Leaving Clyde, and finding you are loved.


So I got a nice surprise yesterday and I wanted to share it with all of you folks here. I got a nice email from Melissa Bright talking about this picture and how it inspired her to write this song. I gave it a listen and I think you should, too. I really liked it, and I like the cross-fertilization of image and lyric and of course I think the mood is exactly right for it.


And you know, the cross-fertilization goes so much farther than just between Melissa and this picture. It’s got Sherwood Anderson in it, for the title of the piece I did, and because Melissa was looking for work inspired by Anderson’s book Winesburg, Ohio. And there are other photographers, the originators of the works that I appropriated to create this one, and the internet that makes it possible for these disparate threads from unknown creators to somehow be tied together- and the mood that infects us when we create or are driven to create….once you start looking at the strands you realize you can’t remove anything at all from the weaving. It’s all one, dude.

Anyway, I wanted to say thank you to Melissa for sharing this with me, and with us.

I hope it brings you some pleasure.




PS- I know, I need to keep posting stuff from the pilgrimage. It’s coming, just slowly.


25 years

Domestic Interior

Twenty-five years ago today the Woman On The Verge agreed to marry me. I’ve been married to her for half of my life. If I could see where we are now from where we stood together on that beach on Maui twenty-five years ago, I think I’d be both pleased and horrified. It ain’t all been pretty. But it is the most significant work of my life: what I’ve spent myself on, what I’ve relied upon, what I’ve abused and neglected, what I’ve bucked against and been blind to, what I’ve bound myself to and bitterly fought, what I’ve lost and regained, what I’ve made bleed and have bled for.

Yolanda, I thank you. I yet pledge my troth to thee.

In sickness and in health. In good times and bad. You can’t yet count on me to be always wise or good, but I will be the last man standing when the lights go out. Up to my knees in the bodies of my foes.

Most of whom are only myself, I know.

How has it been my great good fortune to have loved you, and to have been so loved in return? What great deeds am I being rewarded for? Nothing I have done in this life makes me deserving of your love, yet I am in possession of it.

I am undone by you.

I am proud to have won you to me. Proud and humbled. I stand ever in awe of your great goodness, your matchless heart, your quiet strength, your unerring moral compass, your limitless kindness, your wild fearlessness, your gladness at being in the world. You are my teacher, my guide, my mirror, my eyes and my hands, my helpmeet and best friend, my lover, my destroyer, my salvation, the stone I break myself open upon, the ship that saves me from drowning, the shore I wash up on when I do shipwreck; the one who enslaves me, and the one who picks the locks and sets me free.

I think I’m a better man now than I was when you married me, and I know if that’s true at all it’s due to you and your hard work.

I love you.

I hope you’ll yet bind yourself to me for those days that remain to us on this earth.

How about a big hand for the pretty lady, folks? Don’t she deserve it?

You bet she does.





Juliet's Walk


I know better, I really do.


Emotions are pretty interesting to look at from a Buddhist perspective. And when I can look at them from a Buddhist perspective, I find that perspective very helpful. But I am a poor practitioner who is mostly immune to the Dharma, so oftentimes I find that I get entangled in my emotions and tend to stay right there, like a kid who won’t get out of a mud puddle.

Today I am sad. I feel helpless. Overwhelmed by my many failures.

What’s doing this to me?

My mind.

I know, at least, that there isn’t anything objectively wrong outside of me that is causing me to experience these emotional shitstorms. That’s a Buddhist perspective, and I think it’s correct, and even in the midst of my meltdown I can recognize that as true. Which is helpful. Beneficial.

So. Maybe not totally immune to the Dharma. Just mostly.

Still, knowing this doesn’t shift the mood very much. I am still profoundly sad. I still feel helpless and overwhelmed by my many failures. But I recognize that what’s at the root of this experience of sadness is a mistake in my view, not something wrong with what’s happening. I’m feeling sad because I believe on some level that the experience I’m having is unfair to me, that it isn’t meeting my own expectations of how I think things should be going. I want things to be one way, and they are not that way.

To be upset about this, and to imagine, to feel, that being upset about this will change something outside of me, seems crazy. Because, you know, it is.

This is the action of both grasping and aversion. Grasping at things as if they are real, as if they have a solid existence somewhere out there. And aversion, because not only do I think they are real and solid, I think they are bad in some way, they are something I don’t want, and I push them away. So, also there is the action of ignorance- I don’t understand the way things really are.

