I like the image of a rich blue sky with billowing white clouds floating by, like
thoughts, they dissipate, and again the sky is rich but empty, until along comes another
cloud, and it catches your attention and off you go. Come back again and again, gently
they say, to the vast expanse of the empty blue sky. I'm not a good meditator. But then
I'm not very good at Ardha Chandrasana or doing anything mechanical...back to the blue sky. I told my yoga teacher how tea tree oil is great at stopping the itch of chigger bites, how my nephew, after mowing the grass had dozens of chigger bites, and the itching was driving him crazy, to the point that he couldn't sleep. Tea tree oil proved to be the solution. This morning, barely past dawn, while washing my car, I kept gazing up at the waning moon, and my mind was flooded with thoughts, and since I wasn't meditating per se, although I like to think I live a contemplative life, I just allowed them to go wherever they wanted. Something like this: ouch, something just stung me on the back, was it that honey bee that keeps buzzing around? ouch again, a fire ant just stung me on the ankle. Tea tree oil. Washing one's mala beads in oil and placing them outside under the rays of a full moon and letting them soak up her gentle beams is suggested and recommended. But then I don't wear my mala beads. Where is my rosary from Jerusalem that SD gave me years ago? I'm so glad I'm finished, more or less, with Catholicism. You must leave your partner, you must become celibate. WE love you Ron, we love you deeply even though you are gay, but to lead this spiritual path you must leave your partner and restrain yourself from making love or having sex with any man. Outrageous! I've been with my partner for over 33 years now. Fuck off. I love him far more than I could possibly embrace your religion. Then I'm back in the present, washing my car, listening to the plethora of sounds--a wide array of birds singing their songs to greet the new day, dogs barking in the far distance, the braying of a donkey, the buzzing of that bee. Then I thought of the day I was at the local grocery store, and standing in the line was a little boy with his father. I don't recall ever having seen such a sad little boy. Big brown downcast eyes, his father had to nudge him to take a step forward as the line moved, and it seemed like a task too difficult for him to do, that he'd just as soon stand there frozen in time, lost in his sad reverie, too frightened to move on his own. He was so little and thin, frail, beautiful dark skin that contrasted with the whiteness of his father's paleness. Was he adopted? Again and again he had to be nudged forward, each little step in his sandaled feet such a difficult task for him. I wondered what ailment he may have, some mysterious disease, was he blind and/or deaf? One eye was definitely off. His sadness just came over me like a wave and sent me crashing into those walls of the unknown, the scary, dark places we all know. I told the cashier that something must be wrong with that little boy that just got escorted out to his car with his dad. "Well, yes, of course there is something wrong with him, you should have seen his father pulling him around the store, nearly yanking his arms out of their sockets, yelling at him, he was really rough with him. Not just rough, cruel." I cringed. Is this a case of child abuse? "If I weren't on duty I'd report him," she said. I walked outside and saw the father driving away in his old white car. I noted the license number and jumped in my car and decided to follow him, even though I had no idea what I would do. I spotted his white car parked at the far corner of the local Sonic, as far away as possible from the eyes of employees and other patrons. This confirmed my suspicions. This little boy was obviously the victim of abuse. What can I do? What if I'm wrong? I needed gasoline so I drove into the nearby gas station and there I saw a deputy sheriff's car. I went inside, found him, and gave him the license number of the vehicle and told him what I knew. No sir, I didn't see anything but others at the grocery did. Please help this little boy. There is nothing I can do he informed me, except notify child services. Please give them the license number I pleaded. He said he'd do what he could. I left feeling empty.
Again, in the present, is that a skunk I smell? Dale saw one the other night sauntering along the sidewalk between the house and the garage. I remember reaching out in the dark one night thinking I was going to be petting my family's collie, and instead reached down and got a powerful spray from a skunk at my feet. It was so strong I couldn't even smell it. But I could feel it, again like a wave, a vibration, sending me reeling, backwards. Now I find myself thinking of S, and how quickly I grew fond of him. What a fun time we had for a week while he was my house guest. How many bottles of wine did we drink? How many times did we stay up until the wee hours just chatting away, sharing our stories, being a bit playful now and again. But before long, red flags went up. Bright red flags, glaring, impossible to ignore. I walked away. I got pulled back in. His horror stories of childhood abuse beyond anything I'd ever heard before, firsthand, made me cry. We wept. He stopped but I continued, the tears flowed for months. How can I walk away from such pain? Let me help you, let me take care of you, let me console you and be very close and loving. NO. NEVER. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. Then he walked away and that was the end of the *friendship.* I did my best. I read, I researched, I learned as much as I could about PTSD, about the exploitation of children, often at the hands of their own parents or older siblings. I read how our society is one that is starving for the loving, caring, human touch and NOT the touch of abuse. We are afraid to touch one another. I am so easily touched. I am so drawn to the deeply wounded. I dig deep into my psyche (soul) to undercover all secrets, all pain, all suffering, and re-live it until I understand it, until all is forgiven and healing has set in.
