I immerge from a fresh dream. It

 

            I immerge from a fresh dream. It gapes and stretches throughout my recollection. Idling for just a moment, to make certain its message is received. It doesn’t want me to go through my day without heading its sign, that which was sent to me from within and up above. I open my eyes feeling accomplishment from traversing the dreamland.

It was good last night. I can tell I had my fun in the other realms.

 

            The Sun is yet again, with its undying testament of its love, attempting to penetrate the old, veteran redwoods. On the sideline, it pours over enveloping my trailer, like that see-through mesh that parents put over their daughters beds to give them a chance to feel like a princess. It stirs the birds into melody and it stirs the bird inside of me. The robins and juncos are chattering amongst themselves, thinking they are the possessors of some great secret, but all of existence can overhear them. And besides, everybody already knows what they’re talking about me. My neighbor, the ferns, the protozoa, and I all of us know what they’re getting at. There’s but a single language between any of us.  So we know that they’re speaking of how happy they are to not have been taken in the night. They are giving their thanks and praise that they get another chance at having the playful silk of light caress their feathers. And, in turn the light is just as exuberant. Once again gleaming with twinkles and winks that it gets to be seeped through the fluttering beings layers and meet in resonance with what seeks it inside of them.

 

            I muster the will to birth myself from the purgatory womb of covers, I walk out the swinging door to arrive for my existence. My burning orange mat unfurls with a sharp flick like the tail of an intrigued Siamese. I stand up right at its edge peering over it like a Calico into a Koi pond. And Swan dive like a Swallow shooting for the sun. Just like all those great, fuming orbs that make up our silhouetted sky I too get to feel the rising of Kundalini, during their everlasting dance to balance shimmer and shadow.  Its in my spine striving to reach up my vertebraes till it makes love with the divine. Progression comes through poses, Child, Mountain, Cat and Cow. I am streaming through existence, embodying as many forms as I can. Enraptured in the power of other life- form’s outlets. I invert myself up a Redwood’s side. Body against its bark, hoping to absorb through my pores what its 200 years can show me about growth.

 

            I bow back down, feet to ground. I walk for the duration it takes the sun to spin 12 degrees. Through the little bit of Gaia’s diorama, that for now, academia has deemed not to be annihilated. Breathe in, tree sways, breathe out, wings flaps. I open the door, walk past 11 rows with the goal to go to the up most one, walk seven columns in and arrive at my very own, personal square. Just big enough for my splattered- shape body to fit in, if I don’t fidget. Its one of two hundred squares that fit into a bigger box. I raise my chin up and look at a parametered square of light that has many words inside of it, and no pictures. My brain shys into a listening state, my consciousness curtsies to the consciousness in front of me. I look down, thumb the flapping tail feathers of my apricot- tinted notebook. The paper within it is made from recycled rags I used to dry dishes with, and the sturdy spine I sewed for myself. On the cover, is the stamped statement “In Awe”, designed from my carving of an uncarved block. I think to myself, if I were to be a stamp making a statement, I’d hope to be just as blank as an uncarved block. Inside the book I begin to draw my notes, I look up, the milieu of black words infiltrates me effectively enough. Yet to sink them down to a lasting level, I visualize them in my minds- eye and express them in the style they desire. This, I do to make the time where I am being boxed in, not just time where I am being boxed in.

 

            In order to save myself from experiencing the creeping claustrophobia that is intrinsic in this age’s way of life. The way that will oh- so subtly and swiftly seethe it’s outdated breathe into your space. It will asylum you without fail, unless you have the discernment and strength to whack it back to the box that it crawled out of.  I worship my fortune to be granted a life full of intellect-raising experiences. Yet I play fight, like a baby wolf, with the system that is asserting anything more than knowledge over my fellow malleable minds and me. Thus, I dual with it, so I don’t succumb to it.  Once the cargo train of words comes to a stop I get up and look into the brilliant eyes of this human expert in front of me, and from that stance, that position, we can coalesce. We do so, and then we unravel into each other with laughter. I walk out the door knowing that I am walking because I want to walk.