Grasping. Aversion. Ignorance.

These are the big three in Buddhist thought, the three big errors, the three factors that lead to suffering and keep us trapped in Samsara. Keep me trapped in Samsara. Where I’ve been my whole life, and many, many lifetimes before, and where I will remain unless I change those factors for good, really uproot them and break their hold on me.

So in this way, these experiences of deep sadness, grief, rage, anger, stupidity- they are actually very good teachers. I can be caught up in these emotional storms and be completely overwhelmed by them- they color my whole world, my whole experience of what it is to be alive- they are very, very compelling. And yet, they arise because I am fundamentally confused about the nature of reality. And since this error is so compelling, I really do know that I’m confused. I can’t remain in denial about it. I’m seriously fucked up.

So, this is a great place to be, actually. I get it. I’m confused. I’m acting out of grasping, aversion, and ignorance, and this leads very reliably to the suffering that I’m experiencing right now. It’s very vivid and clear to me, I’m not confused about that at all.

Which is fantastic, because it means that I can let go of my grasping, stop trying to push away what I don’t want, stop running from it, stop judging it according to my ignorant understanding, and try to figure out what’s really happening. It doesn’t mean that doing any of this is easy for me, but it is at least possible, because I’m no longer completely convinced that how I see things is how they really are. There’s some space around the edges of my delusion. A little crack in the façade where some light can get in.

Right now I’m sad about something and I feel totally overwhelmed, like I can’t fix it and never will be able to. Instead of examining the thing itself, I’m fixated on my reaction to it. The thing itself is neutral, right? It just is. So maybe I can give it a little space to be the thing that it is, and take a breath and not make up my mind about what that means for my ego. What my ego thinks it means for my ego, which seems to pretty much always think the same thing- “This is fucked! This is totally fucked, and it’s not happening- this is NOT happening, we have to change this, this isn’t fair, nobody understands me, I’m being unfairly accused of something, I did it, yeah, but it’s not like they say, they don’t understand what I really meant to do, blah, blah, blah…Oh crap am I sad.”

The facts are unfair. The situation is unfair. The feelings and thoughts of the other person are unfair. All of these factors need to change, right fucking now. Once they have changed, once they are aligned in a way that I don’t find uncomfortable and threatening, then I can be happy again.

This is not a very reliable path towards happiness.

And yet, it’s also not the right approach to try to deny that you feel the way you feel, to suppress the feelings because they are wrong and bad. This is just making the same mistake and turning it inward rather than outward- I’m bad, I’m wrong, I’m mean and selfish and stupid and I need to stop it!

Now I’m real, and important, and terrible, and must be stopped!

So, that won’t work either.

What’s a feller to do?

Well, the instructions are pretty straightforward. On the mundane level, you can kind of just recognize where you are, and that you’re in pain and suffering, not because you are bad or wrong or someone else is bad or wrong, but because you are still a little bit ignorant and confused about things. And you can try to open up your view a little bit so that you’re not only focused completely on yourself and your own suffering, but you can see that everyone else suffers in the same way that you are suffering right now. And this can open and soften your heart, it can be the beginning of Bodhichitta, and you can have the aspiration that since you’re experiencing all of this sharp pain and suffering right now, maybe that can alleviate some of the suffering of others. You ask to take on all of that suffering so that others don’t have to experience it at all.

And you can let go of your attachment to the fantasy you have about how you wish things were. And you can sit in stillness and silence and try to relate to how things really are.  Try to see the other person as just as confused as you are, and don’t focus on getting them to change- focus on seeing their suffering as just the same as yours, and see if your heart softens just a little bit.

And on the ultimate level, recognize your own nature and the nature of all phenomenon as non-dual. There isn’t any you or them, no inside or outside that has any real, solid existence. Not really. There is just awareness and manifestation continually unfolding in the limitless present moment. This can be a tall order, recognizing this, so if you can’t, just let it be.


Of course, I am writing this for myself. But I hope it might be of benefit to you today, whoever you are.







The very word feels exotic in the mouth. Kathmandu. You know you’re someplace else when you’re in Kathmandu. Not in Kansas anymore.

It’s true.