I finished washing my car this morning, had breakfast, then joined my beautiful gay kula for an intense vinyasa. I love those guys. I also love this poem, because it touches me, it reminds me of the suffering of children, and how those scars can remain unhealed unless they are dealt with spiritually/psychologically:
thoughts, they dissipate, and again the sky is rich but empty, until along comes another
cloud, and it catches your attention and off you go. Come back again and again, gently
they say, to the vast expanse of the empty blue sky. I'm not a good meditator. But then
I'm not very good at Ardha Chandrasana or doing anything mechanical...back to the blue sky. I told my yoga teacher how tea tree oil is great at stopping the itch of chigger bites, how my nephew, after mowing the grass had dozens of chigger bites, and the itching was driving him crazy, to the point that he couldn't sleep. Tea tree oil proved to be the solution. This morning, barely past dawn, while washing my car, I kept gazing up at the waning moon, and my mind was flooded with thoughts, and since I wasn't meditating per se, although I like to think I live a contemplative life, I just allowed them to go wherever they wanted. Something like this: ouch, something just stung me on the back, was it that honey bee that keeps buzzing around? ouch again, a fire ant just stung me on the ankle. Tea tree oil. Washing one's mala beads in oil and placing them outside under the rays of a full moon and letting them soak up her gentle beams is suggested and recommended. But then I don't wear my mala beads. Where is my rosary from Jerusalem that SD gave me years ago? I'm so glad I'm finished, more or less, with Catholicism. You must leave your partner, you must become celibate. WE love you Ron, we love you deeply even though you are gay, but to lead this spiritual path you must leave your partner and restrain yourself from making love or having sex with any man. Outrageous! I've been with my partner for over 33 years now. Fuck off. I love him far more than I could possibly embrace your religion. Then I'm back in the present, washing my car, listening to the plethora of sounds--a wide array of birds singing their songs to greet the new day, dogs barking in the far distance, the braying of a donkey, the buzzing of that bee. Then I thought of the day I was at the local grocery store, and standing in the line was a little boy with his father. I don't recall ever having seen such a sad little boy. Big brown downcast eyes, his father had to nudge him to take a step forward as the line moved, and it seemed like a task too difficult for him to do, that he'd just as soon stand there frozen in time, lost in his sad reverie, too frightened to move on his own. He was so little and thin, frail, beautiful dark skin that contrasted with the whiteness of his father's paleness. Was he adopted? Again and again he had to be nudged forward, each little step in his sandaled feet such a difficult task for him. I wondered what ailment he may have, some mysterious disease, was he blind and/or deaf? One eye was definitely off. His sadness just came over me like a wave and sent me crashing into those walls of the unknown, the scary, dark places we all know. I told the cashier that something must be wrong with that little boy that just got escorted out to his car with his dad. "Well, yes, of course there is something wrong with him, you should have seen his father pulling him around the store, nearly yanking his arms out of their sockets, yelling at him, he was really rough with him. Not just rough, cruel." I cringed. Is this a case of child abuse? "If I weren't on duty I'd report him," she said. I walked outside and saw the father driving away in his old white car. I noted the license number and jumped in my car and decided to follow him, even though I had no idea what I would do. I spotted his white car parked at the far corner of the local Sonic, as far away as possible from the eyes of employees and other patrons. This confirmed my suspicions. This little boy was obviously the victim of abuse. What can I do? What if I'm wrong? I needed gasoline so I drove into the nearby gas station and there I saw a deputy sheriff's car. I went inside, found him, and gave him the license number of the vehicle and told him what I knew. No sir, I didn't see anything but others at the grocery did. Please help this little boy. There is nothing I can do he informed me, except notify child services. Please give them the license number I pleaded. He said he'd do what he could. I left feeling empty.
Again, in the present, is that a skunk I smell? Dale saw one the other night sauntering along the sidewalk between the house and the garage. I remember reaching out in the dark one night thinking I was going to be petting my family's collie, and instead reached down and got a powerful spray from a skunk at my feet. It was so strong I couldn't even smell it. But I could feel it, again like a wave, a vibration, sending me reeling, backwards. Now I find myself thinking of S, and how quickly I grew fond of him. What a fun time we had for a week while he was my house guest. How many bottles of wine did we drink? How many times did we stay up until the wee hours just chatting away, sharing our stories, being a bit playful now and again. But before long, red flags went up. Bright red flags, glaring, impossible to ignore. I walked away. I got pulled back in. His horror stories of childhood abuse beyond anything I'd ever heard before, firsthand, made me cry. We wept. He stopped but I continued, the tears flowed for months. How can I walk away from such pain? Let me help you, let me take care of you, let me console you and be very close and loving. NO. NEVER. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. Then he walked away and that was the end of the *friendship.* I did my best. I read, I researched, I learned as much as I could about PTSD, about the exploitation of children, often at the hands of their own parents or older siblings. I read how our society is one that is starving for the loving, caring, human touch and NOT the touch of abuse. We are afraid to touch one another. I am so easily touched. I am so drawn to the deeply wounded. I dig deep into my psyche (soul) to undercover all secrets, all pain, all suffering, and re-live it until I understand it, until all is forgiven and healing has set in.
I finished washing my car this morning, had breakfast, then joined my beautiful gay kula for an intense vinyasa. I love those guys. I also love this poem, because it touches me, it reminds me of the suffering of children, and how those scars can remain unhealed unless they are dealt with spiritually/psychologically:
Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In the dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.
richard wilbur, boy at the window