 

            The path that guides me to the next place I will be, plays a game of hide and seek. At points I see existence in its full, unquivering glory, and then there are places I see it is cramping from fear. I walk, unrushed, through humans, concrete and trees.  Allowing myself time to see my community and let them see me. Like neurotransmitter bouncing around in this lump of clay we connect and exchange the truths that we have found today.  We hault the execution of our personal processions and pause to have a chat that acts in place of a Japanese bow. This town with its one route in and its one route out, is almost a closed- loop. Everyone knows each other here. If they don’t know them, they’ve met them before, and if they haven’t met them before, they have been them before.

 

            I walk beneath splotches of shade and sun playfully billowing over me like the waving of a sheet that reveals my lover to me, and then tantalizing takes them away. I get to see glimpses of mid-day miracles. The brilliant, smiling face of a Sufi poet, a spliff- smoker with the exact essence and insight of Simone de Beauvior a writer with the ravaging intent of a Jack Kerouac transcribing his experiences of being on the road, a hoola hooper in orbit like a whirling dervish, a couple kissing like two amoebas becoming one, a drummer in a meadow like a 1970’s Nyabinghi player imitating the sound a wave makes when hitting a Kingston shore, a naturalist seeing the entirety of a redwood grove using the holistic lens of Gregory Bateson, a practicioner of  Qi Gong cultivating life force like a basking turtle, a student at a whiteboard becoming the next David Bohm of quantum physicist, and a gardener that has been to Eden and knows that the Bible is pointing just as North as anything else on this globe. The sun is directly overhead and consciousness is surging with its infinite plentitude. I like an owl, watching the splendor.

 

            I stand outside a room of solitude, back turned, staring. I exist for a few moments in that place, then swivel, walk through the door, turn back around, and look out through the marquee windows. Out at an electric teal mural that has yet to come to the completion of its purpose.  It is the piece my friend and I have been working on since the last waning of the convex moon. I think to myself how I adore what it means, and I am proud of its presence on this campus but, nonetheless I know that compared to what’s in store, its just the spittle and foam that bubbled up before Old Faithful realized its capacity. This life is short, but we honor its force. The little hole that births the cascade of the earth’s liquid innards is still, despite its size, capable of giving rise to that rocket of a stream. Intune yourself with Gaia’s biorhythm and she will let share in her bounty.

 

             I walk upstairs to the kitchen, curtailing my confusion on how a space as nice as this is available to me without the signing of papers. I begin to bake. My supplies are stored in a near-by locker for the sweet convenience of cutting out unnecessary tasks in life. I pluck out almond flour, cacoa, gogi berries, and ghee. The hardy ingredients, that the earth has filled with a chock full of love and has infused with well-being. I begin to add each ingredient one at a time into the big bowl that can hold it all. I am aware of each gesture I make, my hands like ballerina tutus, my arms, like the dancer’s legs. Someone has slipped stilts under my feet, I feel myself elevate. I connect with every movement I make. My body gets into the rhythm of preparing the cookies and my mind follows in its sway. It turns into a kitchen symphony, all different instruments playing their part at the right moment. The collaboration comes together in a pillow of dough that I cookie- cut into the shape of hearts. I leave my solitude with a handful of hearts heading up to the trailer park to eat with a handful of friends.

 

            The humans around the picnic table have created a cell in them selves. Dishes go around, there are energetic exchanges, messages of knowledge and wisdom are transmitted, there’s the catalyst of laughs, and the consumption of sustenance, all processing within the barrier of transcendental dining. Feeling full from the reminder that we are all feeding from the same source, we play catch with that gift. There seems to be peach fuzz floating in the air and everything that is said turns into gold. I return to my trailer knowing I’m complete. I sit down, legs crossed, eyes closed. I fold the fabric of today that I’d unfurled with gusto this morning, back to its place of neatness and care. I sit zazen for the duration it takes my awake state to subdue itself.  Then, I climb back into the womb, and begin to bake, till the sun tries to penetrate the redwoods and the birds start telling their secret, yet again. 

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