I got off the plane in Guangzhou after fifteen hours of flight time feeling groggy and disoriented. I met up with Rosh and Christine on the flight so we hung out together in the airport while we waited for the flight into Kathmandu. We tried to get wi-fi, I remember, and at some point the tiny coffee shop opened next to the baggage claim and they were selling coffee for eight bucks a cup. Some kind of hot-shit Jamaican brand? The guy I sat next to on the flight bought a cup. He was a doctor, going to Kathmandu as part of a Christian missionary program to treat the kids working in a brick factory. Treat them and bring them bibles, the word of God. He didn’t quite know what to make of me on a Buddhist pilgrimage. Not that he was too curious about that. He seemed content to talk about himself, and I was happy to let him. He made it pretty clear that eight bucks for a cup of coffee wasn’t going to make a dent in his financials. I’m making him sound like a dick, probably, and probably he was a little bit. But he really was enthused about going around the world and trying to make a difference. He enjoyed being of service, and he was serious about it. That part made me happy, made me happy to see a guy who, yeah, he was rich and successful and had all the toys, but here he was, on a plane to the middle of nowhere to spend a couple of weeks helping out the poor and suffering. So what if he was peddling a brand of religion at the same time? He believed in that, too. So, good on him. Doing good things, really going out there and doing them. He should have a eight dollar coffee, goddamn it.

We left the terminal in Guangzhou and stepped onto the tarmac. The sun had come up but the sky was hazy and the color of pale brick. We got onto a bus that took us out to the plane and we got on that. All the flight attendants were Chinese women. I know I’m wrong but they all looked about six four and like they had just walked off the set of a James Bond flick in about 1967. They were all business. Probably trained acrobats and part-time assassins who grew up in whorehouses and raised poisonous orchids on the side. That kind of crew.

Six hours later we landed in Kathmandu. It’s hard to describe what that was like. Of course we saw the Himalayas jutting up through the cloud cover on our approach, impossibly tall, way up in the sky where you just don’t think there should be any land at all, really- and broader than they are tall, too, that’s the thing that stuck out in my mind, how thick they are, how massive. Tall is just a part of it. And then the plane banks around and kind of dead-falls down into the valley and right at the end the pilot pulls up on the yoke and we plop down pretty hard and there’s a bit of a yaw for an uncomfortable couple of seconds, then full flaps and brakes and shuddering to a stop and getting off the plane. There’s a low brick building and we all walk into that and it looks like a bus depot in Alabama in 1935 that’s been invaded by small, dark-skinned people who are intent on something- not you and what you’re doing so much as something inscrutable that you’re in the process of interrupting.

There was a metal detector we all filed through but no one was manning it and the thing buzzed and beeped and we put our bags on a conveyor and went through and got our bags on the other side of the barrier- but no screeners, no cops. Serve yourself security screening.

Honor system, I guess.

And there was a desk with a guy in uniform who took my passport, looked at me kinda hard, asked me a bunch of questions in a language I didn’t understand, then when I didn’t say anything, shrugged, stamped my passport, and handed it back to me.

Welcome to Kathmandu.

Rosh and Christine and I gathered ourselves and our bags, changed some dollars into Rupees, and walked out of the airport. There was a noisy throng of folks waiting there, and someone held up a sign with our names on it. We followed him to a van and got in and in a couple of seconds we were zooming around the streets, buzzing with motorcycles, scooters, rickshaws, ox-drawn carts, pedestrians, all flowing around each other in a beautiful, intricate dance that scared the living shit out of us. Every time you glanced up at the windshield it was full of an oncoming truck or had just missed clipping the baby being held by the woman on the back of a motorcycle- woo! it was fun!

Kelsang introduced himself to us, told us he was from Shambala and would be with us until we went to India. We all were happy to be in his capable hands. Of course, we didn’t know then how amazing he was and how much we would come to rely upon him- but he was and we did.

He dropped us off at Hotel Mum’s Home, where we’d booked our rooms. The hotel was hidden in a warren of narrow alleyways, behind tall brick walls, but was staffed with dozens of the sweetest, most beautiful and helpful people you could ever imagine. I think these guys and girls work part-time in Heaven, welcoming the newly departed to their rooms. My room was up five flights of marble stairs. It had a great bed, and a bathroom, and a window, some bottled water- it was perfect. I laid down on the bed and promptly passed out.

I woke up disoriented. Met up with Rosh and Christine in the lobby, I think we had some coffee…then went out to the street and got swallowed by the shops and shopkeepers of Thamel. My disorientation did not abate.


