Vaporous perfection

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Clouds, so impermanent, advise her that reality is a mere dream. The illusion of solidity in their shape and comforting forms is exactly that, illusion, disappearing as temperature changes, wind blows or night extinguishes day. Why would a cloud be other than this? I marvel at such simplicity. I will endeavour to leave clouds to their journey, not fall in love with them in any other way than to share their pleasure of being vaporous perfection.

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Weather Report

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It is Minus 11 in Berlin.

Heart rate slow.

Breath freezing.

It’s Minus 12 in Berlin.

Heart is warming.

Breath responding.

I think of the Life, Death, Rebirth cycle.

Again and again and again.

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Thank you Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

 

 

 

Missing

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Sometimes I just miss people. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their heart beat. I want to look into their souls. Share stories. Linger in all the delicious ways. This isn’t lust. There are many ways to be in the world. Lust has its place. But the kind of desire I speak of is a love so deep that it may only last a second yet find perfection. The willingness to be absolutely present. This is not a contradiction. The longing is a sweetness, something that poetry holds hands with and prose takes a long walk through aimless streets.

The Squeeze

 

I’m about to squeeze this hulk between solid stone buildings that have withstood two world wars and four hundred years of seasonal change, love and laughter in the Aveyron. I’m not the first. This is the through road between wheat fields on high and the ancient moulins along the river that ground the grain to fine flour for the communal bread ovens. Tractors, horses, wagons, and more recently cars and the occasional truck have traversed this route. Today I’m driving the old Mercedes.

I’ve been in Europe for six months now. Hitching my way around France and Greece, meeting the strange, the interesting and the humorous along my way. Striding with backpack or pedalling the tiny trails that connect villages. I don’t drive cars. I’m on the wrong side of the road, the wrong side of the car, and I’m trying to brake with my right foot on the pedal. Sure I have been granted a temporary French permit to drive, but do I really want to exchange a life of adventurous travel for the easy option? I will decide after I have safely parked the car on the wild and wintery hill-top back at my friend’s house.

 

 

Delirious Sky

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It is a delicious moment,

Delirious sky.

The sun burning deeply,

Her skin starts to fry.

She gathers her senses,

Surrounded by life.

When death beckons shyly,

She submits to his knife.

It’s only a metaphor,

We grow and we die,

And laugh at the Present,

The Goddess on High.

Dreaming

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She sat by the river,

Dreaming.

Singing to water birds,

And frogs in the slime.

Distant places alive in her mind.

It’s not so hard, called the grasses wild,

You’re rooted to earth,

This isn’t your fault.

It’s a breathing, crumbling, uplifting result.

Her thoughts began shifting,

She rustled her leaves.

Wind carried her desires,

And soon there was peace.

The elements colluded,

Earth, water, air and fire.

She picked up her roots,

And flew to the sky.

The Art of Nothing

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There is nothing to say, she laughs. The door swung on it’s hinges, uncertain whether to open or close. The window, wide-eyed, allowed the light to enter, but only with a certain discretion. Cicadas screamed. Over-ripe figs fell to the ground. The walls bared their souls. And the day passed away.