Meditatio

i Meditates

there is clean air and green
undergrowth
the sound of birds here and
there
a fly buzzing by—a
couple of cars in the distance
a tractor roaring
the sun dancing in blobby patches
on my upper bod

light breeze whispering
through leaves in the
trees
the shadow of leaves
on my yellow T
minuscule green bugs
on my arm

bugs a-whirl under
the leafage
dog’s barking
insects in the grass
pigeon cooing
a plane droning over
head in the sky

the texture feels embalming
and silky
like silk shirt
rippling on the fine dough of
my bod
in the buzzing summer oven
alright

I am the son of the sun

when you sit down to meditate: ask yourself what you are
expecting from doing it. where do you expect to arrive at.
what psychological state are you in fact chasing. what are
you actually after?
for me: it’s basically a sense of feeling OK. a sense of being
right there where I belong. a sense of being grounded in the
given moment and place. among the people who matter to
me and the people to whom I matter. where I feel satisfied
with where and what and how I am. where everything’s in
its place. and I feel integral to a growing whole.
or a sense of having a clear conscience. a sense of being
responsible for myself and for my life. that I am not a
burden on anyone. that my presence is not an imposition.
on the contrary: that my presence adds something of value
to the people and the world around me. that indeed I am
conducive to the well-being of the world around me. that
my contribution matters. that my talents are relevant. yes.
I expect to be relieved of the pressure of feeling guilty for
who I am. I expect to be guilt- and shame-free. I expect to
feel that my existence is of use and of value and that I am a
PLUS rather than a MINUS (i.e. a useless hunk of mushy
flesh—a waste of precious resources). that’s basically what I
expect to feel. . . and then I allow myself the feeling.

nowadays the attitude of relishing quietude is a rather
neglected aptitude.

each moment you can choose between opening up—or
contracting around a trickle of yet another distraction.

the more you choose the latter: the less you will feel alive
and well.

the only real progress we ever make is in moments of total
stillness—paradoxically.

heavy flaps of pigeon wings wrinkle up the smooth fabric of
quietude

the whimper of a lawn mower
a mile away
a car’s door slamming shut the
engine revving up
a neighbor sweeping their backyard
a couple houses down the street
a black ant reconnoitering
on my left knee

green apple snug on the wet sand
in front of me
cockchafer riding the air like a
chopper
the train at the edge of the town
passing by
in the direction of our capital

when a sliver of a childhood feeling pierces me
the richness of it overwhelms me
to such an extent that it feels too much to take
without breaking down into sobbing
how simple it was—and how free of the mind
of the demands of the ego
it was so pure and so simple. . . so natural. . .

as the clouds morph into sky
the apple rots on the ground
there is a coming and a going
and a restless madness in be
tween

and what a cruel joke is this—
we learn how to properly live
only in retrospect
we realize what matters only
after it’s gone
we find true joy in the finality
of our sadness

being honest with yourself is difficult precisely to the extent
that you refrain from being bored—or sitting in silence
contemplating things by putting questions to yourself and
inquiring—on a regular or at least semi-regular basis.

the less you work your honesty-muscle the more atrophied
it gets.

the sun’s sons we are

there’s a church bell tolling and a
pig groaning
in a sty nearby (must be big from
the sound of it)
and the sound of the pen: on the
paper I am holding
a mosquito fixing to start drilling
near my ankle on my left leg

there is constant
stirring—
stillness indeed
is a
shifty business. . .