I don’t remember much other than the noise and the novelty, and the feeling of deep peacefulness, safety, and joy that I felt. I loved the people I saw, every one of them. I loved the things for sale, and how they were sold. I loved the crush and flow and the smells of it. I felt profoundly happy.

I was in Kathmandu. This pilgrimage was going to happen!




more to come…..

Notes from A Pilgrimage

I’m back from my pilgrimage to Nepal and India, and I want to start writing down some of my experiences so you can have an idea of what it was like. Of course I feel very intimidated by the task- the trip was so powerful and had such a profound impact on me that I’m afraid any attempt to capture it is doomed to failure. But I will try.

I arrived in Kathmandu, Nepal, on Feb. 12th, two days before the pilgrimage had its official start. Lots of us arrived in dribs and drabs in the week leading up to the pilgrimage- it’s a long and difficult flight and there are a lot of opportunities for missed connections and lost luggage, and no one wanted to show up for the first morning directly after thirty hours in the air. So, a day or two early was good.

For me the pilgrimage was fraught with anxiety and fear long before it began. I wanted very much to go to all the Buddhist holy places so I could experience them and benefit from a practice perspective- but I didn’t really give a shit about being in India other than that. I did not want to travel, I did not want to use the time and money, I did not want to have to deal with the ordeal of getting a passport and the necessary visas, I didn’t want to get typhoid pills and malaria pills and all the other shit…I was in many ways an unwilling pilgrim. As the day of my departure descended upon me, I was flooded with fears and regret. I was absolutely convinced that the trip was a terrible idea, that it would be a disaster, that I would die in a plane crash or from some terrible illness- all thoughts that are pretty far from normal for me- I mean, I am a good worrier, don’t get me wrong- but this was an order of magnitude higher than what I was usually capable of generating in the fearfulness area. And this fear built upon itself continually until Yolie dropped me off at the airport and I got in the check-in line with six hundred Chinese people trying to get back home to Guangzhou.

Then my anxiety just vanished into thin air, like so much smoke.

I mention this anxiety and the obstacles to the pilgrimage because I believe that they are not uncommon to experience. Maybe it sounds kind of new-agey woo-woo, but almost everyone I spoke with about this aspect of pilgrimage had a similar experience.

Something does not want us to go on pilgrimage.

I don’t know if it is just a manifestation of our ego’s desire to maintain itself, if our fears about growth cause us to throw up obstacles in the form of all these compelling reasons why we can’t go today, we can’t go this week, we can’t go on this pilgrimage but we for sure will go on the next one- as long as there are no real conflicts, no problems with our health or at work or the kids don’t need us to go to their soccer game or the air conditioning on the bus won’t make us sick…..I am sure that is part of what happens. But there seems also to be a couple of other things that might be happening as well, and that is that the pilgrimage itself wants you to really work for it, it wants to test your commitment to the true voyage- which of course isn’t anything at all about going to India or anywhere else, but about the voyage of self-discovery, of discovery about how things truly are, and what you’re going to do about it. So it seems to me that this is also part of what’s going on. Of course, I don’t have any empirical, factual support for this belief- but I do believe it.

And hand in hand with this kooky belief is this other one: there’s absolutely a force that does not want you to go.

This is the negative force, call it what you will, I don’t have a name for it really, but I believe it’s there and it acts in the world and in our hearts and minds and souls and it isn’t your own personal desire for staying behind, staying stuck where you are, but an impersonal, external one that wants us all to stay behind, to keep doing what we’ve always done, that does not want anyone to seek the light and leave the darkness.

So in order to accomplish pilgrimage, you have to begin the journey by defeating these forces who are conspiring to keep the whole thing from happening. Everyone who went on this particular pilgrimage did just that. To lesser and greater degrees to be sure, but we all had to face down these demons.

And I just mention this in case you’re ever in the position of embarking on your own pilgrimage, because you need to be prepared for it. And if you are, if you kind of expect that the terrain is going to be questionable and sketchy, and last-minute things and first-minute things are going to get in the way, and you’ll feel fearful and nervous and you’ll be convinced that it’s the wrong thing to do- then you’ll be able to just take a deep breath, tell yourself that these obstacles are not real, that they’ll resolve or turn out to be okay and that you’re committed to going forward no matter what, and you’ll end up going on your pilgrimage and gaining what’s to be gained.

