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.

The Art is Waiting for your Paintbrush ...

 

I Land I Know

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”.

 

 

 

 

An Old Rose ~ Like Me …

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.

Babies and Buds amidst Elderly and DyingToday, 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.

Red Family 4 youAnd 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.

Big Yellow Birds of the Open Sky

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.

later Day Illuminates Those who stay ...

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.

Roses are Red, Why are U Blue?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.

 

Thirty-Seven Years of Gold.

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.Prem Rawat (also known as "Maharaji")

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.

Maharaji - also known by his given name, Prem Rawat, see www.wopg.orgFor 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.Maharaji, from an interview with journalist Burt Wolfe.

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.

Morning Glories & Solitude Stories

Context surfaces from the depths of the moment we’re in, and paints its amazing colors on the interior and exterior of Life’s Landscapes. Today is a day of sun; and sun is a sought-after and coveted element of life in the Pacific Northwest. When it comes, we must respond.Burnt Sienna Context - Simple & Solitary

There’s something lovely about breathing in the ambiance of the current moments of life, as they pass.  Today was another walk back through the Queen’s Park neighborhood – a stately of collection of heritage homes and gardens, in what is one of British Columbia’s oldest, historic communities.

What struck me on this walk was the character of individual flowers in the milieu of light and shade.  Those of us who reflect sometimes on the nature of life witness a synchronicity in the panoramas of the natural world around us.  Flowers have their unique personalities: they’re patient beings.   They stay where they’re rooted, unfold sweetly at their own perfect pacing, and add color, life and beauty to the most mundane of environments.

Purple Poppies Peeked and Squeaked in DelightSome flowers are “social beings” – they grow in clusters – large, noisy families and clan.  Others are more solitary, quiet, almost meditative.  I’ve been noticing tulips lately.  Whether alone, or amongst others, they seem somewhat self-absorbed.  Quiet.  “Prayerful” almost.   Their petals are folded up in the most unique, serene manner.  They come undone in their own time, but always, inevitably, before the onslaught of summer.

So, these flowers, in their unique and humble occupation of a small artistic patch of time and space, speak to me of the Human Journey.  I am one who craves and understands and plunges into periods of solitude in my own journey.  Solitude – in order to work – needs proper context both inward and outward, and when this balance is arrived at, solitude becomes a gift, a sweetness, an essential recipe to understanding the architecture of life.

Fiddle-Heads and Ferns, the Changes and Tossing of Turns ...So: beauty in solitude.  The flowers outdoors speak to the flowers indoors.  What elegant, unassuming and glorious creatures they are. (And yes, King Solomon, in all his glory … couldn’t hold a match to these Significant, unnamed actors on my stage.)

What also struck me, was the play of light and shadow that gave each flower its special “place”.  This extravagant “stage lighting” – courtesy, again, of Ma Nature and Pa Sun – could never be emulated, fabricated or approximated by any of Hollywood’s expensive lighting kits and unionized technicians.   Shadow and dark, it seemed, were essential agents in the backdrop that gives each flower its unique beauty.  And the lighting: changing every moment.  You have to be there.  You have to be present.  To witness.  To understand.  To receive.

And so, the gifts are given.  Every moment.  This fascinating, interesting, absorbing, unique – and ephemeral – production, called “My Life” is happening.  In the Theater of Now.  It only plays once.   Admission is free, but there is one string attached: this is, you have to show up.  You have to be present.  You have to be alive in this moment of now, or you miss the whole show.

You miss the Solitary Flowers.  The Fragrance.  The shouting of a million Japanese Plum blossoms.  The quiet whispers of Monastic Tulips, praying in Humble Churches of Unkempt Back-Yards.  You miss the simple daisies and dandelions as they tell their proud working-class story to the soft green grasses that glimmer in the background.

Single Solitary TulipSo much can be said with a Whisper, a Sigh.  A nodding head in the wind, from these simple, colorful beings who know and celebrate their humble purpose and place in life, with a song that makes us all look mute and deaf in comparison.

This was a simple walk, from a Morning Coffee, to an Afternoon Computer, on this one day called Friday May 20th, 2011, which will never come again.   These gifts were given to me.

I pass them on to you.

Traveling Light

It’s been said that we’re all Travelers.

We’re here for a while, then we leave.

This, they say, is common knowledge, and no – we don’t need to be reminded.

I need to be reminded of this all the time.  Many times daily.  Why?  Because, left to my own devices, I pave the road of my journey with the asphalt of assumptions.

Humans have been known to do this.  We establish our comfort zone, our routines, our padded cell of addictions and compromises… and then all of a sudden, we have these apocalyptic ‘surprises’ in life, surprises that derail us.  De-stable us.  Devastate us.

Traveling “light” has to do with Traveling Light.   Funny phrase, an un-planned metaphor of sorts.   Light is pure energy.  It travels at an amazing speed, something science itself can hardly grasp.  It carries nothing with it, except it.  We don’t really know where it begins, nor where it ends … but its presence in our lives allows vision, clarity, purpose, direction and movement.

Perhaps Traveling Light is really about Traveling with Light.  Meaning, light becomes a companion, a fellow traveler, a compatriot, comrade, therapist, guru, lover, child, spouse … uh … “friend”…?   So, who and where and what is this “light” that we need to companionize?  Is it just a fancy phrase thrown around by those who claim spiritual one-upmanship in our midst?  Or is it a real, tangible, substantive quality that can be felt, known, ingested, “grokked” as Robert Heinlein would put it.

This is the question that must be asked, and the answer that must be found.  Individually.  Uniquely.  Purposefully.  Absolutely.  More than mere words and fancy texts and expensive workshops, retreats and symposia.  For each of us, the answer must fit, resonate, make meaning and fire within the belly of our understanding.

Traveling with Light implies walking the human path knowing it is your own very unique and solitary journey, but it also means never feeling alone or abandoned in the process.  It also means understanding mortality from a place of consciousness, not from a place of concept, morality or superstition.   Understanding mortality from a point of consciousness also implies understanding the counterpoint of mortality – also from a place of consciousness: immortality.   What part of our being that is encased in this fragile human wrapping is immortal?  Is this known, grokked, felt, understood in a way that goes far beyond words & descriptions?

This thing, impossible to describe, but possible to allude to, is the essential secret & substantive core of human existence.  The dance of the eternal.  The music that plays, unceasingly in the deepest recess of our own being.  Light.  Known.  Bathed in.  Inhaled.  Loved.  Lived.

Celebrated.

Light.

Traveling Light.