Underground

In the land of perpetual night, no moon flows across the skies. There are lakes and rivers; small and large; some flow for hundreds of miles and more.
When we, of the surface, sink our hands into the warm earth of summer gardens, carefully tuck soil around tender roots of geraniums and daisies, we move into that world, the world of roots and earthworms. There the trees bear no leaves, yet have trunks and fine, fine hair. It is where the mushrooms sleep among strange grass and shrubs, dark and moist and fertile.
We call it ground and speak of being grounded and we farm the land. From that land we coax the spirit of our bones and teeth, the vegetables that break open the secret treasure of precious minerals hidden there. Calcium and phosphorus, copper, gold and manganese.
At night we sleep. We sink deep into our own beginning. We come from there, below the day crust; below the bright. Out of sight we play in the endless theatre of the mind; earth mind.
In the land of perpetual mind, no moon flows across the sky; no stars. But it snows. It is the snow of shade, of the hidden and when we wake, we bring some of it back. On our shoulders and in our hair; melting dreams. Snowmen frozen by sunlight and shrinking; legless and sad, saying: See you soon; goodbye. It was fun, goodbye.

The Hill

In the center of the park, as if pointing to the Infinite, live a group of sturdy, tall trees. They reach into the sky; columns of an ancient temple, the Temple of Silence.
The Good Book counsels: the Meek shall inherit the Earth. In this place, meekness comes easy. Those trees, their brothers and the ancient hill conspire to help us become still. Still, quiet and small. Small enough to hear the faint voice that speaks there; eloquent and shattering. Speaks about the important, about spirit and about priorities.
Across the center of the park, a scar of a busy road flows. Large and noisy trucks rumble across that saddle. One would expect the road to be a distraction. Somehow it isn't. The Hill uses it to illustrate a point. It looks down at our town, with all that Human doing and all that stuff and the race to get more and more stuff--
We are believers in Stuff; addicted. We believe in Stuff and the symbols of Stuff. Trucks full of stuff groan across the hill and the quiet voice asks:
Enough? Have you had enough?

Her Dogishness; Too Li

I just learned how to upload pictures to my blog. As usual, I am at the very end of the tecnology
line. Anybody have a computer that they need destroyed? I have a knack for that. Must be a skill that I can utilize somehow.
Though Too Li looks peaceful here, don't be fooled. She tends to being annoying in public. All the bark without the size, I say.

Touring Town and Keeping the Nails Trimmed Down

Here is Roberto and Too Li on tour. Notice the signs of trepidation as Too Li tries to keep in the safety zone, away from the dog-eating wheels. This photo was taken just after her first encounter with a wild rabbit, an elusive wild rabbit.
I can't tell you the reaction we get from the tourists. We all but cause accidents. Even the cops smile at the sight.

Cycles and Patterns

Too Li the little Doxie Dog is snugly tucked into a curl on her blanket, on her end of the couch. One of my sweaters covers her. She likes to burrow and uses her nose to lift the edge of the sweater, slinking into her impromptu den. From there she hears birds and the morning trucks, while I drink coffee and write. She barks at the noises, though she knows I don't like her to bark too much or too loud. She tries to keep it down, but it is hard for her to suppress her dogishness.
The birds are loud through my open door. It rained last night and the air is cool, even a bit chilly and smells fresh, with a bit of sting in the nose. The warm sleep-air of night is trickling out and the visitor morning air dances through my door.
In the distance I hear the garbage truck with it's beeping back-up alarm and rumbling engine. It crashes and bumps about, stuffing it's belly with a weeks worth of town discards. Tennis shoes and plastic bags, five day old pizza crusts and the regurgitated dregs from the vacuum cleaner. It is a machine and eats anything.
I pour another cup of coffee. A spoonful of sugar and a snake-like curl of heavy cream, that sinks to oblivion at the bottom of the cup and rises as billowing thunder clouds to the surface. The coffee is hot and sweet and smooth. It smells of earth that clothes tropical hills far to the south. Of long days baking under a close sun and humid nights serenaded by the buzzing of hundreds of species of night-flying insects.
The birds are banging away in song. They all seem to have babies and are shoving worms, caterpillars and flies into the stomachs of complaining endless appetites. Each chick tries hard to stretch a small beak as wide as the nest, target for food flying in and outdo the other one or two demanders.
I repeat the ritual of the filling of the coffee cup. I know that each coffee bean was picked by a Human; that each was thumbed and forefingered by someone that lives thousands of miles away. That, chances are, the hundred or so beans I used to make a full pot were touched by a dozen or more people, each bean a small packet of sunshine and earth with, maybe, a single carbon atom that came from my own lungs.
Everything is cycles and patterns. The clock forever races around the same track, twice a day. The earth zooms around the sun and the moon around the earth. The seasons fold into each other, just as stars are born from the dust of long-lost super novae. Mountains rise and melt into plains. Trees spring up like mushrooms and crash to the earth, returning as if to bed. The Universe too, goes to sleep and wakes with a bang, endlessly and endlessly, forever.

Pioneer Park

At the center of the park, like pointers to the Infinite, stand a group of big trees. They reach into the sky, columns of an ancient temple, the temple of
silence.
The good book counsels: the meek shall inherit the earth. In this place, meekness comes easy. Those trees and their brothers, the ancient hill, all conspire to bring us quiet. Quiet and smallness. Small enough to attend to the tiny and faint voice that speaks there, eloquent and shattering, about the important, about spirit, about priorities.
Cut across the center of the park is a busy throughway. Large and noisy trucks rumble across that saddle. One would expect the road to be a distraction, yet somehow, it is not. The Hill uses it to illustrate a point. It looks down at our town, with all that Human doing, all that stuff and the race to get first prize and more stuff. We are believers, true believers in the Religion of Stuff. We are addicted to Stuff and the symbols of Stuff. Trucks full of stuff groan across the hill and the quiet voice asks: Enough? Have you had enough?

Let there be enough Light

It is Spring. My heavy coats hang untouched by the front door and the pink snow trees are stepping into full bloom. Ornamental cherries with a million flower petals and no fruit. Like giant pink gloves the earth has pulled on, three of them, hollering PINK! Check it out! Get your PINK! here! Got some PINK for ya. PINK! PINK!
Nine at night looks like five in the morning. Sixteen hours of daylight, enough to bottle the excess to come. The evenings are full of possibilities and I am turning to dressing my patio in shades of vibrant green with spots of red and pink and yellow. Soon it will become a secret jewel in town; fragrant and cool, easy and relaxing. My patio, my heart. That is where I live. With my door wide open, windows agape and welcoming the night air, my crunched house, the Aluminum Chateau, becomes a palace. Expansive as my own summer spirit, a joy covered with smiles;