If you don’t see the obstacles as part of the path, you’ll succumb to them and your pilgrimage won’t happen. The Buddhist conception of this force that stands in the way is Mara. Mara is the guy whose realm is that of the sense pleasures, of samsara, and he doesn’t want us to leave. He tempted the Buddha when the Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree. It’s not that the force is evil, exactly. But it wants us to stay.

And the thing is, the door will open. It isn’t the case that Mara can keep the door closed if you really want to open it. He’s just going to keep telling you that it probably is closed, that even if it isn’t locked, well, it’s way too heavy for you to open it, and in fact you probably won’t like what’s behind the door anyway, and wouldn’t it be nicer to leave the door alone and go over here where there’s a nice meal of your favorite food, and there are some important emails to answer, and this movie you’ve been wanting to watch….

But if you say, “Yeah, that’s okay. I’m going through the door anyway,” then the door will open when you tug on it. The door can’t stay closed to you, to anyone who wants it to open.

Open. Open. Open.

And the journey isn’t safe or comfortable- Mara is right about that. But the journey is the only thing that matters.


More to come. Watch this space.




Before There Was This Place There Was Another



One of my earliest memories is of being in the backyard of our place in Denton, Texas. I remember watching my old man digging in the yard with his shirt off and I was running around underfoot. It was a hot, sunny day. I don’t know anything about the world or what my mood was, but there was suddenly a big coiled up snake in the dirt and my dad jerked me up off the ground by my arm maybe? set me on a table or something and then raised up the shovel and brought the blade down through the snake’s body maybe once maybe a few times what I remember was he was mad and I was afraid and thrilled and sad and mad. proud of him for killing the snake and sick that he’d killed it, too. scared of the snake and scared of my father’s anger and mad he was mad at me when I’d done nothing wrong and upset that he was so upset. I think I bragged about him killing the snake to my mom but I don’t know if that’s true. Fact is, I don’t know if it even happened. I just know that I remember it, so for me it’s like it did. Like I remember him in his dark policeman’s uniform walking out to the patrol car parked in the driveway, like he was some old-timey gunslinger in the west. I remember my mom in her bee-hive hairdo and a summer dress, cat-eye glasses, the whole shebang. I don’t remember them ever saying anything to me in those days, although I’m sure they must have. What I remember is watching television in the morning before they woke up, and getting in the crib with my baby brother and probably torturing him, hoping he’d go back to wherever it was he came from. I remember dirt and sunlight and long hours of silence and being left to my own devices but who knows. I thought I was alone then and it got more like that after the divorce. My old man kind of was drawn out of my world and loomed ever larger in it because he wasn’t there. And I turned a blind eye to my mother, blamed her for his absence, set myself against her in all ways.

Now I’m an old man and I’m mistrustful of all of these memories I carry around. I am not one to dwell on the past, for me it holds little interest- but it’s unnerving to realize how little of what I have built up as the bare facts of my life ever happened at all. I have no idea what I know and what I think I remember because it’s been told to me over and over again until I swallowed it. I know I’ve layered over them again and again with new interpretations and embellishments, based upon what soothed me to believe at the time or what I felt aggrieved about. I’m still doing it. I don’t guess I’ll ever quit it altogether.

More and more my past is like flipping through the family photographs of a stranger. There’s folks in there, frozen in time, doing what they were doing once and now can’t ever stop doing, but they bear little resemblance to anyone I’d say I know now.

I don’t know if that’s sad or not.




Prelude to India

Souls IV


Countdown time. Six days until take off.

In other news, the Woman on The Verge has returned from her travels! I am a relieved and happy dishwasher. The kid may be even happier to see her than I am- if that’s possible. I don’t think it is.

My cells are happier when the woman is around. They plump up and relax their borders. My brain wants to snuggle up close to her brain and lie around like two dogs in the sun and dirt. Tails thumping lazily.

Food tastes better, too.

I’m lost for her is what.


I don’t know what to expect with India. I mean, I guess I expect noise and color and smell and jostling and bumping and craziness. Interspersed with teachings and meditation at various holy sites, and of course, talk amongst the other pilgrims about what we’re thinking and how we’re reacting and what’s next and what what what.

