”.  They begin emerging at the slightest Hint Of Spring.  It’s like, they want to be the first ones on the block with all the color, and they truly do make the most visual noise, often quite deafening to innocent passers-by.

The white ones attempt to appear more “spiritual” – but it’s a ruse.  Outwardly they try to convince  you of their godliness, cleanliness and austerity.  But soon their unbridled passion and thinly disguised extravagance shows though.  They are not the stately nuns and priests one would expect in such wardrobes.

So, these gay, screaming fools basically take over the neighborhood for weeks at a time.  There’s no stopping them.  You can call the Police, you can write letters, you can have private chats with the clergy, for all that matter.  But it’s known by the elders and crones, to be a complete waste of time.

The baby magnolias of springtime ...And, as some might say: they take over the whole town.   That’s right.  There simply is no other show that competes.  They blow those other dancers right out the door.  Japanese plum blossoms?  Good luck.  Any others, of any shape, size or color: they simply don’t match up.  The Magnolias run the show.  “Mob connections” – you think?  The chances are good.  Their competitors never had a chance.  You’d think they’d been ‘whacked’.

Well, it makes us all feel inadequate.  Lousy lovers.  Even with our best – and finest – wardrobes, and you girls: with your most expensive, environmentally-correct makeup, your new color-coordinated accessories … it all falls desperately short of the allure of the Magnolia Queens.

They own the streets and they’re here to stay.

If there’s one thing they teach us about Spring, it’s this: Love Is Not A Polite Whisper.  It’s Led Zeppelin.  It’s Janis Joplin.  It’s the Music turned up to Number Ten.   If Love and Life wait for no one, then Spring is the first out the door, led by the Mad Magnolia Queers.  Talk about “Parades” or doing it in public.  They are not ashamed of being who they are.  In all their glory: they amp it up, they stretch and bloom and arch their velvet, pouting petals in every majestic direction they can: reaching for the Sky, the Sun — and everything in-between.

There is no prude in magnolia Pride!
So, this is a little late.  The show began a month back, and the Majestic Ladies are now showing their age – the few that are still left around.

Such crude and unrefined show-offs, they don’t even try to disguise their age!   The big floppy, velvety, soft, sensuous petals begin to brown and wither … and soon, within days or even hours, they are lying on the ground, inebriated, dead-drunk  – willing to rot or surrender to the merciless rake of the Japanese Gardener.  Whoosh, scritch-scratch, they are gone!  Unceremoniously dumped into some mundane back-alley disposal unit to end up in the civic land-fill, remembered by  … who?

Well, they don’t care.  They’re not egotistical enough to ask for a “Magnolia Graveyard”.  Or will it be “cremation or burial”…?  They care not for paperwork and diplomacy.  No one will have a “Celebration of Life” for them.  Paradoxically, their LIFE is their “Celebration of Life”, not their death.  They celebrate life, by stretching, dancing, yawing, screaming … into their extravagant unique amazing individuality, and they take it to the Nth degree.  Not polite and reserved like us Canadians.

Gay White Sailors waiting for their Love Boat to come ...So, here it is, May 14th.  Spring is finally feeling the Fingers of Summer and the White-Gloved Hand of Winter is gradually letting go.  It seems that it is these courageous blossoms that have paved the way.  They announced Spring, by announcing themselves.  They made a Big Noisy Party and Winter could stand it no more; that Quiet, Icy, Catholic Nun left the house.   And Summer, on it’s Harley-Davidson arrived with a Roar.

Oh, to Live That Way.

Those humble and exotic flowers can teach us so much.

If we care to listen to their song.

How can you miss it?

White Cat ~ September Sun

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.

Flowers in the Light of Day

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.

the Mistress of the Moment, it seems ...

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.

The Harbinger of Infinity ...

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.

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