In nineteen-seventy-something I sailed from the bed of a cornering half-ton truck, through the air onto a country road. Crash-landed. Drunk in a ditch. Scuffed and scraped I staggered into a farmer’s field. Missed the barb but caught wire across the throat. Fell again and maybe cried. I eventually found my way to the party.
Kicking leaves on the path. Stopping to stare at trees. Leg over the gate. Ignoring the “No Admittance Beyond this Point” sign. Crossing the fishway onto the dam. Sitting in a warm, dark room on a rainy November evening listening to John Mayall. Fifty-five and blessed. Loved and in love. Grateful. Wondering how in the world I got here.
Are we living or being lived? That’s what I’d like to know. Lived, I hope. Both, I guess. Eyes, ears, touch and soul of that which is. An expression of flesh and bone, influenced by time, space and circumstances. Infinite gesture. Willed and willing. Emotional. The Great Voice talking to naught but itself. Holy Spirit, Dharma and the Prophets, all hands on the wheel trying to keep this distracted child on the road. All is one and one is all. I’ve worked for others. Squatted, rented and owned. I’ve no need to possess this thing. It’s not like that anyway.