I know most of the people on the trip and I love them already, so that part is good. Comfortable and pleasing. I’ve spent lots of time on retreat with almost all of them and they are without exception good people and serious practitioners. I will have a roommate and him I have yet to meet. So there’s that to look forward to. All I know is that he’s been a practitioner for almost thirty years and he loves to meditate, so I’m pretty sure we’ll get along, and if we don’t, well, we can at least sit together in silent contemplation.

And of course I love Dawa, the teacher that is leading our trip. I’m sure we are in good hands and I love being around him, and he’s a great speaker and wonderful spirit. I feel very blessed to be going with him.

I just want to go with open eyes and an open heart, see everything, experience all of it directly.

Shamar Rinpoche was going to accompany us on the pilgrimage originally, but his death kind of made that impossible, but he will be there in spirit, certainly. I know that Dawa is carrying his spirit and memory with him and this adds a sweetness and complexity to the whole endeavor, as well as a good reminder of impermanence. Our trip ends with a teaching and a private visit with the Karmapa, which is profoundly meaningful for me. I still remember the video he posted after the Sharmapa’s death- it was so moving and it opened my heart to him so much- I wanted at the time very much to see him somehow, and I thought that it would be impossible. Now I will be seeing him in just a few weeks. It means a lot to me.

And that’s what this trip really is for me. It’s not about going to India, not really. It’s more like giving myself to this path- fully and completely. And then witnessing how that commitment profoundly changes my lived experience. I will be in India with my teacher on the spot where the Buddha attained enlightenment- this is, to me, just the most beautiful and powerful manifestation of the limitless transformative power of intention. It seems to me that I’ve managed to jump my life off of one set of tracks and on to another one completely.

I hope that I can meet this trip with wisdom and awareness, and treat everyone I encounter with love and compassion.

Anyway, that’s it from here. Tell your mama I ask how she’s durrin’.



The Gravity of Consciousness



So the other night this image came into my head. I wrote the other day about a couple of dreams that I had, and how I had the unsettling experience of meeting another consciousness through the medium of dream time. Well, if you’ve been reading here long you know that I have been engaged in dream yoga practice, working towards gaining lucidity in my dream life, and at the same time I’ve been engaged pretty deeply in meditation and some other Buddhist practices which involve a lot of prayer and visualization work- so there’s been a lot of work going on in my mind over the past two or three years- a constant, daily practice of attention and mindfulness, an analysis of the state of mind, the content of mind, the nature of reality, etc. as well as a kind of conscious effort to see waking time as a dream and dream time as a conscious dream- to break down the barriers between various states of consciousness and to maintain the highest level of conscious awareness I’m capable of creating at all times- trying to maintain present moment awareness, a wide-awake and vivid, curious state of mind about what is happening and what’s going on in my awareness from moment to moment. It’s been very interesting, thrilling a lot of the time, and disconcerting as well.

Anyway, that’s the background for this strange state of mind that I’ve been in for several days now, maybe a week. Maybe it has to do with or is facilitated by my wife’s departure in some way- the time that I’d usually spend processing things with her, kind of running my own awareness through her filter and vice-versa, is now spent in a kind of reflexive, recursive self-analysis. The sensation is kind of like having a probing, curious, self-referential light of awareness that never shuts off. I’m always awake, in a way, and always checking my state of consciousness and the quality of mind and the contents of mind and the “outer” world- which is really the same thing as mind, or at least it’s seeming more and more to be the case to me.

Okay, so this is the state of mind and the other night I was in this post-dream state, on the edge of awakened awareness and yet still in the territory of the sub-conscious and unconscious mind in some way, and I had this image in my mind/dreamscape/imagination/visual field, of Indra’s net:


And how my own mind, not brain, not the physical entity, but my mind, the energetic aspect, the subtle body aspect, my nub of consciousness, was like one of the nodes of the net and every other consciousness was another node and we were all tangibly interconnected in a web that makes up the subtle fabric of reality in some way, not some physical way but also not some purely spiritual way, but in some way that is just out of reach of our normal way of seeing.

