Communion

Walking, walking, I am only

finally, a self and soon no self

walking...

the gift of now is moving off the map

and out of time's entanglement

awed and stealthy, I approach

great spiral-branching ponderosa

press third eye to its broad trunk and hope

for sudden rush of visioning of all this tree has

known above ground and below

Nothing rushes in. It's All Good.

Only, then, a souvenir

a slip of bark from this soft lap of earth

It's Sunday and this is my only communion

my one small sliver of thanksgiving

my stolen bite of fruit forbidden

inclusion scarce but never all denied

never All denied

on the rising path I meet others

all are wrapped in their own silence

offer them quiet, cautious greeting

wary of disturbing that inherent peace

where they've for just one moment found themselves

if my souljourney's baggage gets too heavy

if the weight of all its labels (past and present)

and their sad centuries of accumulating loss

is too much heartache to carry further

(and if I need replacements for the set)

there's one I'd maybe yet engage

not for identity – that's another story

but for the dialogue that labels,

if used carefully, unlock

the word is Pagan

in all intriguing senses of its use

one who lives closer to the ground

outside the city, declining borders

the outsider, who's "not one of us”

and one who best knows Earth for her Divine

and one who doesn't know.

Voice of conquerors, establishers, insiders, will identify me

as they have before, as Other

I'll put my lot in with the notknowing

that beautiful limbo that's already been my home

all these unravelling and remaking years

I'll testify: I've known the Nothing –

it's been a good force

perhaps a God force

certainly a kind forgiving and embracing one.

Out of the treebasin, back on the plateau

The clouds to the west all have silver linings.

Where does that perspective come from?

Why linings? Why only within?

I am the one inside, for now, just opposite the silver.

I am wrapped in cloud, and looking out into the Light.

Wind presses on me, crawls into my lungs.

resuscitates, and whispers, BREATHE.

Thoughts go out to all the fellow travellers

who too are rich in nothing

who might embrace the label of know-Nothings

we've taught each other just by being

no more than our selves

with no more than we know

teachers, companions, portals to the infinite

in light of their own looking to light

walking blind with the sun in their eyes

walking on the true inside, looking out

calling me out of my shadow

into brilliance, and still calling