Wandering About My Springtime Mind

POW!!!  Whooooosh!  Shimmer.  Sizzle.  Hussshhh…

 

It’s springtime.  And it’s moonday.  The air is a perfectly warm, spacious embrace, and its only nine forty eight am.  Today’s one of those days I could write to the end of affinity about the frivolous nuances of the present moment.  I guess my heart must be relatively untroubled today, hallelujah praise the lord!  I’m gonna lean into THIS.  I mean GOD, it’s been a while since I was genuinely excited about such sweet nothings as the man behind the counter with his bare arms plunged into a huge plastic bucket of loose, sloppy dough, kneading his heart out, or even the flies whizzing gracefully about the glowing atmosphere of Pizzaiolo.

 

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of my beloved Dan’s death.  The day came and went… and honestly, it felt just like every other day.  Ever since his passing, every time I feel the urge to make any kinda fuss about him, I can totally hear him telling me to get over it, already.  Dan was a true minister of The Moment.  The steady song streaming from his heart, if not his delicious lips, was BE HERE NOW. BE HERE NOW.  BE HERE NOW.  It used to drive me cray-zay.  Oh how often we sat in languid mutual delight, sipping red wine, our minds fully erect and ready to pounce on any and every compelling topic… Inevitably, his gospel would swell and break upon me, “All we have is THE MOMENT.”  And I’d reflect on the stark diversity of moments that make up the weave of my life.  Some of them so rich and full and satisfying… others, pathetically empty, limping and nutritionally void.  Really, I’d wonder aloud?  Is that IT??  And if we are ALWAYS fully given to this self-contained, multi-dimensional, tepid toaster pastry we know as NOW, then how will we ever birth and foster any substantial dreams or visions?

 

Moving from moment to moment like a tragically hip, freewheeling buddha seems cool and all… but… WHO DOES THAT?  Really, Dan, this is the “real world” (which honestly, I’m not sure HOW REAL it really IS… But it’s the realest thing on the menu at this point…), and in the “real world”, one must bust one’s butt in the hamster wheel of survival and perhaps even thrival, should karma and the stars be smiling upon one…  But Dan, buddha though he was/is, and freewheeling, too, lived one of the richest, most serviceful and adventure-laden lives I’ve ever been privileged to witness.  He sailed around the world, started an organization assisting people with disabilities who need help living in this world designed for fully functional people, ran a hundred miles through the forests and shores of northern marin, had sex with over two hundred women (damn!), took care of his elderly mother, even though as a full-fledged alcoholic, she had never really taken care of him, wrote endless seas of poetry… God, when it comes to the rich nuanced adventures of Dan’s life, I could really go on forever.  I swear.   But that’s not even what I meant to blog about.  The bottom line, is that Dan was accomplished on every level.  If I were a judging, condemning God (wink), guarding the pearly gates, and Dan came a-knockin and handed me a sprawling scroll on which was written the complete resume of his most recent incarnation, I would take off my hat and bow in disarmed humility at the blue lotus feet of this profoundly accomplished and heart-full soul.

 

Remember, right before he died, he wrote, LIVE A in the dirt on the river’s shore… God, how many times in this past year have I reflected on that… as I stood before the judging and condemning pseudo god who smites from within me (just being honest)… and tried to add it all up… my existence, I mean… Wondering, “IS THIS LIVING???”

 

I wanted friday to be over so bad.  I just couldn’t find anything authentically compelling to give myself over to.  I was sure that saturday would be my salvation.  Saturday came.  And granted, it was better than friday.  At least it started off that way… but like a one hit wonder popstar, it quickly became a fat, ugly junkie, too pathetic to even make the tabloids.  And what of sunday?  Well, naturally, I dragged my hope-eroded ass to the early church service at East Bay Church of Religious Science, before Ecstatic Dance, hoping to soak up some gossamer gospel like stale bread soaks up the sweet eggy cinnamon goop on it’s way to reincarnating as succulent and life-affirming french toast.

 

I don’t even EAT french toast.  No way.  But how cute is it that my magnificent Ma had it for DINNER one night, last time I was “shramming”.  I perched on the spacious, wooden counter top, munching left over salad and dangerously salty olives as she soaked her toast in the wiggly batter of salvation, snuggled it in the hot, buttered “castie”, and left it to sear in the alchemy of destiny.  I admire a woman who is liberated enough to eat french toast for dinner, if that happens to be her fancy.  Ruth, the eighty-something year old woman who habitates in the room next door to my ma, laughed when she caught wind of my ma’s fine dining selection.  Neither of us were certain why… so we collectively mulled it over as she fried and buttered her dinner and I munched mine like a fierce herbivore dinosaur.

 

What’s the point of ANY of this?  There really IS NONE.  Honestly, I have no idea how I got to this eighth paragraph of modern day Athena Graceland.  I wanted to talk all about how the roses are bursting into unabashed bloom, and how good it felt to be in the pool this morning…and how at church, Reverend E once again preached on her impassioned stance that couples today must *fight* to stay together in a speeding modern world that practically shuns such classical steadfastness.  Reverend E is eighty something… and gracefully manages to pull of an ingenious synthesis of old skool values anchored sustainably in present time.  She’s like the thousand year old oak tree, whom the entire village takes refuge within and beneath.  She is the roots who embrace the time-transcendent, nutrient dense darkness of the soil, the lush, leafy branches who embrace the purity of space we call the sky, and point the way to heaven.  She is the sturdy trunk who has elegantly weathered a thousand and eight storms, and is now a living example of patience and strength.

 

I even wanted to throw down a gigglish honorable mention to the radiant older woman perched in the corner, nibbling upon delicious nothings as she pours over a clipboard, because she is sporting a backwards visor.  Kinda like a backward cap meets a sweatband… but like what’s the point?  It’s not “fashionable”, by any stretch.  I mean really- visors are strictly functional.  They keep the sun from scorching innocent eyeballs.  But clearly, she’s marching to the beat of her own drum.  I applaud her loving adherence to that eccentric inner drum beat.

 

So now is the part when I soften my inner gaze and let the full contents of this writing session soak in… so that I can add it all up and then divide it by Dan’s entire life times my unborn dreams and spit out something resembling a non-dogmatic “moral”.

 

Not.  In summing up, the best I can say, is that this is me saying YES to my mind.  Sorta like a pap smear, just a random swiping of cells to be sent to the lab and examined in a petri dish.  And on a gorgeous day like this, THAT’S MORE THAN ENOUGH.  Oh yeah… so I hated friday and saturnday… and sunday shone with some weighty though tarnished redemption…. But I must say, so far, Moonday is one of those garlands of NowNess that sticks to the ribs of my inner life.  Yeah, yeah, this too shall pass… but I hope it lasts a while before it evades the gentle, spacious grasp of my insatiable appetite for sweet illusions.

 

Live,

A

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