And this is a familiar image to me, a familiar experience, something that is part of my own internal spiritual model of how things are. But then, layered over this image of Indra’s net and my own individual, pulsing node, was that image above of how objects with mass distort the fabric of space time and cause what we experience as gravity, and I had this sudden insight or really just this vivid image as if I were watching it on the most limitless IMAX surround-sound movie screen- my own individual node of mind, of a kind of condensed conscious awareness, was distorting the fabric of Indra’s net, this kind of spiritual space time continuum, in the same way that a physical body such as the planet Earth or the Sun distorts the physical fabric of space time- and just as those distortions on the physical plane cause other bodies with mass to be attracted into the orbits of the sun and planets, or cause cannonballs to fall to earth rather than just floating around- in the spiritual/pure consciousness non-physical realm, then massed consciousness such as exists in the mind, which is clustered in the brain/body nexus, also attracts other bodies of condensed consciousness- that is, that mind itself distorts the spiritual space-time fabric in a way that attracts phenomenon to it- that it attracts the display of forms that continually manifests in conjunction with mind to create our experience of reality- phenomenon, actions, events, other people, our entire tapestry of experience.

For me, it was not just a concept or neat idea- it had a tangible aspect to it, it had the feel of something true, and since then I’ve got this feeling no matter what I’m doing that superimposed on my physical body and environment there’s my ethereal “mind” sort of sitting in this indentation of Indra’s net, tugging into this distorted kind of sink hole that is dragging the rest of the world, both the seen and unseen, into the black hole of my own consciousness.

So, that’s what it’s like in my head this week.


Just as I was born to love the woman on the verge, I was born to wrestle with mind and the deep questions on the nature of reality and what it is to be.

I could not be happier to have these two great unsolvable riddles to spend myself on.


May all beings be free from suffering and the cause of suffering.



two dreams and meeting someone new



I’m standing in front of this grocery store in some strip mall and there are some flimsy metal tables and too small chairs scattered around. It is hot and the sun is baking the black top and the air smells like paper and ammonia and in the parking lot the cars bask in the sun, immobile, suffering in silence.

I’m so thirsty I can’t think straight and I leave whoever I’m with and walk over to this kind of seven-eleven and I go in there, there’s an immediate blast of coldness and vivid color and I go to the soda machine as I ask the guy behind the counter “do you have plain soda water? Can I get that? A cup of ice and some soda water?”

Dude comes over to me in his red and green shift. He’s got greasy hair and a suspicious-looking mustache and he’s holding up two glorious Big Gulps full of crushed ice.

“You can have these, dude.” He starts to hand them to me, then pulls them back. “But there’s a catch.”


“You have to take these twins with you.” And he motions over with his head towards these two kids I hadn’t noticed before. They were about eleven, red-headed and freckle-faced, dirty and barefoot. They looked like every kid does in the middle of summer.

“They’re pure evil.” The man says, and hands the cups to me. “They’re yours now.”

I look over at the twins and one of them looks up at me. His eyes are vivid green, the color of antifreeze, and they’re electrified. A terrible fear rises in me, a tornado of fear running right through the middle of my hollow body.

“Come on then,” I say, clutching the cups of ice. “Let’s go.”

And they follow me outside.


I’m standing on the beach with my back to the sea. It is night and the beach is crowded with my family members, everyone I know. They’re trying to talk to me, they’re moving forward and I’m backing away. I step into the surf, holding my hands up as if to stop them. I can’t hear what they are saying and I don’t understand why I’m backing away from them. I don’t know what’s going on at all.

I leap up into the air and I’m flying, but kind of doing acrobatics, too. I have no control, really, looping and swirling around. I come to a stop a few inches above the surface of the water and hover there for a long while as everyone on the beach stands there kind of motionless and gape-mouthed.

The night is pitch black but alive with stars and everything pulses. I can see undulating stars on the water, dancing in silence. I’m holding my breath.

I look up at the stars and shoot straight up into the sky, accelerating. In seconds I’m at the edge of the atmosphere and seconds later I’ve left the solar system behind and as I go faster and faster and farther and farther the stars coalesce into a single bright pulsing light and I shoot into that and everything gets white and very loud.


The thing about dreams is that they feel really important to us and they of course bore the living shit out of everyone else. There’s nothing in these two dreams to hold any interest to anyone. What was interesting to me was that each dream triggered the physical sensation of being touched by some outside intelligence- through the medium of dreamtime. I had the distinct, not impression, but direct experience, of another intelligence speaking to me through the dreams- in the green eyes of the boy, and in the white light of the flying dream- once the intelligence connected to me, to my mind, there was a transmission of experience from it to me. From mind to mind.

Like how when you meet someone for the first time, you don’t really wonder if you’ve actually met them, right? You did. It’s simple.

That’s what this felt like to me. I’m not saying it happened.

