My night reading of Koran verses was surprisingly refreshing. I used to find them judgmental—all that ‘do the right thing or be in hell’—but with a new perusing and the leavening of age and experience, that they are right. They just are. The question is understanding what the ‘right thing’ is. Each sura drops a tiny clue in its bed of poetry to what a right thing is. Read more
Posts tagged ‘time’
In the year’s turning, I dance my way back into the many strands of Truth that escape my tight self.
My hair falls free. Truth.
Into my heart comes a gush of clean Truth, a flame, a song, a wind, and I can move (and we can all move) beyond my “I”, my “my”.
All times melt into Present.
This gift, this Present, doesn’t erase other times; she is All Time.
Large. Full. Beyond thought.
This Present is Truth on our whirling Earth. When are we ever not turning?
Hands progress around the clock’s face, passing cheeks at 3 & 9, the chin at 6. Ticking past the temples, past the hollow beneath the bone with where powder and sweat pass one another through the pore doors. Time wrinkles in the winking.
Fingers trace circles like beach grass in wind. They stop at high noon, rest there then slide down the center, the nose bridge and tip carved with family history, the lips hiding teeth, then fan away into space where the ticking marks the emptiness, pip, pip, like bounce-less dust in interstellar space.
Light lies across my little table at a new angle as summer moves the sun left and left each day. My hands on my thighs point left too when not tapping a keyboard or lifting a teacup. Hands with ruched topography rest in front of me, old, but new to my morning eyes.
I’ve been feeling lately that time, or the moving time that whirls the hands on the clock face, is a thick, cement-y porridge filling any crack in my existence. I live bricked up inside a solid wall of time. My practiceâ€“â€“it inexplicably fetches me when I’m truly overwhelmed (I cannot explain why I am able to do it now; no resistance, but instead docility, even gratitude)â€“â€“digs a chink in the odd hour where I can slide through and unwind.
I prepared new visual film poem for my book‘s premier party. The film titled ‘Collections’ is a series of still life images. And I thought how odd it was to use still images in a video when the whole point of video is motion. As I edited, I saw the attractionâ€“â€“stopped time. Still life. Then, even better, I could surge time, sforzando, then stretch or chop it by how I transitioned from one image to another. Such pleasurable control. And the final joy was seeing the structure of the whole piece express classical lineaments. Themes returning. Themes developing. Beauty. Eternity. This sort of time.
Here are a few images from Collections.
Thinking about friend Karleen’s (Koenâ€“â€“a marvelous writer!!) comment on the frustration of making time for practice. I know this is THE most difficult aspect of Personal Practiceâ€“â€“just shoe-horning it into the day. I don’t even think the word ‘resistance’ applies any more, the way it might have two decades ago when there really was a slightly calmer lifestyleâ€“â€“I’m not imagining this; life is more hecticâ€“â€“but internal resistance is greatly abbetted by our current hyper pace. I remember my friend Lori from Atlanta saying how she didn’t like to be too busy. That was five years ago, and it sounded revolutionary to me; everyone else complained proudly of being so busy. Now I look around and see people numb & crazed; its level of busy verging on insanity.
Amidst a bombardment of desire-mongering , making time to practice seems faintly absurd. Practice is slowing. It is simplifying the monkey mind, watching as neurotransmitters turn edginess to silk. Naturally this sounds appealing, but it is dissonant with modern life. Desire-mongering is the culprit. That’s the spot where I grab myself…Do I really want all the things? The interactions, the clothes, the food, the gizmos, the ambitions, the specious obligations, the perfections? No. I mostly don’t. I need a few things. A very few things. Mostly I need time, which means removing the clutter of acquisition. I need time for timeless-ness.
Here’s what Casita (Negron Wild) wrote me after the 2008 Cape Cod Winter Weekend:
“There are times when god stops the clock and I am suspendedâ€“â€“frozen in time. There is something about the suspension that provides a neccessary contrast to the relentless motion of everyday life. Thank you for helping me be in stillness in motion, and watching the body’s intelligence emerge and communicate through the mind. These times are golden, as they are so hard to find, yet they tower over the details of everyday lifeâ€“â€“large and expansive.”