I mean, not in any real way.

I think it did, though.






I was nineteen years old. I had just been asked to leave the college I was attending and was in Korea, visiting my mother and step-father, burning some time, teaching English to harder working students than myself and getting ready to go into the Coast Guard. I didn’t know shit about anything and I was pretty lost and confused and trying hard to act like everything was okay, like I had things figured out.

I remember standing in the living room of my mom’s apartment and I don’t remember the doorbell ringing or my mom opening the door or anything- all remember is when this woman walked into the apartment and the whole world came to a stop.

She wore blue jeans and a jean jacket and there was a red bandana wrapped around her dark hair. She was slender, slight, of medium height and her skin was the color of something warm and burnished. Not a color I could identify so much as a sensation- like late summer, just before dusk. And then I saw her eyes. Never in the history of the world have there been eyes like those. I know, I know, but that was the impact that they had on me. Dark. Wide. Brilliant. Deep, a depth that just kept going on down the farther I fell into them.

I’m sure that we said hello to each other briefly before she left with my mom or the two of them hung out there and I left, I don’t remember anything else that happened. But for me it was like walking into a familiar room and finding an enormous golden elephant glowing there, vast, ethereal, yet undeniably tangible, present.

I probably saw her a handful of times over the next few months. I got to go to her house where she lived with her husband (whom I loathed and despised for his great good luck and the ease with which he seemed to exist around her) and her two children. As far away from me as she was just in her own astounding beauty and power and grace and intelligence, any hope of winning her receded into the impossible mist of distance seeing her in her own home, with a husband and kids- shit, I was a kid. It was painful to witness what it looked like to be a grown up and to see clearly how far from that place I still was.

Ah, but I pined for her anyway. All the more, really, because she was impossible. And yet, and yet. I could talk to her. I could run into her at the market and give her a hug, breathe in the smell of her and hold her in my arms, even if it was just for a second.

And then I was off. Back to the states for boot camp and then two years on a cutter in Alaska. There was a girl there I wanted to stay with but she moved to New York, so when I got out of my six month tech school for Aviation Electronics, I picked the Coast Guard Air Station in Brooklyn to be my new home. Of course, before I could even get there the girl found herself someone interesting in the city and that was that.

So I found myself in the big city all alone.

One day I was talking to my mom on the phone, maybe singing the blues a little bit about my predicament, when she says to me, “Hey, remember my friend from Korea? She’s in the city, too, right now. She and her husband moved back there and I think they’re going through a divorce. You should call her up. You guys could have coffee and go to a museum or something. At least she’s a familiar face, and you won’t feel so alone.”

A couple of weeks later, we got together for dinner at a little Italian joint. We had a nice time. We walked around the city, had a couple of drinks after. I walked her to her door.

I went in.

And I never left.


It’s the most romantical thing that ever happened to me.


Now it’s twenty-seven years later and I still got it superbad for her. We have lived a whole bunch of lifetimes together in those years. Immolated in the fire of first love, wrecked on the rocks of despair and confusion, wrung out by poverty and hard work, subsumed by parenthood, adrift in the doldrums of daily routine, fights, making up, clinging, running away, we’ve had it all. We made a baby and she grew up and made babies of her own. We watched her burn down the world and emerge from the ashes like a phoenix. Over and over again we picked up our battered hearts, put them back into our torn-open chests, and beat on them till they started up again.

So here it is 2015 and she’s in Mexico with her Dolphin and a rag-tag bunch of full-time RV’ers, having a big adventure. And in a minute I’m off to India for my own adventure.

Somehow we have managed this great good thing. We have loved each other with this kind of whole-body fierceness, but without stunting each other, without demanding that the other comply with how we might want them to be. Not that we haven’t gone at each other hammer and tongs, because we have. And still do. (Mostly she has to go hammer and tongs at me. I have proven to be a slow and intransigent learner. But I keep trying.) But mostly we have treated each other with tenderness and kindness in the face of a world which can be cruel and indifferent to our needs.

I love her. I hope to breathe my last breath in her company. I see us growing older and it only gives me joy. I never feared getting old, I don’t know why. I look ahead at the long decline and I’m convinced that our happiest years are coming to meet us at last.


I don’t know what I’m up to here except that I wanted it on record somehow that I love this woman and that loving her has been and continues to be the practice of my life and the way I learn the language of my heart.





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